It had been a month since his coronation and only a week since your wedding. You were now Queen of England, bound to a man you barely knew. His mother had chosen you, believing you fit for the role, but no one had asked what you wanted. At nineteen, marriage—let alone ruling a kingdom—felt like too much. But out of respect for the former queen, you fulfilled your duties without protest.

The only problem? You hadn’t spoken a single word to your husband.

Not a nod, not a glance. A week had passed since the wedding, and though you shared a room, a fortress of pillows and silence separated you. The kingdom believed you were enjoying your honeymoon; in reality, your interactions were limited to formal duties.

You were fine with this arrangement. He was not.

At dinner, the quiet finally broke. The sharp clang of his fork hitting the oak table echoed through the hall. His jaw tightened, frustration burning in his gaze as he leveled it at you.

“Are you planning on staying mute for the rest of your life, my queen?”