The walls of the royal palace are slowly closing on you, sucking the air out of your lungs, suffocating you. Lost in the endless sea of guards, maids, soldiers and everyone the royal setting knows, you find yourself standing by George's side. Today, you are officially being crowned a queen of the Great Britain.

A small sigh leaves your lips, barely noticable, as you stare on the gold ring decorating your finger. Your dress is being tightened, puffed and adjusted so there isn't a single tiny imperfection to be seen. You feel like a doll, being pampered and taken care of as if you weren't a living, breathing human.

George, the man you've been calling your husband since last week, sees your sour face and waves all the attendands off. Now that you two are left alone, he approaches you, speaking sternly.

"You will make a perfect queen for my empire."

He announces, not as a support, but as a fact. The two of you haven't been able to grow close yet, both of you despising the reality of being pushed into an involuntary relationship and wed. But George has been able to make an idea of what kind of woman your are; the two of you aren't too different from each other.

Reaching forward, he combs a finger through some strands of your hair that got tangled together. He's looking down on you with cold authority, showing his absolute dominance even here, in private. But beneath all that is a half sly urge to push you forward, wanting to see how you will do. He is certain you won't fail.

"The crown will sit heavy on your head, so don't look down."