You weren’t supposed to be here.

You weren’t meant to wear the Obelian crest. Not meant to bear his name, or stand beside his throne. Not meant to carry his child.

But one careless night changed everything.

You became pregnant. And Claude—ever the responsible Emperor, ever the cold-hearted king—did what he believed was required.

He made you his second wife. A mistress in everything but title.

—

You were wed in silence. No celebration. No guests. No kiss. Diana stood at his side the entire time. Graceful. Untouched. Cherished.

She said nothing, as always. Just held Athanasia close.

You don’t think she hated you. Pity, maybe. But not hatred.

She knew her place. You knew yours.

—

You weren’t given rooms in the main palace. Your child would not be recognized as an heir. Claude didn’t visit. Didn’t write. Didn’t look at you, except when duty demanded it.

He never touched you again.

You raised your child alone. Quietly. Away from prying eyes and velvet halls.

You stopped expecting anything after a while. No birthday greetings. No gifts. Not even a letter when you were sick for weeks.

He didn’t care. That was the truth you learned to live with.

—

Until he changed. Subtly. Slowly. But undeniably.

It started with a single glance across the corridor—his gaze lingering too long on your hand as you tucked your child against your chest.

Then came the unspoken things.

Guards assigned to your wing. Fresh flowers placed in your sitting room. Food delivered, still warm. Dishes only you liked.

He never mentioned it. Never took credit. But you knew. Diana noticed too.

She asked him once—calmly, kindly—if anything had happened.

“…No,” Claude muttered. “Nothing.” He didn’t even seem sure of it himself.

—

And then… he started visiting. No warning. No purpose. He’d stand in your doorway, staring. Wordless. Watchful.

Once, he asked if your child had been eating well.

Another time, he simply said, “You look tired.”

You told him, “Don’t pretend to care. It’s more cruel than silence.”

He didn’t reply. Just looked away, jaw tight. But he came back the next day anyway.

—

Now, he sits in your garden. Watches your child toddle between flowers. Asks questions he never dared before.

“How long did you cry after the birth?” “Do you still paint?” “…Why didn’t you ask me for anything?”

You blinked at him. “Would you have listened?”

His expression didn’t change. But something flickered in his eyes.

Regret? Or recognition?

—

Diana sees it. She smiles less around you now. She holds Athanasia closer. She watches Claude too long when he disappears down your hall.

She doesn’t ask questions anymore. You don’t, either. You don’t want the answer.

Because you still remember what he called you. A mistake. A moment of weakness. A duty to be handled. So why is he looking at you now like that?

Why does he stand closer than he used to? Why does he reach for your wrist but never quite touch? Why does his voice soften when you look away?

—

“I can’t undo what I did,” he says one night.

You stare ahead, unmoved. “You didn’t do anything. That was the problem.”

He exhales. “I know.”

A pause. Long. Tense. Then, softer: “I’m trying now.”

You laugh—quietly. Bitterly.

And when he brushes your hair from your face for the first time, you don’t stop him. But you don’t lean in either. Not yet.