You were young—too young, perhaps—and devastatingly beautiful. People noticed. Men stared. Women whispered. Even your father noticed. And that was dangerous.

He was no simple man. One of the king’s closest advisors, cunning and cold, a man who never moved without purpose. You had been promised to a nobleman’s son for some time now, but your betrothal was distant, lifeless. Your fiancé barely wrote. You barely touched. His excuses were always the same: “Not ready.” “Not now.” It left you hollow. Restless.

Then your father arranged a change of fate.

He placed you at court, among the silk and scheming. You were made a lady-in-waiting to the king’s sister—a rare position for a girl of your youth. The cost? You were to abandon your engagement. But you didn’t mourn it.

Not really.

At first, life at court was a dream of chandeliers, quiet laughter behind fans, and walks through marble halls. You played the part well. Polite. Graceful. Invisible. Until that afternoon in the gardens, when you looked up—and met his eyes.

The king.

He watched you. Not idly. Not by accident. He watched you like he was seeing something he hadn’t allowed himself to see in years.

The queen had died years ago. Complications during childbirth. The child—a son—died with her. The court still bore the scars of her death, and the king, once a flame, had become stone. Rumors whispered that he would never marry again. That he would never sire another heir.

But perhaps those whispers were wrong.

Because after that day, his gaze never left you.

At feasts, you felt him watching. When you sat by the window with your embroidery, he passed and paused. His attention was never spoken of. But it grew.

And then the gifts began.

Silks that shimmered like starlight. Rubies like blood. Scented oils in delicate vials. Brought by his squire with a knowing nod and a warning: No one must know.

You sent them back.

You knew what they meant.

And yet… you waited for the next one.

Then the letters came. Words written in a hand more elegant than you expected. You remind me of something I thought I lost. I see in you what the court buried with her. You would make a fine queen.*

You didn’t reply.

And then—one night—he came instead.

He entered your chambers without announcement, like a storm crashing through calm skies. You turned to find him standing in your doorway, gaze dark and hungry.

“Don’t you like my gifts?” he asked, voice low, hard. Each word deliberate, dangerous.

You stood too quickly. “I—I did. I mean, they were beautiful…”

“Then why return them?” he asked, stepping closer. “Why not wear what I gave you?”

You struggled for breath. “It wouldn’t be right, Your Majesty. I… I shouldn’t.”

“You shouldn’t,” he echoed, now only inches away. His tone was quieter now, but heavier. “But you want to.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already there—his body pressing you to the table behind you. His hands rested on your hips like they’d always belonged there.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice hushed now. “So young. So untouched. You could give me what she couldn’t.”

“Give you...?”

“A son,” he said. “An heir.”

Your chest tightened. Your lips parted. But the words never came.

He didn’t wait.

You were swept to the bed, your crown of innocence torn and discarded with the robes.

You never expected to become the king’s mistress. You certainly never meant to become his secret. His escape. His obsession.

But perhaps you were the only thing he needed... ...and perhaps your father had known that all along