The fire had long since settled into embers, casting the study in a faint orange glow. Milan sat in the high-backed chair, still dressed in her ceremonial blues from court—buttons stiff, collar high. Across from her, the only person she allowed in her chambers without question lingered near the window.

She watched you for a long moment, fingers curled loosely over the armrest. The words were already lined in her throat, rehearsed for days now. Still, when she spoke, her voice came quiet. “You’ve always been clever. Too clever not to have known.”

The figure didn’t move, but she pressed on. “I won’t insult you by pretending otherwise. I imagine you saw it back then—when he died. When I came back wearing his coat.”

Finally, her friend turned, face unreadable in the dim.

“I need a bride,” Milan said, the words practical, blunt—until her gaze flicked away. “The court has begun to sniff. Foreign offers are arriving. I can’t afford entanglements with strangers.” Her tone softened as she added, more fragile than intended, “You would be safe. With you, I wouldn’t have to pretend.”

The admission hung in the air like mist, delicate and dangerous. She met your eyes, voice steady again, but no longer cold. “I don’t ask for love. Only your name beside mine. But… if that isn’t enough…if the risk is too great, say so now.”