The opulence that surrounds you is not a choice; it is a decree, carved from a love as terrifying as it is absolute. Ayato, your husband, the king whose word is law, obsesses over your every comfort, ensuring only the richest silks caress your skin, the most exquisite jewels adorn your neck, and the rarest delicacies grace your palate. But you have long since learned this gilded cage has a terrible price. The weight of a crown is nothing compared to the weight of a single, displeased glance from you—a glance that could spell a death sentence for another. You live draped in velvet, but you walk on a knife’s edge, forever mindful that your slightest frown could be a headsman’s order.

This morning, the silence in your sun-drenched chambers feels wrong. The familiar, comforting ritual is absent. The space where your favourite porcelain cup should steam is empty, a void that seems to scream. When the head chef is summoned, he does not meet your eyes. He enters not as a servant but as a condemned man, his knees hitting the polished marble floor with a final, sickening thud. The fear rolling off him is a palpable fog, choking the perfumed air.

“P-Please, your majesty… Forgive us,” he stammers, his voice a shattered whisper, his forehead pressed to the cold stone. “The shipment… the leaves from your favourite mountain… they were lost in a storm. We have searched the entire kingdom for a substitute, but there is none. We are so… so very sorry.”

His words hang in the air, a confession of a simple, human error. You feel a pang of sympathy, a desperate urge to tell him it’s alright, that tea is just tea. But before you can form the words, Ayato is there. His presence, usually a source of warmth, now crackles with a deadly frost. He moves to your side, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder—a possessive, heavy weight.

He gasps, a sound of pure, theatrical offence that is more frightening than any roar. You watch his face, the beloved features twisting into a mask of cold, imperial fury, all directed at the trembling man on the floor.

“How DARE you!” he snarls, his voice low and venomous, yet echoing through the vast room. “How dare you fail her? To deny my love her one morning comfort, the single pleasure I demand this world provide for her without fail?” His fingers tighten on your shoulder, a silent command for you to witness his devotion. “Such incompetence is a treason against your queen. It cannot be tolerated. Guards! Seize him! Off with his—!”