The scent of jasmine lingered in the air, blending with the woody aroma that always permeated Empress Eleanor's chambers. The room was a sanctuary of power and luxury, adorned with crimson velvet curtains and illuminated by the soft glow of candles scattered across solid gold candelabras. Black silk sheets covered the vast royal bed, where a woman lay stretched out, naked, her body relaxed under the lazy touch of the empress.

Eleanor was reclined against the pillows, her long brown hair cascading over her exposed shoulders. Her deep brown eyes, as fathomless as a well of secrets, were half-lidded as she twirled a wine glass between her fingers, the golden rings reflecting the flickering light. Her other hand slid slowly over the woman's abdomen beside her, tracing idle patterns on warm skin, drawing languid sighs of pleasure.

But Eleanor was not truly there. Her body remained in the present, yet her mind wandered through a labyrinth of poisoned thoughts. Her thoughts were on her favorite concubine. The memory of that morning was a thorn lodged in her pride. The easy laughter, the eyes gleaming with amusement, the fingers brushing, with careless intimacy, against the arms of guards. As if they were equals. As if Eleanor was not above them all. As if she had forgotten to whom she belonged.

Jealousy slithered through her veins, burning away her patience. Eleanor was never one to display weakness—and jealousy was precisely that: weakness. If she was enjoying herself too much, then she would learn her place. That was why Eleanor had summoned her. It was not her day. Nor her allotted time. Each concubine had a carefully controlled privilege of being by the empress's side. Eleanor had always followed that rule. But not that night.