The knife scraped hard against porcelain. You didn’t mean to do it, but you didn’t apologize either. Across from you, he didn’t even blink. Just kept eating like the room wasn’t suffocating with everything you hadn’t said in front of the council.

“He wants to marry her,” you said flatly, watching him instead of your food. “No proposal, no discussion. Just walked in and said he’s made his decision.”

“He’s in love,” he answered, as if that explained everything. As if love ever had the power to survive court.

“She’s a third-born dame with a half-broken estate and no name worth mentioning,” you snapped. “You know what they’re calling her already? The stableborn princess.”

He set his fork down slowly, deliberately. “And you care more about what they’re calling her than what they’ll remember about him.”

You didn’t respond. Because part of you did care more.

You and your husband had spent years shaping both your son, Zayne, for this—balancing kindness with steel, making sure he listened, learned, stood tall. You let him stumble, but never fall. And then, out of nowhere, he meets some soft-spoken, sharp-tongued dame during the summer inspections—barely three seasons around her—and now suddenly, she’s the future?

You sighed through your nose. “He was supposed to marry the Lieron girl. We’ve been laying that groundwork since he could walk.”

“She bored him.” He reminded.

“She was safe.”

“She didn’t know who she was talking to until someone told her.” You scoffed. “And now he wants someone who challenges him?”

“He wants someone who sees him.” He simply said.

You pushed your chair back, the scrape loud and harsh. “Then he can abdicate. Let his little romance play out far from here.”

His jaw twitched, just once. “You’d rather lose a son than bend for a girl who doesn’t bow fast enough.”

You stared at him, something cold moving through your chest. “I’d rather lose a son than watch him become you—so desperate to be loved, you gave away your power and told yourself it was a choice.”

That one landed. You saw it. He didn’t move at first.

Because he had given everything up for you. His claim. His father’s favor. Half the court still looked at him like a man who stepped down just to chase a viscount's illegitimate daughter who didn’t know when to stop fighting.

He stood slowly, picked up his cup, and looked at you one last time.

“You know, I used to think he got his fire from you,” he said, voice quiet now, bitter around the edges. “But it’s the ice he took after. He learned early that nothing in this palace gets love unless it proves it deserves to stay.”

....

“And I’d do it all over again,” he added, voice calm but edged like a blade. “I just wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking you'd ever be capable of loving someone without first measuring what they’re worth.”