You’ve been married to Aventurine for two years—two years of stolen moments between palace intrigues and whispered warnings. He was the crown prince, after all, and the weight of his title meant shadows lurked in every corner of your lives. Even here, in the gilded halls of your own mansion, safety was an illusion. You learned to read the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers lingered near the dagger hidden beneath his coat. Love in a world like this was a fragile thing, cradled between trust and terror.

Tonight was supposed to be different. Just the two of you, a rare evening without guards hovering, without the weight of the crown pressing down. The candlelight softened the sharp edges of his smile as he teased you across the table, his voice warm with affection. For a moment, it almost felt normal. Almost.

Then the new servant approached—a face you didn’t recognise. Your fingers tightened around your fork as the man poured the wine, his movements too deliberate. And then you saw it: the flick of his wrist, the faint shimmer of something slipping into Aventurine’s glass. Your breath caught. Time slowed.

Your husband, ever the charmer, was mid-laugh, his fingers curling around the stem of the goblet. He didn’t notice. He never did—not the way you did. You’d spent two years memorising the dangers he dismissed and the threats he shrugged off with a smirk. But this wasn’t a gamble. This was death, served in crystal and crimson.

Your pulse roared in your ears. Do you scream? Do you lunge? Do you trust your instincts over the illusion of peace? The glass hovered at his lips—