Focus, Bailey. Focus.
Photographer brain. Frame the shot. The rule of thirds would put Devyn’s face—Devyn’s cold, empty face—
It’s not working.
I think of Olympus Bewitched. Not to escape—I don’t want to be Blair anymore. But I think of her story. How Mr. Handsome pushed her away. How it looked ruined. How she kept hoping anyway.
She was right, in the end.
Maybe—
The tears come anyway.
Silent. Unstoppable. Streaming down my cheeks while I stand there, held by guards, trying and failing to hold myself together.
No one moves to help me.
Because Devyn is watching. And his eyes say:don’t.
I stand there. Held by guards. Tears streaming. The entire household watching me break.
And Devyn—my husband, the man who called three kings to protect me, the man who made me believe I might actually belong here—
His face remains stone.
But his hands—
His hands are fists at his sides. Knuckles white. Trembling with the effort of staying still.
I don’t see it.
I’m looking at his face. Searching for any sign of warmth, any crack in the ice, any proof that the past weeks weren’t a dream I made up.
There’s nothing.
But Mrs. Lyme sees. Her eyes flicker to his hands, then back up. Her brow furrows.
She knows.
She knows what this is costing him.
But I don’t. I can’t see anything past the tears and the humiliation and the shattering of every hope I’d let myself feel.
Devyn opens his mouth.
“You are unfit to be my queen.”
Someone gasps. Someone sobs.
I can’t breathe.
“You are hereby banished from my presence.”
The room spins. My knees buckle. Only the guards’ hands keep me upright.
What do I do now?
Chapter Fifteen
