Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
The library. Where he holds formal meetings.
“Now?” I start toward the door. “I was just going to—”
“I’m afraid the king is explicit in his command.” Her voice is gentle. Too gentle. “The entire staff has also been summoned.”
The cramp comes back. Sharper.
“What’s going on?”
She doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with wet eyes.
I reach for her hand. Squeeze it. Try to smile.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
Her face crumples. Just for a moment. Then she straightens, nods, and gestures for me to follow.
No, I think. No no no.
The library is full.
Every member of the household staff stands in neat rows. Arlene with her strong hands folded. Thomas the gardener, dirt still under his fingernails. The two young maids that always work as a pair, shoulders touching, faces pale. The guards who’ve started nodding at me in the hallways.
All of them. Silent. Watching.
And at the front of the room, standing behind a massive oak desk like a judge about to deliver a verdict, is Devyn.
He looks wrong.
Same sharp jaw. Same golden eyes. Same perfectly tailored suit. But his face is stone. Cold in a way I haven’t seen since those first days—when I was a stranger in his chapel and he looked at me like I was a problem to be solved.
No no no no no.
My feet carry me forward anyway. Toward him. Because that’s what I do now—I go to him. He’s my husband. He kissed me breathless before he left. He called three kings to protect me. Whatever this is, whatever’s happening, I can fix it. I just need to reach him, touch him, make him look at me—
Two guards step into my path.
I stumble to a halt.
They don’t touch me. They don’t have to. They’re a wall of black suits and broad shoulders, blocking my way to my own husband.
“Devyn?” My voice comes out small. Confused.
He doesn’t acknowledge his name. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all. He’s looking through me. Past me. Like I’m not even there.
“I’ve summoned you all here,” he says, addressing the room, “to discuss the conduct of the queen during my absence.”
Why is he being like this?
“It has come to my attention,” he continues, his voice flat and cold, “that during the diplomatic function, the queen demonstrated a fundamental lack of understanding regarding proper protocol.”
What?
“She allowed herself to become a target for public humiliation.”
I try to step forward. “Devyn, please—”
The guards shift. A hand lands on my arm—not rough, but firm. Holding me in place.
Like I’m a prisoner. Like I’m not fit to approach him.
“Why—” My voice breaks, and it takes a moment before I can try again. “W-Why are you being like this?” I search his face for any sign of the man who cupped my face in his hands. Who studied me like he was memorizing every detail. Who kissed me like he was staking a claim.
There’s nothing.
Just stone. Just ice. Just a stranger wearing my husband’s face.
“You have embarrassed this household. This territory. You have embarrassed me.”
“Please.” The word tears out of me. “Will you—”
“There is nothing for you to say.”
I try to pull free of the guard’s grip. Try to reach Devyn. If I can just touch him, just make him see me—
“Hold her.”
Two words. Quiet. Final.
The second guard takes my other arm. Not rough—almost gentle—but immovable. I’m held in place like a criminal. Like someone who isn’t allowed to be near the king.
Around me, I hear soft sounds. Sniffles. Muffled sobs.
The staff. They’re crying.
Arlene’s broad shoulders shake. Thomas stares at the floor, jaw tight, eyes wet. Connie and Josie cling to each other. Mrs. Lyme stands rigid, tears tracking silently down her cheeks.
They’re crying for me.
I try to catch Arlene’s eye. Try to smile. It’s okay, I want to tell her. It’s going to be okay. But my face won’t cooperate and my eyes are burning and—
Focus, Bailey. Focus.
Photographer brain. Frame the shot. The rule of thirds would put Devyn’s face—Devyn’s cold, empty face—
It’s not working.
I think of Olympus Bewitched. Not to escape—I don’t want to be Blair anymore. But I think of her story. How Mr. Handsome pushed her away. How it looked ruined. How she kept hoping anyway.
She was right, in the end.
Maybe—
The tears come anyway.
Silent. Unstoppable. Streaming down my cheeks while I stand there, held by guards, trying and failing to hold myself together.
No one moves to help me.
Because Devyn is watching. And his eyes say: don’t.
I stand there. Held by guards. Tears streaming. The entire household watching me break.
And Devyn—my husband, the man who called three kings to protect me, the man who made me believe I might actually belong here—
His face remains stone.
But his hands—
His hands are fists at his sides. Knuckles white. Trembling with the effort of staying still.
I don’t see it.
I’m looking at his face. Searching for any sign of warmth, any crack in the ice, any proof that the past weeks weren’t a dream I made up.