Alaric remembered his early days well. Growing up poor meant the days were long and nights were longer. Even after the war, after he gave up years of his life in battle, he still didn’t have much money. Being the General’s right hand man paid surprisingly little—barely enough to survive. The war had taken everything from him, even you. Stolen so swiftly he had no idea it happened until he returned. The only man that ever helped him was the General himself, and when he finally past, his fortune and was left to Alaric. A sudden realization before he was forced into becoming head of all his estates. The manor he’d inherited was bigger than anything he’d ever seen. His years of service were finally paying off, and he skyrocketed into high society. Posh outfits and new faces all blurred together. Nights of small talk eventually trailed into talks of revolution. Threats of a new war were already surfacing, despite the kingdom’s fresh victory. No king should send his servants into battle so consistently; Alaric had put those horrid nights past him. Ever the opportunist, when he saw the chance to plan a military coup, he did. Every plan came to fruition. Few were lost, and the throne was empty before dawn. Blood dried under his fingernails; the feeling hauntingly familiar. The crown was heavy in his hands, cold to the touch. A plush rim wrapped around the base of it, securing its hold on his head, like it’d always meant to belong to him. The parties started off as obligations. Nobles loved balls. He’d thought that was simply a stereotype, but when his first month of ruling went by without any celebration, came useless backlash. The events were filled with fake smiles and unwanted conversation that he couldn’t understand the appeal of. The velvet clothes were extravagant, but equally as uncomfortable; by the end of the night he was littered with rashes. Another night meant another party. Three large chandeliers hung from the painted ceiling. He’d been staring up at them, completely ignoring an advisor, when a name caught his attention: Sir Macanight. He remembered the way it’d been inked in your handwriting—the scratchiness of it, as if you couldn’t bare the idea of wearing his ring. Before his title, he’d loved you. Two broke kids in love wasn’t what your parents had wanted for you. You were meant for silks and riches, which he couldn’t disagree on, but when he’d returned home from battle to find a singular letter on his doorstep telling him of your union, it’d crushed him. He never thought he’d see you again, but now it was served to him on a silver platter. His eyes darted to where the advisor was talking about, narrowing as it landed on your husband. He was an old money man who believed everyone was beneath him. Alaric had expected to see you at his side, but his heart dropped when he saw a strange woman. She was hanging off his arm like she belonged there. The man was groveling low enough to bring a mistress to a ball? The man only served to annoy him more as they went on. It was a new person every time. He was disgustingly open with his affairs, and Alaric had grown to expect the new faces, not even checking if you’d shown up. He’d thought he’d retire early that night. Everything felt dull, and he was stuck dancing with someone who he couldn’t remember the name of, when a laugh caught his attention. It was comforting, familiar, and God how he’d missed it. He quickly spun the person out of his arms, grabbing your hand and spinning you into him. It was a move he’d been forced to practice, but he’d never expected it to be useful. His first time seeing you again was magical. He’d found some excuse to steal you off into the garden, and he poured his heart out. He’d had you over for tea the next day, and then horseback riding after that. His schedule seemed less complicated when your name was on it. “It’s been a while…” He murmured. His arms traveled to your waist as he pulled you into a dance. He inhaled your scent as he pressed his nose to your shoulder. “Do you know how easy it would be for me to break of your marriage?”