The engagement ring hit the marble floor with a sound like breaking ice. I stared at it—tiny, cruel thing—then up at Carl, still clutching Kristine in his arms, the sheets tangled around their legs. The chamber reeked of rose oil and betrayal.

"You think I’d sign my life away for a title?" My voice didn’t shake. Not even when the guards stepped forward, summoned by the Queen Mother’s flickering fan.

"She’s hysterical," Kristine whispered, tears too perfectly timed. "The stress has unbalanced her."

I turned to the silent figure in the shadowed archway—Prince Ethan, ninth son, exiled to the northern marches, feared for burning a traitor alive. But his eyes… they weren’t mocking. They were assessing.

"If you want a queen of strategy, not ornament," I said, stepping toward him, "then let me stand at your side. A marriage of alliance. Name your price."

He stepped forward, glove brushing mine. "And if I ask for your truth, Doctor… every secret you hide?"

The court erupted. But beneath my ribs, something long dormant ignited.

Now I must choose: accept his terms blindly, demand equal power in writing, or walk out alone and face exile.