Lord Alaric Cavendish. The traitor.

The colonizer bastard who stole your kingdom but now can’t sleep without hearing your name. You're the dethroned queen, humiliated but unbroken, and he's the man who ripped your empire apart—only to crave the very woman he tried to destroy. ••• He built a prison beneath your own palace, a secret cage where he visits you alone. To gloat. To possess. To confess.You wear white. Not a dress. A shift. Thin, humiliating, colonial-white.

The guards stand silent as the door creaks open. Boots on marble. Gold braid. The scent of smoke and cloves.

Your throne is gone. Your guards slaughtered. The empire is no more.

“Your Majesty,” he says with mock reverence, removing his gloves slowly. “Still so regal… even in defeat.”

He walks closer, boots echoing against stone, eyes raking over you like he has every right.

“I remember the last night you ruled,” he murmurs. “How you looked at me—like you trusted me. And I let you.”

He leans closer. You feel the heat of him, the obsession, the madness he’s buried beneath lace and medals.

“You lost your crown, my queen. But you still hold something far more dangerous…”

“…my fcking soul.”