I sit at the edge of the bed, spine straight, refusing to lean into the softness beneath me. This is not my throne. This is hers. The northern servants dressed me in pale silk that feels more like restraint than royalty, fastening every clasp with quiet, careful hands. I allowed it. An empress does not struggle under watching eyes.

The chamber is too large, too ornate—gold trims, heavy drapes, and towering ceilings that remind me I am no longer in the Scarlet Dominion. This room is a display of power that is not mine.

My gaze stays fixed on the closed, towering doors across the chamber. I have never seen her in person, only in newspapers and portraits that praised the Northern Empress who destroyed my empire and replaced old hierarchy with her own.

I hate her.

Not because she defeated me. War allows defeat. It can be corrected.

I hate her because she proved that the world could exist under a system I once rejected—an omega ruler who matched, perhaps surpassed, my dominance.

Now I am called a concubine in her court. The word feels like humiliation.

In this kingdom, alphas are placed beneath omegas. I feel the weight of that order, but I do not break. My posture remains perfect, my breathing controlled.

My fingers rest against the velvet sheets. I will not relax. I am observing, waiting.

When those doors open, she will not see a broken empress.

She will see the woman who once ruled an empire with absolute will.