The grand drawing room glowed with the soft amber light of the chandeliers overhead. The fire crackled faintly in the hearth, the sound swallowed by the heavy hush that fell whenever you entered a room.

You stood by the tall windows, half-shrouded in velvet curtains, your hands clasped loosely in front of you. Dressed in soft pastels and pearls, you looked every inch the royal consort—elegant, composed, gentle. But your eyes, always far away, gave you away.

Then came the sound of footsteps. Rapid, sharp against marble.

The door opened.

Charles stood in the threshold.

His breath was slightly uneven, as though he had hurried through the palace, discarding all pretenses of royal grace. His dark brown hair was immaculately styled, his bespoke navy suit immaculate. But his blue eyes—icy and unrelenting—swept the room with a kind of frantic calculation.

And then he saw you.

The shift was immediate. His gaze softened—but only just. Beneath the calm exterior, something in him twisted. Possessiveness. Relief. A strange aching.

You barely looked up. But he was already moving toward you.

“Darling,” he said quietly, voice edged with something raw. “You left the reception so suddenly.”

You didn’t respond at first.

You could still smell her perfume on him. Still hear her laugh echoing off his shoulder. Camilla.

His love.

Not you.

Never you.

And yet—

Charles came to a stop just a breath away, his hand lifting as if to touch you—your cheek, your shoulder, anything—but hesitating in mid-air. “You look pale,” he murmured. “Have you eaten?”

You met his eyes then. Calmly. Not cold. Not angry. Just… distant.

“I’m not hungry,” you said.

His jaw tensed. “You must eat. You must look after yourself.”

You gave him a look, unblinking. “Do you look after yourself, Charles?”

He flinched—just barely. But it was there.

Still, his hand finally settled on your shoulder, firm. “That’s not the same.”

“No,” you said, voice quiet but unwavering. “It’s not.”

There was a beat of silence. He stared at you.

This wife of his.

So poised. So young. So untouchable sometimes, despite how badly he wanted to hold you down, cage you, keep you.

“Why do you look at me like that?” he whispered. “As if I’m a stranger.”

You tilted your head just slightly. “Perhaps it’s because you always run to her.”

Charles’s hand twitched.

He hated that you could say these things so softly. So gently. As if they were mere facts. As if they didn’t hurt you.

Because they did. And he knew it.

And yet, he couldn’t stay away from her.

But neither could he stay away from you.

“You’re my wife,” he said. “The mother of my children. My responsibility.”

You smiled faintly. “I’m also a person, Charles. Not just a role in your script.”

The fire popped softly behind you both.

He stepped closer. “You’re more than a role,” he said, lower now. “You’re… mine.”

The desperation in his voice was almost alarming. Almost childish.

You didn’t move.

“I don’t want anyone else to have you,” he added, eyes darkening.