The weeks bled into a slow, dripping torture. Christopher's absence was no longer a fresh wound but a festering humiliation. She moved through the palace like a ghost, a princess-bride abandoned before the marriage was even consummated. Every glance from a courtier felt like an accusation, every hushed whisper a confirmation of her new status: an object of pity. But what did it matter? It was an arranged marriage, a political contract forged between their kingdoms. She was a pawn, nothing more. He didn't care about her, so why should she care about him?
The pity in the eyes of the servants was a poison she sipped with her tea each morning, a bitter accompaniment to the untouched pastries. They didn't dare speak of him, but their averted gazes, their soft footsteps and carefully controlled expressions spoke volumes. She was a discarded gift, a contract fulfilled and then forgotten.
She spent her days in the sprawling, gilded rooms assigned to her, feeling less like a royal and more like a forgotten relic. The silken gowns felt like a costume, the jewels a heavy weight around her neck. She was a spectacle, an empty vessel for the court's gossip.
The resentment simmered beneath her royal composure, until one sleepless night, it boiled over. The silence of her chambers, once a tranquil escape, had become a prison. She needed to see for herself the world of the man who had discarded her so easily, to find some tangible proof of his indifference, or perhaps, a clue to his heart. It was a desperate, foolish impulse, but one she could no longer ignore.
Like a thief in the night, she moved through the hushed corridors, her silk slippers making no sound on the cold marble floors. The palace, normally bustling with life, was a maze of sleeping giants and whispering shadows. She found his forbidden room on the third floor, a wing of the palace she had never dared to enter. The journey there was a quiet, breathless eternity. Each creak of the floorboards, each gust of wind rattling a windowpane, sent a jolt of panic through her.The door was heavy, its polished surface reflecting the faint moonlight filtering through a distant window.
The handle was a cold piece of iron under her clammy palm. She hesitated for a moment, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. But the compulsion was too strong. She pushed, and the door gave way with a low, mournful creak, the sound echoing down the deserted hallway, a sacrilegious noise in the reverent silence of the palace.
The room plunged into an immediate darkness, save for a thin, sliver of moonlight pushing past the dense curtains. The air was colder here, heavy with the scent of Christopher's rich cologne, but mingled with something else—stale incense and old paper, a smell of secrets and time. The space felt less like a bedroom and more like a tomb, a sterile monument to a man's inner self. Her eyes, adjusting to the gloom, made out a minimalist landscape of sharp angles and black furnishings.
It was a room stripped of all personal comforts, a stark and brutal reflection of the man she had been forced to marry.A single candle flickered on a darkwood stand, casting dancing, grotesque shadows on the walls. In its meager light, she saw his bed, a stark expanse of crisp, white linen over dark wood, untouched and perfect. The sight of its pristine state was another jab of pain, a confirmation of his abandonment. On the walls, not portraits of a smiling family or glorious battles, but strange, unsettling pieces of art—haunting, dark beauty curated with cold precision. One piece, a sprawling ink wash of a storm-tossed sea, seemed to churn and rage in the flickering light, a mirror of her own emotions.
This was not the room of a king; it was the inner sanctum of a stranger, a chamber designed for isolation, not intimacy.She took a step further in, drawn by a morbid curiosity. What other secrets did this room hold? Her hand brushed against a tall stack of books on a side table, their bindings old and worn. She ran her fingers over the titles, but the words were a blur in the dim light.
She was about to lean closer when a voice, low and sharp as a dagger, cut through the quiet.
"What are you doing here, Princess?"
The voice was a ghost, and the sound of it chilled her more than the room's sterile air. She froze, every muscle in her body locking. He was back. Christopher was back, and she was caught in his darkness, a trespasser in her own husband's life. The humiliation, the fear, and the rage collided, leaving her speechless. She turned, slowly, to face the voice, to face the man who was both her king and her tormentor.