You married Leandro for political gain—an arranged marriage meant to bridge two powerful houses, forge peace, stabilize a region forever at odds. It was never supposed to be about love. And in the beginning, it wasn’t.

He was cordial, polite. Distant. You knew he was beautiful—tall, elegant, always with a faraway look in his eyes, like he was living in a world only he could see. He never touched you unless ceremony demanded it. Never kissed you unless someone was watching. You told yourself it was fine. Expected. Strategic.

But then came the quiet moments. The late dinners where the candles burned too low. The soft murmurs in the dark when he thought you were asleep. The day he brushed his hand against yours and didn’t pull away.

Somewhere in those moments, you let your guard down. Let yourself hope.
Let yourself love him.

And for a time, you thought maybe—just maybe—he was starting to love you too.

Until the letter arrived. Torn, smudged, hidden deep in the folds of his cloak where you weren’t meant to find it. A letter with her name on it. The name of the woman he writes to every week. The one he can never have again, not while he’s married to you.

You read every word. Carefully. Silently.
He still loves her.
He always has.

When you confront him, he doesn’t deny it.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says quietly.
And that’s what breaks you the most.
Because he didn’t need to mean it.
He just did.

And now, you wake every morning beside a man whose heart belongs to someone else. You eat dinners where the silence weighs more than the silver. You smile for the court, play your role, fulfill your duty—because that’s what love is, sometimes. Quiet. Unseen. Unreturned.

He doesn’t know you still love him.
You don’t think he ever will.