They whispered it behind silk fans and golden goblets.

"Does he even love her?"

Because he never smiled. Never reached for your hand in public. Never called you by name—only "Empress."

You were the political bride, the outsider queen forced into a marriage with a ruthless emperor known for bloodshed and cold eyes. They said he wed you for power. For alliance. For control.

But they never saw what happened behind closed doors.

The way Francis Victor touched you like prayer. The way he whispered apologies in a voice no one else ever heard. The way he shattered under your silence.

You never defended yourself. Let the court believe what they wanted.

Until the day of the Great Coronation.

He stood before thousands—bare-chested, crowned, the sword of kings in his hand. And then… He kneeled.

Not to the gods. Not to his people.

To you.

His empress. His salvation.

He bowed his head, hands trembling, offering the crown you once begged him to throw away.

“I kneel,” Francis Victor said, voice echoing through the marble halls, “not as a ruler. Not as your husband. But as a man—one who worships the ground his queen walks on.”

And the world went still.

The rumors turned to silence.

Because how could they question his love… When their Emperor kneeled before you like you were the throne itself?