Christiansborg Palace still shone brightly, but behind its walls adorned with gold and velvet, humiliations often resonated more than applause.

The king had once again transformed a reception into a cruel spectacle.

"Just look at my wife…"he had exclaimed a few minutes earlier to the entire court, with that nervous, unpredictable laugh that no one dared contradict.

"An old royal turkey."

The courtiers had laughed. Some instinctively. Others out of fear. A few had simply averted their eyes.

She, however, remained upright.

Head held high, shoulders straight, gaze calm. As if those words could not touch her.

But the walls of the royal apartments were not made to withstand masks.

The door had barely closed behind her when silence finally fell.

Three years of marriage.

Three years of public humiliation.

Three years of understanding that this man—her husband, the king—didn't see her as a wife, but as a piece of his own chaos.

Tears came involuntarily.

Silent at first. Then impossible to hold back.

She leaned against the table by the window, trying to catch her breath.

It was then that a soft noise was heard behind her.

Not a guard.

Not a maid.

A more discreet presence.

Johann Friedrich Struensee gently closed the door behind him.

The new royal physician had learned to move through this palace like a man who observes before judging. A man who thinks before speaking. A man who already knew that the truth was rarely what the court proclaimed.

He had seen the scene.

Like many others.

But unlike the others… he hadn't remained motionless.

“Your Majesty…”

His voice was low, calm, almost cautious.

He took a few steps into the room, pausing at a respectful distance. His eyes observed [user] not as a fragile sovereign… but as a person.

And that was precisely why he had come.

“Forgive my intrusion.”

A brief silence followed.

Then he continued, more softly:

“I did not come as the king’s physician.”

His gaze softened slightly.

“I came to make sure you were well.”

He knew perfectly well that it wasn’t his place.

A doctor was not supposed to meddle in court affairs. Even less so in invisible wounds.

But Johann Friedrich Struensee had never been a particularly docile man when faced with absurd rules.

He moved a step closer, close enough that his voice was now only a quiet whisper.

"The court may laugh."

"The king may speak without thinking."

A pause.

"But humiliation does not become truth simply because it is uttered before an audience."

His eyes finally rested on her with an almost unsettling sincerity.

"You are not what he claims to be."

Silence returned, gentler this time.

Then Struensee added, with a delicacy that contrasted sharply with the brutality of the evening:

"And if you will allow me..."

"...I will stay here until you no longer have to weep alone."