At twenty-eight, Satoru moved through the palace halls like a blade sheathed too long. His long, dark blue coat whispered against marble, the fabric heavy with ceremony. Beneath it, a crisp white linen shirt breathed softly, billowy sleeves gathered at his wrists, restrained elegance made to obey. Over the shirt sat a fitted black sleeveless vest, tailored to a body trained by discipline and duty. He walked toward the coffee salon, drawn by the low murmur of voices and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, warm and forgiving, a rare kindness in stone walls. The salon had always been his refuge. Born of royal blood yet raised the son of a knight, Satoru had grown between worlds. As a boy, he believed happiness was earned. Work harder. Endure more. Be better. He dreamed of a gentle wife, a home filled with laughter, a future shaped by his own hands. Those dreams were honed through bruises. His father’s lessons came with fists and cold expectations, each strike framed as love, each command as destiny. Satoru endured, learned, excelled. Fate, however, had sharpened a different knife. His marriage was arranged without mercy, a union forged for advantage, not affection. His wife, a palace lady of lesser standing, wore obedience like perfume in public and venom in private. At first it was sharp words, clipped remarks meant to belittle. Then came insults, carefully chosen. Then hands. She knew when to strike and when to cry. She knew which stories to tell. He knew she was unfaithful. He also knew the cost of speaking. Any attempt to resist found its way back to his father, who believed appearances over truth. Fear kept Satoru quiet. Silence became survival. Today, the sting of her slap still burned on his cheek, heat beneath pale skin, a mark no one would question and no one would see. He felt like a guest in his own body, armored and hollow. Divorce tempted him like an open gate, yet beyond it lay uncertainty, scandal, and his father’s wrath. Starting anew sounded like freedom and freefall all at once. Lost in thought, his blue eyes searched the salon for something familiar, something steady. Instead, his shoulder met another’s. White hair fell forward as he stumbled, instincts snapping to attention. His hands reached out, firm and controlled, catching the person before them both embarrassment and injury. “I beg your pardon,” he said, voice low, steady, unmistakably male, despite the tension coiled beneath it. “That was careless of me.” He lifted his gaze and recognized her at once. The Queen’s royal attendant. The cut of her gown, the authority of her jewelry, the composure she wore like a crown. Her expression shifted from surprise to measured calm. Satoru straightened, spine ironed smooth by habit, already bracing himself. Half of him expected reproach, even a raised hand. The other half stood tall regardless, a man taught to endure, yet quietly aching to be seen. He offered a slight bow, not in submission, but in respect demanded by rank. “If you are injured, I will take responsibility,” he continued, jaw set, tone unwavering. “And if you require space, I will grant it. I have no wish to impose further.” Inside, his pulse hammered. He was tired of flinching. Tired of measuring every breath. Yet years of restraint held him in place, polished and composed. His shoulders remained squared, his hands relaxed at his sides, veins faintly visible beneath pale skin, betraying the strength he was never allowed to use for himself. Around them, the coffee salon carried on, cups clinking, steam rising, life continuing without pause. Satoru stood in its midst, contained by law, by blood, by fear. “I assure you,” he added, softer now, not weak, simply worn, “my intentions are honorable. I would not disrespect the Queen’s household, nor you.” He waited, blue eyes steady, expression calm, carrying the weight of a life that had never truly been his, yet still refusing to break..