Chapter 352: Strangely Enamoured

"I don't ask for forgiveness," the King said stiffly, his voice clipped like he was forcing control over himself. "I only ask for your understanding. I needed an heir. A legitimate one. I had to marry a woman. It's a sham marriage. It doesn't mean anything."The young man's lips twisted, "I was a hidden lover, a whore you kept locked away in a gilded cage. Now what am I? A mistress. And mistresses don't get happy endings." His hands trembled as he continued, "Who's to say you won't fall in love with her while you're busy creating your precious heirs?!" He spat the word like poison. "Just leave me alone, for once. Just leave me in peace."

The King's face hardened. The guilt that flickered for a moment was gone, replaced with simmering irritation. "Stop making this into a bigger deal than it is," he snapped. "I needed a wife with a title—"

"Of course!" the young man cut in, voice trembling with fury. "There are many things she can give you that I can't." He turned away, clutching at his sleeves, his voice breaking. "I'm nothing. Just a runaway with no family, no title, no power. Someone you took pity on. That's all I ever was to you."

The King's eyes darkened. That word—pity—lit something ugly inside him. His gaze fell on the anklets lying on the ground, they were broken, twisted in ways they normally could not.

They had once chimed like laughter whenever the young man walked, but now they were just broken metal, discarded like the love they once symbolised. He must have broken them himself, in a fit of rage during the wedding.

The King picked them up. His hands were rough, his movements sharp.

The young man flinched. "Don't—"

But the King ignored him. He seized the young man by the ankle, dragging him down despite his desperate kicks. His grip was merciless. He forced the jagged anklets onto his feet. The bells on the anklets rattled once more, but their music was gone. Now they sounded hollow, like shackles.

"You called what happened between us pity?" the King growled, his voice low and dangerous. His eyes bore into the young man's, a storm of pride and rage. "Then wear these. Let them remind you of what we truly are. You should stay locked inside this room and reflect on what you've just said."

The young man tried to kick free, his breath coming in sharp gasps, but the King's grip was iron. Finally, when the anklets were clasped and his will pressed down like a chain, the King released him. He stood, his chest heaving.

Without another word, he strode to the door and slammed it shut.

The young man sat trembling, clutching at his ankles where the broken bells now clung, their sound mocking him. His chest hurt, his eyes burned, but he would not cry—not for the man who had humiliated him so thoroughly.

Unbeknownst to either of them, just down the corridor, a figure had paused. The newly crowned Queen's maid, carrying a tray, had heard every word. Her eyes widened as she pressed herself against the wall, heart racing. It was time to report back.

Theresa, the newly crowned Queen, sat stiffly on the edge of her bed, her maid's words echoing in her ears. She had suspected the King's heart belonged to someone else, but she did not know who.

Turns out he was in a room not too far from here, in the opposite wing of the palace, but still, within the same palace. How daring. How scandalous of the king.

He hadn't even cared enough to hide it from her properly. To him, she was nothing but an incubator with a title. A convenient pawn to satisfy his mother and silence the court. He thought her powerless. He thought she would play her role, smile meekly, and never lift her head.

He was wrong.

Her hair was still in disarray from the deed, her gown rumpled and hastily thrown on, but she didn't care. In fact, she made no effort to fix it. She wanted to get a reaction from the mistress. Would he cry? Would he scream? Would he try to hurt her?

A man... As a mistress to the King. Something she had never heard of.

She made her way through the corridor to the chamber her maid had described. His chamber. The young man's chamber. Her so-called rival.

She knocked lightly before pushing the door open so that he could see her in this state. "I had to talk to you," she said softly, forcing her voice to tremble with feigned sadness. "Please excuse my intrusion."

The young man lifted his head. His eyes were swollen, lashes still damp with tears. His face, striking even in grief, was etched with raw pain. But when his gaze met hers, there was no hostility. No blame.

Instead, there was only… Sorrow.

He did not look at her like an enemy. He did not sneer, he did not glare. He looked at her like they were on the same boat. As though in this cruel game orchestrated by the King, they both had lost.

"I…" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying again. "Please, come sit. I'm sorry—I am not presentable." He motioned vaguely to his dishevelled state, his robe hanging loosely off one shoulder, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

Theresa froze for a heartbeat. That reaction—it wasn't what she had expected. She had come prepared for hostility, for bitterness, even for rage. But instead, he treated her gently.

Her chest tightened. Against her will, her eyes wandered. He was a little taller than her, his build graceful but not weak. His fair skin was blotched red from crying, yet somehow it made him look even more delicate, more human. His green eyes, still shining with unshed tears, carried a sincerity that cut through her facade.

She exhaled slowly. She stepped towards him, as if trying to get a closer look at this man.

"I am Theresa."

"Riven..."