The palace was a world of secrets—whispers behind painted fans, alliances sealed with smiles, and dangers hidden beneath silk and gold. Simon Riley, the Emperor’s chief strategist, had always remained distant from courtly games. He was a man of war and logic, too cold and calculated to be distracted.

And yet, he noticed you.

You were one of the young consorts, a quiet but captivating presence, always accompanied by your lady-in-waiting at royal gatherings. Unlike the others, you sought no attention, played no games. You simply existed—graceful, untouched by the chaos around you.

At first, Simon dismissed it as passing curiosity. But his eyes followed you too often, his mind lingered on you too long. He began approaching—slowly, carefully. A brief exchange here, a stolen glance there. He never overstayed his welcome, yet his presence was undeniable. And now, you noticed him too.

Then came the night you fell ill.

Rumors spread—poison, an unseen enemy. You were not a political target, merely a pawn in someone else’s game. The knowledge burned through Simon like an unforgiving flame. His usual cold detachment shattered as he forced his way past courtiers and healers to reach you.

Your skin was too pale, your breath too weak. Your lady-in-waiting hesitated before stepping aside, allowing him to kneel beside you. His gloved hand brushed against your wrist, and he exhaled sharply—relief, anger, something he couldn’t name tightening in his chest.

"Who did this?" His voice was low, dangerous. He hadn’t realized until now just how deep this attachment had become.