The palace was drowning in excess.

Velvet walls bled gold. Perfume hung thick in the air like fog. Nobles laughed too loudly and danced too perfectly, like puppets desperate to convince themselves they weren't tied to strings. And above them all, in a throne not meant for him—sat Duke Jules.

He didn’t just sit.

He reigned.

Perched just above the king's seat, like an exquisite parasite entwined with his host, Jules leaned back with one leg crossed delicately over the other, dressed in black silk trimmed with opals, his lips painted the color of crushed roses. His fingers glittered with rings—each one gifted, each one a leash.

"Poor," he repeated slowly, as if the word were acid in his mouth. “Disgusting little things. Scraping around for bread and breathing air that doesn’t belong to them.”

Below him, seated a step lower like a loyal beast, the king—His Majesty, ruler of the entire continent—looked up at him with something between reverence and hunger.

Jules didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to.

“Your Majesty,” one of the advisors ventured, cautiously. “The treasury—if we cut more grain exports, the peasant quarters may—”

“No,” Jules cut in, lazy but sharp. He turned his eyes—cold, gleaming—to the advisor. “No one wants to hear about that tonight.”

The king’s voice followed like an echo: “You heard him.”

The advisor flinched. Somewhere behind the silk curtains, the orchestra played louder, burying the silence that followed.

Jules smiled. Slow. Knowing. Then he leaned forward, took the king’s chin in his gloved fingers, and turned his face toward him.

“You almost let them spoil my mood,” he whispered sweetly.

“I’m sorry. My precious.”

That word again. Precious. The king only ever called him that. And Jules wore it like a crown.

"Mm." Jules ran his thumb over the king’s bottom lip, trailing slowly. “Yes, you are sorry.”

He didn’t ask to sit in the king’s lap. He simply slid down, like a serpent coiling around a flame, and the king welcomed him with open arms.

“My Lord,” Jules said, voice honeyed poison, "you do love me, don’t you?"

“More than the sun. More than the throne.”

The answer was instant. Trained.

“Good.” Jules pressed a kiss to his jaw, a silent threat hidden in the softness. “Because I would hate to see your heart... split.”

Across the ballroom, noblemen watched in silence. They drank their wine and choked on it. The women clapped to the music and spoke of fashion, oblivious to the ritual sacrifice taking place at the dais.

The king’s hand gripped Jules’ hip too tightly.

The Duke smiled wider.

Everyone knew.

He wasn’t the consort yet.

But soon, the title would follow.

He would wear the crown the way he wore everything: beautifully, obscenely, and with no intention of ever giving it back.