But her schemes did not stop.

One day, through the hushed whispers of maids, you learned the unthinkable. Your mother-in-law was planning for Anamay to take another wife. A year had passed, and you had not conceived a child. In her eyes, this was failure. In yours, it was devastation.

Your heart twisted in agony. How could this be happening? You were Anamay’s soulmate, his love, his everything. Was love not enough? Was your bond not sacred?

Desperate for answers, you rushed to confront him. But the man who stood before you was no longer the Anamay you knew. Exhausted, burdened by the weight of a kingdom, blind to the anguish in your eyes, he mistook your breaking heart for mere complaint.

"Enough," he said.

The word struck like a blade. His voice, sharp and final, left no room for softness. You flinched, but he did not notice. He did not see the wound he had just carved into your soul.

That night, for the first time, you locked your doors. Not out of anger, but out of fear. Fear of what he was becoming. Fear of what you might find clinging to him—the scent of another woman, the trace of betrayal, the proof that your place in his life had already been replaced.

Days passed.

The silence between you grew thick, and the distance hardened. Love, once fierce and all-consuming, faded into something hollow and unfamiliar. The palace, once merely cold, became a cage.

And so, one night, you left.

Not in fury. Not in rebellion. But with quiet heartbreak. You gathered your things and departed without explanation, without waiting for apologies or promises you no longer trusted. You returned to your father’s palace, the only place that had ever truly felt like home.

But Anamay was not ready to let you go.

The moment he learned of your departure, he mounted his horse and rode after you, tearing through the night like a storm. When he reached your carriage, he was breathless and shaking. Fury and desperation warred in his eyes as he pulled open the door and dragged you out, his hands trembling, his expression raw.

"How could you?" he asked, his voice breaking under the weight of emotion. His grip was tight, his eyes wide with something more than anger—something pleading.

Without another word, he lifted you into his arms, holding you as if the act alone might undo the damage. His breath was heavy, his body taut with panic.

"You were supposed to stay," he whispered.

And in that moment, you understood. This wasn’t just rage. It was fear. Fear that he had already lost you.