Chapter 2 Aug 18, 2025 Celeste Hannah stood behind me, quiet for a long time before murmuring, "You're pale again." I blinked, watching my own eyes in the mirror. They looked hollow, like windows to an empty house. "It's the light." "You haven't eaten." "What is there to hunger for?" Hannah hesitated, her hands pausing as she brushed my hair, then asked softly, "You haven't smiled since the wedding night." I almost laughed. The sound would have been bitter, sharp enough to cut. Hannah continued brushing, slower now, like tending to something fragile. "Does Renard treat you kindly?" The pause stretched too long. How could I explain that kindness wasn't the issue? That being ignored was somehow worse than being cruel? That at least cruelty would mean he felt something when he looked at me? "He treats me like a diamond," I said softly. "Something to look at, never to touch." Hannah's fingers paused in my hair. "A woman who's never really loved gets dangerous. Starts craving things she can't have." My spine straightened. My throat tightened. She doesn't know. No one does. No one sees the way my heart trips when the King enters a room. The way my body reacts like it knows something I won't admit. The way he looks at me-not with affection, but with something sharper, like hate mixed with hunger. Why does he hate me so much? And deeper still-Why do I care? Before I could answer that question, a knock echoed from the outer door. A guard's voice followed: "His Majesty requests your presence in the North Salon." My stomach dropped. The brush fell from Hannah's fingers, clattering against the marble floor. For a moment I couldn't move, as if staying still might make the summons disappear. Then I rose, numb, my body moving without thought. The walk to the North Salon felt like a death march. The room was already set when I arrived-Renard pacing near the windows like a caged animal, the King seated with his back straight as a blade, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. The amber liquid caught the light, casting shadows across his fingers. Even in my terror, I noticed his hands. Strong, elegant, cruel. "Sit," Alexandre said without looking at me. I obeyed, sinking into the chair across from him. The velvet cushion felt like a throne and a trap all at once. My heart hammered so loudly I was certain they could hear it. "It's been nearly a year," the King began, still not meeting my gaze. His voice was controlled, but there was something underneath it-disappointment? Anger? Something that made my skin crawl. "They whisper about your barrenness," Alexandre continued, the word hitting me like a blow. "They question whether the royal line is safe in your hands." My lips parted, but nothing came out. The air felt thick, suffocating. I could taste copper-had I bitten my tongue? Alexandre finally looked at me, and I felt the full weight of his attention like a physical force. His eyes were storm-cloud gray and just as merciless. "So. When can we expect an heir?" I opened my mouth. Closed it. The words stuck to my lips. "We're trying," I lied, the falsehood burning my tongue. Alexandre's eyes narrowed. "Trying implies effort. You've barely shared a room since spring." Heat flooded my cheeks. How did he know? Who had told him? The humiliation was so complete that for a moment I couldn't breathe. Renard scoffed from his position by the window. "It's not entirely her fault. This marriage was a farce from the beginning." "All royal marriages are," the King snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. "You think my coronation was born from love?" His eyes cut back to me, and I felt pinned like a butterfly to a board. "You have a duty. One you are failing." The tears rose, hot and unwelcome. I blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him. But something else rose with them-anger, pure and clean and sharp. What did I have left to lose? My marriage was a sham. My husband found me repulsive. The court whispered about my barrenness. I was already a failure, already broken, already nothing. So why not tell the truth? "With respect, Your Majesty," I said quietly, my voice steadier than it had any right to be, "perhaps the failure does not lie in my womb." The room froze. Renard stopped pacing mid-step. The King's fingers went white around his glass. I'd done it-I'd crossed a line no one dared cross, not with him. Not with the King. Speaking to him like that wasn't just bold. It was dangerous. Nearly treasonous. But I was past caring. The truth had been festering in my chest too long, and for the first time, I chose not to swallow it. Alexandre's eyes locked on mine, and the air turned razor-sharp. The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. "Careful," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Think very carefully about what you're going to say next." But I was already burning. Already falling. What was one more flame? "I think very carefully about everything I say, Your Majesty," I replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Perhaps it's time others did the same." The King's glass hit the table with a sharp crack. Renard went rigid by the window. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Alexandre rose slowly from his chair, and suddenly he seemed to fill the entire space. His presence was crushing, dangerous, alive with barely contained fury. "You forget yourself," he said, each word precise as a blade. "You forget who you're speaking to." "I forget nothing," I said, and my voice didn't shake. "I know exactly who I'm speaking to. The question is-do you know who you're speaking to? Or do you only see another decoration that's failed to serve its purpose?" The silence that followed was deafening. I could hear my own heartbeat, could feel the weight of what I'd just done.