He moves to take what he wants.
Something inside me fractures completely. “I’m pregnant, Charles. Please!” I cry out. The words tear themselves from my chest, loud and desperate and true. “I found out last week. I didn’t know how to tell you. I was scared.” It’s the first time I say it aloud.
Silence crashes down.
His hands still. For a long, terrible moment, I think I have made it worse—that I have given him something else to punish me for. Then I feel his weight lifting off me as he steps back. I curl inward, shaking, my arms wrapped around my stomach, tears streaming unchecked. My entire body aches. My head throbs. My throat burns.
He doesn’t say a word. He turns and stalks out of the room, the door slamming behind him hard enough to make the walls shudder. I lie there, sobbing into the sheets, every muscle locked tight, listening to his footsteps fade.
He doesn’t come back.
Iknow—without doubt—that he will seek comfort elsewhere. I press my hand against my belly, breath hitching, terror and wonder tangled painfully together. A life is growing inside me.
And everything has changed.
Not because he hurt me, but because now, there is something I cannot let him destroy.
* * *
I wait, I don’t know how long. Until I am certain he is gone.
When I finally move, my body protests. My legs tremble beneath me as I sit up, my head throbbing, my vision swimming. Every movement sends a sharp reminder through me, but I force myself to stand.
I cannot stay here.
Dressing with shaking hands, I choose whatever I can manage, fumbling with fastenings that refuse to cooperate. The corridor outside is empty.
I run, and don’t look back.
The chapel is small, tucked away at the edge of the palace grounds. Nothing like the grand sanctuaries of Acheron—no soaring ceilings, no echoing choirs. Just stone, wood, and a few guttering candles.
It is the only place I can think of to go.
Pressing my hands to my face, I collapse onto the nearest bench. For a while, I just breathe. Then I cry—quietly, helplessly—until the tears run dry and my chest aches.
I have to think.
I have to make a plan.
He will hurt me again. I know that with terrible certainty.And next time, it might not be only me. My hand drifts to my stomach, instinctive and protective. The thought makes me dizzy.
I need funds. I need distance. I need time.
He leaves again next week—one of his court visits. I can ask to travel to my parents. I can say I am unwell, that I need air, comfort, prayer—anything. Once I am with my family, I will have space to breathe.
A sound shifts in the corner of the chapel.
My heart slams violently against my ribs. I spin around, panic surging, certain—certain—that it is him.
“Do not be afraid,” a deep voice says from the shadows. “It is not Charles.”
I freeze.
“I can help you.”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to sit still, to draw my fear inward where it won’t show.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say faintly.
