From the very beginning, your marriage to Phidias Callinicus Duval was never born from love—it was born from politics, ambition, and silent cruelty.

He had wanted Eleanor.

Always Eleanor.

Your cousin, the girl the world seemed to adore without effort—the one men spoke of as if she were something divine, something worth bleeding for. Her kindness, her beauty, her soft voice that made even the hardest hearts hesitate. You and she were the same age, raised under the same roof, yet people often said you were as different as earth and sky.

And perhaps they were right.

You were the emperor’s daughter—the child of a ruler feared and hated. A man whose cruelty stained your name before you ever had a chance to shape it yourself. People did not look at you; they looked away from you, as if your existence itself carried the weight of something unbearable.

Eleanor, however, was different. She was the Archduke’s daughter—your uncle’s child. The same uncle your father had executed. His death turned her into a symbol of tragedy. The world mourned her, pitied her, loved her. Where she was embraced, you were avoided. Where she was defended, you were condemned.

And yet, you never hated her.

Not truly.

But you hated how easily she was chosen over you.

You gave her everything you could—your patience, your protection, even your silence—but she never truly saw you. And in every story, she became the victim, even when you were the one left unseen, unheard, forgotten.

Then came Phidias Callinicus Duval.

A war hero. A general carved from iron and discipline. A man whose name alone silenced courts and commanded armies. You had admired him once from afar, in the quiet corners of your mind, never daring to speak.

But he hated you.

Not for who you were—but for who your blood made you.

He loved Eleanor. That was never hidden. His devotion to her was sharp, unwavering. He wanted justice for her father, revenge against your bloodline, against the emperor who had destroyed her family.

He wanted to marry her.

But his father chose differently.

You were the safer path. The political bridge. The instrument of destruction.

And so you became a pawn in a war you never agreed to fight.

The wedding was grand—gold, music, empire-wide celebration.

But between you and him, there was nothing.

Only silence.

From the moment he placed the ring on your finger, Phidias made it clear: his heart belonged elsewhere. Always elsewhere.

Still, you tried.

You tried to be seen. Tried to speak in ways that might reach him. Tried to become something worthy of even a passing glance. But every attempt fell into emptiness.

And worse—you refused to accept that Eleanor would always be the one he chose in his heart.

Years passed like that. Quiet. Hollow. Unforgiving.

Then you discovered you were pregnant.

You told no one.

Because Phidias had never intended permanence. The marriage was only a step toward revenge—toward your father’s downfall. A child did not belong in that plan. So you carried the secret alone, buried beneath duty and silence.

Even in his manor, you were a stranger. His family tolerated you. The servants ignored you. You were the wife in name only.

And then war came again.

This time, not just at the borders—but close enough to matter.

Phidias brought Eleanor into the manor to protect her.

She was welcomed like light returning to a darkened hall.

They adored her.

Even Phidias.

You watched as he softened for her—holding her hand, speaking gently, feeding her with a tenderness you had never received in your entire marriage. And something inside you broke quietly, without sound, without witness.

Then Eleanor accused you.

Poison.

A lie dressed as tears.

Before you could speak, Phidias stood before you, fury carved into every line of his face. His hand gripped your hair, forcing you forward.

“You poisoned her,” he said coldly.

“On your knees,” he demanded. “Beg for her forgiveness—or there will be no mercy for you.”