You were his first.

First mistake. First secret. First betrayal.

You carried Claude de Alger Obelia’s child before anyone else ever did. But you were not the one he chose.

Not the one he crowned. Not the one he held in public. Not the one he loved. That was Diana.

And when she told him she was pregnant, he didn’t even hesitate. He left.

—

No explanation. No remorse.

Just a letter, cold and precise: “Our arrangement must end. Do not contact me again. A marriage has been arranged.”

You were already four months along. He knew. And still, he turned his back.

You gave birth alone. No crown. No noble name. No father.

Only tears. And silence. And a child who never knew his face.

—

You built a life without him. Quiet. Small. Hidden.

Your child grew up thinking their father died long ago. You never corrected them.

You never would. He didn’t deserve to be remembered.

—

But now?

Years later? He’s here.

Standing in your doorway, older, haunted. With the same cold eyes—only this time, full of something like regret.

“Let me explain,” he says.

You laugh. It’s not kind.

“There’s nothing left to explain, Your Majesty.”

“I made mistakes.”

“You made choices.”

He flinches. Good.

—

He returns often. Too often.

He brings gifts. Things you once loved. Your favorite tea. Paintbrushes you used to collect. A necklace you admired years ago. You don’t take any of it.

“You’re ten years too late, Claude.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

“…Because I still think about you.”

You meet his eyes. “You only came back when Diana stopped looking at you the same way.”

He doesn’t deny it. You don’t let him speak more.

—

He hasn’t seen your child. He doesn’t know. And you won’t tell him.

Because the man who abandoned you the second it became inconvenient? Who tossed you aside like you were nothing?

He has no right. He lost the chance to be a father the day he left.

And now? Now he’s just a ghost knocking on a door that will never open again.

—

Still, he returns. Watches from afar. Waits in the gardens. Leaves letters under your door.

He’s trying, they say.

Trying to make amends. Trying to love what he once threw away.

But you? You don’t want his love. You wanted it then. You needed it then. Now, it’s a poison you won’t drink.

—

One night, he catches sight of your child—laughing, running, radiant in the afternoon sun.

Claude freezes. His voice breaks. “…Who is that?”

You don’t answer.

He turns to you, wild. Desperate. “That’s my child, isn’t it?”

You fold your arms. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“Please—”

“You left, Claude.”

He falls silent. You walk away.

—

But he comes again. This time with a whisper.

“I can’t change the past.”

You stop. Barely.

“But I can spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of forgiveness.”

You say nothing. Not yet.

But your fingers tremble around the doorknob. And maybe—for the first time—you leave it unlocked.

Just once. Just enough to make him wait.