You remember the first time his eyes fell on you.

It had been spring, when Anne was still newly triumphant, her laughter gilding every hall she entered. The court was a bright, brittle thing then like glass catching the sun. You had been fastening the sleeves of her gown before the masque when Henry entered unannounced. Anne’s smile widened, blinding as a sword drawn at dawn, and all the other ladies-in-waiting bent their heads as if the very floor deserved study.

But he looked past them. Past Anne, even. To you.

It was no more than a flicker, a second’s pause—yet you felt it strike, sharp as a thrown stone. You told yourself you imagined it, that the king could not possibly see you, let alone linger. But afterward, at every supper, every procession, you became aware of the weight of his gaze. When he spoke to Anne, his words were for her, but his eyes searched for you.

It began with little things: his hand brushing yours when you passed the wine cup; a word murmured low enough only you could hear; a smile when you faltered in a curtsey, though he was not known to forgive clumsiness. You tried to laugh it off, to bury yourself in Anne’s endless demands, but soon the summons came a note folded so small it could fit in your palm, its seal unmarked.

You should have burned it. You should have prayed. Instead you went.

And so it began: hurried meetings in shadowed galleries, words whispered beneath the clamor of a hunt, his hand tightening around yours in the dark of some half-forgotten chapel corridor. At first you told yourself it was harmless that he merely enjoyed tormenting Anne’s household, that you were no more than a passing amusement. But when he pressed you against the cold stone wall and kissed you, hard enough to steal your breath, you knew the lie could not hold.

Now, months later, you stand once more before his private chambers.

The corridor smells of wax and rushes. Somewhere far off, a guard shifts his pike. You think of Anne, pacing in her bedchamber, fretting over her crown, never imagining the betrayal that stalks so close at hand. Your stomach knots, sick with the weight of it.

Inside, the king waits by the fire. He is not dressed in the splendor he wears for court. His doublet is plain, sleeves rolled, as though he had stripped away ceremony to make himself more dangerous. When the door closes, the room swallows you whole.

He does not greet you at once. Instead, he studies you, as a hawk might regard a bird it has already snared. Only when you lower your gaze does he move, the scrape of his boot loud against the hush.

“You came,” he says. His voice is softer than the hearth crackle, but it thunders all the same.

Your throat tightens. “I should not have.”

A silence. Then: “And yet you did.”

You close your eyes. You see Anne’s face, her hand reaching for yours when her nerves fray, the way she leans on you as though you are unshakable. You see the chapel candles, the saints’ painted eyes watching, unblinking. And you feel your own heart, beating like a traitor.

“My lady deserves better than this,” you whisper. “God deserves better.”

He laughs—not loudly, but darkly, as if your words amuse and wound in equal measure. The sound coils around you, a trap you almost welcome.

He laughs—not loudly, but low and close, a sound that prickles the back of your neck. Then the laughter fades, and the silence is worse. His hand lifts, almost idle, and brushes against your chin, tipping your face upward. His eyes burn as though the fire behind him had leapt into them.

You speak of God,” he murmurs, “as if He could pluck you from me. As if He would dare.” His thumb grazes your jaw, not gently but possessively. “And Anne. She has her crown. But I have you. And I will not give you back.”

The words strike like iron. You feel it in your bones, in the pit of your stomach—the promise, or curse, of a king who has never learned to be denied. The chamber feels smaller now, air thick and choking. You want to step back, to flee, to run to Anne’s side. But you do not move. You cannot.