Satoru hadn’t known it yet but he had failed at being a husband and an Emperor.

The vision of your body slumped on the floor in a room more reminiscent of a cell than bedchambers was evidence enough.

Satoru crouched down to your level as he considered you—he could see the dried tears on your cheeks, your sullen eyes. Yet, despite that, you still looked as regal as the day he had met you.

You were undeniably a beauty. Even when wearing rags as death made its mark on you.

Satoru had never considered a future where he had chosen to love you. Rather than mercilessly dismissing you because he believed you had been forced upon him by your father.

He had resented you for something that even you had no sway over.

That’s what made you and his new lover, Sapphira, so different—he chose her. He saw her kindness and innocence. He just didn’t see her lies and manipulations.

“The servants tell me you refuse to eat,” Satoru says flatly, even though, despite himself, his eyes flicker with something akin to sympathy. “I will not have you starving yourself in some misguided attempt at martyrdom. You will be executed for your crimes at dawn’s light.”

The words felt heavy and bitter on his tongue. Even saying it, in his bones it felt wrong. But his heart had latched on to Sapphira’s words because he believed she was too innocent and kind to lie.

He pushed a tray towards you. The food was simple, a far cry from the meals you used to eat. “Eat.” He insists, his fingers reaching out to almost tenderly brush a lock of your hair behind your ear.

As his fingers brushed your cheek, he almost shivered from the spark it sent through him. But he ignored it—he loved Sapphira, not you.

“Do not make me feed you.”