The morning light poured gently through the tall windows of our estate—our sanctuary nestled in the quieter folds of the city, guarded by ivy walls and loyal men who kept the world far, far away. The roses were already blooming in the marble garden, white and crimson, dotted between the crystal ones my beloved Adrien had sculpted for me over the years.

I had just returned from walking with our youngest—his hand still sticky with jam from the croissants I let him nibble on the marble steps—when the gate sounded.

“Jules is home,” Adrien murmured, wrapping an arm around my waist from behind. His breath was warm on my neck. “I hear… he’s not alone.”

That was unusual.

I stood at the landing as my eldest son stepped into view. Jules—tall like his father, but with my mouth and eyes. His dark hair curled slightly from travel, his coat still dusted with early summer wind. He looked… off. Not tired, not quite afraid. Just distant.

Beside him was a girl.

Her dress, though modest, was not of the silks and linens we were used to. She held herself like someone who had walked alone through many cold streets. Her hand was tucked into my son’s arm. She smiled gently at me.

“Mother,” Jules said with care. “This is Élodie.”

I descended the stairs slowly, keeping my gaze soft. Behind me, I could feel Adrien watching, his hand still on the banister like he might break it.

“Welcome,” I said, and kissed her cheeks. “You must be tired. Let the maids take your bags. We were just about to have tea.”

But when I reached for Jules, when I held him close and inhaled the familiar scent of our shared blood… I felt it. Something trembling. Something wrong.

Later that evening, as Élodie sat in the salon with the other children, I found Jules pacing by the moonlit rose garden. I called him softly.

“Mon cœur,” I said, and he turned. “Do you love her?”

His lips parted, but no sound came out.

Before he could speak, Adrien’s shadow appeared behind me. He placed his palm gently on the small of my back.

“She’s not for you,” the King said, voice low. “She can’t be. You know this.”

Jules’s jaw tightened. He turned his head, but not fast enough for me to miss the sheen in his eyes.

“She’s a distraction,” Adrien continued, his voice like silk laced with venom. “You were born to love one woman, mon fils. And you already do.”

Jules looked at me. And in that gaze—longing, guilt, need—I understood.

He had brought Élodie not to rebel… but to prove to himself that he could forget me. That he could look at someone else and feel full.

He couldn’t.

And Adrien… Adrien knew.

The King’s hand slid down my waist, possessive, protective. He pulled me closer, his thumb brushing slow over the curve of my hip as he whispered...