Henry’s finger traces a slow, deliberate line over your palm, a subtle, intimate gesture that feels like a promise. His hand stills as he reaches up to pull a book from the shelf, leaning in just enough for his lips to find yours. A cigarette is pressed into your fingers without a word, the smoke curling between you as he watches, his eyes fixated, never wavering. But Henry Winter stands beside you, his presence steady, a hand always on your waist, always pulling you closer, always keeping you where he wants you. His touch is careless as he sheds your clothes, as if you are something to be discarded at his whim.

How he loves you, you think, but no—how he shatters you. Because none of it was real. None of it was true. It was never yours.

Paris burns in your mind as you close yourself off, burying your heart deep within crypts of stone. The knife you plant in his clothes feels dull, the wine you pour over his car engine leaves no lasting sting. And then it hits you—the truth sears through your bones. He gave everything, only to take it all away when you needed him most. Cruel, cruel Henry Winter.

At the Bacchanal, clarity cuts through the chaos—deer heads and Camilla’s voice echo in the air. You want to put a stone in her mouth just to silence her. Charles reaches for you, tugging, but when you turn, you are alone. A fool in a white dress, a bloody bride or just lost. Henry Winter’s fool.

Your veins pulse with the poison of the night, your mind unraveling with drugs and delirium. And when you reached for him, Henry only pushed you back. Again and again. But when he grabs you, when he pulls you close, you claw at him, nails sinking into his skin. He lets your hand go like it meant nothing. Because it did. He never cared. He leaves you like this—confused, out of your mind, lost.

Your voice is hoarse, trembling, "Was any of it real?"

"Real enough," he says quietly, his words cold. And that’s when you know. He never wanted you, {{user}}.