Something about those words breaks something inside me.
A dam of silence and submission that I have painstakingly built for so long. The exquisite beauty of the collar, the staggering cost of it, the sheerwrongnessof it all crashes down. It isn’t anger that floods me but a profound, soul-crushing sorrow.
My chin drops to my chest, a single, traitorous tear escaping and tracing a hot path down my cheek, landing on the cold platinum.
He sees it. Of course he does, because Antonio Macrae misses nothing.
He moves back into my space, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing away the wetness. His touch is surprisingly gentle. “What is it?” he asks, and the tone is all wrong. It’s not mocking, not impatient. It’s concerned. It suggests he actually cares about the answer, and that is more dangerous than any of his anger.
The false concern, the Master toying with his pet, is the final straw.
“You don’t get it,” I whisper, my voice thick with an emotion I can no longer contain. “You don’t get it at all, do you?”
His brow furrows slightly. “Get what?”
“Everyone sees you as the Kingmaker,” I say, the words tumbling out now, reckless and raw. “And you are. With all your money, your power, your… this.” My hand flutters weakly towards the collar. “You move pieces on a board and call it destiny, but what you don’t realise is there is so much more to the world than just that. So much more to people than mere things to be used.”
A familiar, cynical mask starts to slip over his features. The moment of softness is gone, replaced by wry amusement. “Than money and power?” he replies, his voice half-mocking. “Do enlighten me. Is it sunsets and poetry? The laughter of children?”
I shake my head, another tear following the first. He doesn’t understand. He is incapable of understanding. The realization is like a bolt to my heart, brutal and agonising.
He watches the tear fall, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. The mockery fades, replaced by a look of intense curiosity. “Speak,” he commands, but it’s softer than usual. A concession. “I won’t punish you for your words. Tell me what it is I am so blind to.”
I take a shaky breath, my heart hammering against the confines of the diamond collar. “A king isn’t made by a crown,” I say, my voice gaining a sliver of strength. “It isn’t made by power, because any man can have that. Any ruthless, brutal man can take that. It’s just force.”
His eyes narrow, intrigued now. A predator presented with a new, puzzling prey. “Then tell me, what makes a king, Grace?”
The use of my real name is a shock to my system. It makes me look at him, truly look at him. At the man beneath the empire, the boy who might have once believed in something more. My cheeks heat under his intense gaze with a flush of vulnerability and something dangerously like hope.
“Tell me,” he insists, his voice low, compelling.
The word is a breath, a confession, a prayer. “Love.”
For a moment, there is only silence. The word hangs between us, fragile and immense. Then, he shakes his head in a slow, dismissive movement. The brief window into his soul slams shut. “Such notions are ridiculous,” he says, his voice flat, final. “Sentimental nonsense for those who can afford to be weak.”
The dismissal is like a slap.
The fragile hope shatters, and in its place a hot, defensive anger surges.
I step back, out of his reach, the collar feeling like a burning brand.
“Is it?” I snap, my voice trembling with a fury that surprises us both. “Love has brought down more men than power and money ever could. Empires have crumbled for it. Thrones have been abdicated. Love is what makes grown men, supposedkings,” I spit the word, “drop to their knees before a woman. Not because they have to, but because theywantto. Because she is their true crown.”
His expression darkens, the patience evaporating. My outburst has crossed an invisible line, and I know I’m going to pay dearly for this.
He closes the distance between us in one swift stride, his anger a palpable force. “And is that what you want from me?” he snarls, his hand snapping out to grip my arm, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop my retreat. “You want me on my knees before you,pup?”
The anger in his voice is a cold dash of reality. I tremble, the fight draining out of me as quickly as it came. Jesus Christ, what was I thinking? He is Antonio Macrae. He doesn’t love. He conquers, he possesses. He doesn’t kneel for anyone.
I drop my head, the weight of the diamonds suddenly unbearable. I’ve overstepped. I’ve misjudged the moment, the man, every fucking thing.
My heart doesn’t just break; it seems to atomize, dissolving into a fine dust of utter despair.
He doesn’t love me. He’s not capable of love.
I am a spoil of war, a trophy to play with until he grows bored. This collar, this beautiful, terrible thing is just the latest and most expensive trinket to adorn his favourite pet.
I wait for the punishment. The cold withdrawal, the cruel remark that will put me back in my place.
