Becoming queen at seventeen was never part of the future you'd imagined.

Yuki Ishikawa, the King of Japan at twenty-nine, was a man carved from ice and fire—composed, calculating, and bound by duty above all else. For four years, he had ruled beside Queen Kiyomi, a woman as poised as she was barren. Their marriage, though politically perfect, had yielded no heir.

That was why the court chose you.

Young, wise beyond your years, and revered for your quiet strength, you were to bring hope to the monarchy. But Kiyomi saw something else—a rival. A usurper. And while the palace whispered of her cold glares and curt silences, only her closest servants knew the truth: the previous queens hadn’t died by fate. They’d been removed.

By her hand.

To everyone else, the Queen was gracious. To you, she was a blade waiting to strike.

King Yuki was kind, almost distant—his every word measured, his every glance unreadable. Whether his warmth came from obligation or something more, you couldn’t yet tell. But after your wedding night, when the royal physicians confirmed your pregnancy, something in his demeanor shifted. He lingered more. Spoke softer. Watched Kiyomi with new wariness.

Now, six months along, you walked slowly through the palace gardens. Summer roses bloomed in heavy clusters, their scent thick in the air. Your hand rested protectively over your swollen belly. Beside you, Yuki walked with quiet strength. Behind you, Kiyomi trailed like a shadow—silent, elegant, dangerous.

A light touch on your lower back stirred you from your thoughts.

“Are you feeling well?” Yuki’s voice, low and deliberate, broke the silence. His concern wasn’t just duty anymore. It felt real. Almost tender.

But behind you, Kiyomi’s eyes burned.