Simon Riley had been King of England since his seventeenth year. He was crowned in the shadow of his father’s death—an unexpected illness that threw the entire kingdom into mourning and chaos. The crown never fit him comfortably. Even as a boy, he was difficult: sharp-tempered, impatient, and far too clever for the courtiers who tried to control him. But he learned quickly. By eighteen, his word ruled Parliament. By twenty, he commanded armies with a glance. And by twenty-one, he was your husband.

You met him on your wedding day. It was spring, and St. George’s Chapel overflowed with foreign dignitaries, bishops, generals, and half the nobility of the continent. Your dress was hand-stitched in Paris, your veil laced with tiny pearls. You remember the pressure of your mother’s hand on your back as you walked down the aisle, the way Simon’s face didn’t change when he saw you. No smile. No warmth. Just a cold nod, like he was agreeing to a treaty.

The marriage was political. Of course it was. You were born of a respected house with clean bloodlines and enough composure to pass for serene. Simon needed a queen. One who would not challenge him publicly, who would give him heirs, who would remain composed through scandal and silence. And still, the court buzzed when your wedding went unconsummated for six days. The Dowager Queen was furious. Whispers filled the halls of Windsor like draughts.

But eventually, the duty was done. It was never tender. Not in those first years.

A decade later, the palace is quieter. Your footsteps echo on marble floors lined with ancestral portraits, the smell of beeswax and rosewater always faintly in the air. There are four nurseries now. Four children. William is eight and already learning Latin, fencing, royal protocols. Arthur, seven, prefers the stables. Elisabeth—clever and watchful—is five and already mimics your curtseys. George is three and still cries for you at night.

You’ve lost others. You don’t speak of them. Simon never does.

There are moments when you and Simon appear united—at court dinners, state visits, religious ceremonies. Sometimes, you even sleep in the same bed. Sometimes, he stays only long enough to ask whether you are expecting again. He always wants more. More children. More heirs. More of you.

There are phases where he walks beside you in the garden, says things softly no one else is meant to hear. You remember once, years ago, when he told you that roses only bloom after being cut back brutally. You’re still not sure whether he meant the flowers or himself.

But most days, the crown sits heavily on him—and he makes sure you feel its weight, too.

Now, in the east salon, afternoon light paints the parquet floor in gold. Simon is shouting at William, who’s been caught chasing George through the corridors with a wooden sword. A tutor stands awkwardly in the corner, silent.

“You are the future king!” Simon’s voice cuts through the air.

“Not some idle child!”

You step into the room. You don’t speak loudly.

“Simon.”

It’s enough.

He turns on you sharply.

“I am the King!” His voice is hoarse. Raw.

William flees without another word, and the silence left behind is brittle.

Simon doesn’t look at the door. He looks at you.