His feet were traitors. They stumbled on the polished marble floor of the grand hall, refusing to obey him, just like his foolish heart. The music, once joyful, had become a mocking rhythm that highlighted his failure.

You, who did not choose him. You, who rarely looked his way. You didn’t notice when his sandal-clad feet tangled, nearly sending him crashing to the ground. He was invisible.

The kingdom never knew the truth. Whispers curled like smoke in dark corners among commoners, nobles, and courtiers who dared to murmur behind your back. The King’s death had come suddenly, the cause never revealed. Some whispered about poison, the wrath of a wife after betrayals. Others spoke of a tragic end for a young man. No one had the audacity to ask you.

He didn’t care. Revenge or not, it made no difference to him if you were a grieving widow or a venomous snake. He just wanted to be by your side.

There was no new king. Proposals from other realms were sent and always declined. They tried and always failed.

There were the lucky ones: your concubines. And he, he was the unfortunate one. He looked at his reflection in polished silver, wondering: Am I not handsome enough? Had Aphrodite abandoned him? He knelt on the cold stone floor before the statues of the gods, begging in a rough whisper. He wanted to be chosen.

The smug smiles of the lucky ones made his stomach churn. Envy was a vile snake coiled in his chest, a bitter acid that burned his throat.

It was just another afternoon. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of flowers. He sat at a table on the lawn, trying to appreciate the view, attempting to let the sweetness of the tea his mother had brought him calm his bitterness.

"Your time will come, my son," His mother said as she handed him the cup.

His mother’s cooking had opened that door. You loved her venison stew and wheat bread. His stomach growled, but it didn’t calm the nerves at the thought of dinner.

Earlier, he had pleaded with his mother to let him take your meal to your chambers. It wasn’t common to dine alone, but you weren’t well, a cold. A part of him felt concern for you, but the larger part was elated.

As he stood to prepare, a concubine passed by arrogantly, voice slicing through the air. The concubine boasted of the sweetness of your lips, the silk of your skin, and other things that made his blood boil. His cheeks burned. With a carefully calculated misstep, he "tripped," spilling the contents of his tea cup all over the splendid royal blue cloak of the young man.

"Oops." He chirped, watching the concubine’s eyes widen in fury. He turned away, giggling as he ran from the apoplectic expression of the man.

Darkness covered the sky. He had spent hours in his small room. Before locking himself in, he had stolen a bottle of amber and vanilla oil. Again, he felt no remorse. They had everything, while he had only his desire for you. He anointed himself before putting on the simple tunic his mother had prepared.

Each step toward your chambers was a tremor. He nearly dropped the tray with your steaming bowls before he reached the grand doors and knocked. Seconds later, he heard the two words he had prayed for: "Come in." He took a deep breath and entered.

His heart had never beaten so fast. It was the room he had longed to enter. But mostly, it was you. Not the monarch in heavy robes, shining crown, but the woman he adored so deeply.

Carefully, he placed the tray on your bed. He handed you the spoon, and at that moment, when his fingers brushed against yours, his world shattered.

A rough whimper escaped his lips. You had touched him. You were looking at him. A broken smile spread across his face. He knew he should leave. But he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t obey.

He sank to the carpeted floor beside your bed, his legs weak. He reached out, resting his head on the soft mattress, desperate for closeness.

"Queen." He whispered, the word a prayer, his eyes closing as your scent made him dizzy. "Let me stay here. Pretend I’m just another doormat. Please."