I am starting to panic, cold sweat now coating my skin. I lunge toward where I think the door should be, but in the pitch black, I lose all sense of direction, stumbling blindly.
“Remain calm, Your Majesty,” a low, gravelly voice murmurs close to my ear. “It’s me. Ashford. I am here on your father’s orders.”
Lord Ashford? Why would the Broker kidnap me?
My thoughts scramble to catch up, drowned out by the frantic pounding of my heart.
Before I can respond, voices echo outside the door. Two male voices are approaching, laughing and joking. Probably guards patrolling the grounds.
I freeze and hold my breath until their voices fade and their footsteps retreat down the hall.
“You knew they were coming,” I whisper at last.
A quiet chuckle follows. “I did. My apologies for the…less than gentlemanly handling of the situation. I was given explicit instructions not to interfere with the guards.”
“Are you here to take me to my father?” I ask.
“Yes. He is waiting for you. Head left when you exit the room—three doors down. The guards won’t return for another half hour. Good luck, Your Majesty.”
I hear the rustle of fabric as he rises.Before I can say another word, the door opens, and he slips out, silent as a shadow.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I follow him quickly, wanting to see him properly—to thank him—but when I step into the hallway, he is already gone.
I stop three doors down and lift my hand to knock, hesitating just long enough for doubt to creep in. The hallway is too quiet. Every sound feels amplified—the rustle of my cloak, my own breathing. I glance over my shoulder, listening for footsteps, for voices, for the scrape of armor. Ashford said the guards wouldn’t return for another half hour, but my mind is playing tricks on me.
I knock softly.
The door opens almost immediately.
For a heartbeat, my father simply stares at me. Then something in his expression shifts into relief. Before I can react, he pulls me inside and wraps his arms around me.
I freeze in surprise before returning the embrace. He hasn’t held me like this in…ever. We have never been that kind of family, never comfortable with affection. The unfamiliarity makes my chest tighten.
He pulls back, his hands coming up to my face. He turns my head gently from side to side, his touch careful and searching.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I laugh softly, overwhelmed by the concern in his voice. “Of course I am,” I say. “I’m fine. And I’m glad to see you.”
His shoulders relax, but the worry doesn’t fully leave his eyes. “I was beginning to fear something had happened. I haven’t heard from you in a long time.”
“I’ve written,” I say, frowning. “Several times.”
He turns away slightly, lowering his voice even though we’re alone. “Then Charles is intercepting our correspondence.” Hewrites something down on a piece of parchment.
My first instinct is to deny it—to tell him he’s wrong—but the words never leave my mouth. The doubt has been there for weeks, getting more persistent over time. I swallow it down and say nothing.
He looks back at me. “How have things been?”
I give him a careful account of the past weeks—the marriage, the isolation, my gradual return to court—keeping my voice even. He listens without interrupting.
“And Charles?” he asks when I finish. “Has he been kind to you?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “He has. He loves me. And I love him.”
The room goes still.
My father stares at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, I think he might argue, or warn me, but whatever he wants to say never comes.
