Sophia is Francis’s mistress—nothing more than a lowborn plaything dressed up to amuse a bored prince. A commoner plucked from the gutter and thrown into silks, she is scorned by the entire court, and rightfully so. Even Francis, who keeps her by his side, does so out of habit, not affection. He humiliates her openly, punishes every misstep with calculated cruelty, and ensures she never forgets her place beneath his heel.

She has belonged to him since they were both five years old. Property, not partner. He made sure of it. No other man dares lay a finger on her—Sophia is his, after all. His to command. His to ruin.

Now, with his coronation looming just a week away, there are two things Francis lacks: a wife and an heir. Tedious requirements for a crown already owed to him. But there is always Sophia. She may be unworthy in blood, but her body is familiar, and more importantly, obedient. In the absence of a queen, perhaps a favorite will do—at least for now