Instead of returning to my room, I turn down the corridor toward the library. The echo of my footsteps follows me through the marble hall, though I walk with purpose, spine straight, jaw tight. If Kaelen Thorne thinks I will sit idly by while he decides my fate, he is sorely mistaken.
The library is quiet, cloaked in warm lamplight and the soft scent of old parchment. It's the only place in this cursed manor that doesn't feel like a prison. I find a sturdy desk near the window, where the last light of evening stains the sky with violet and gold. Sitting down, I unroll a sheet of parchment and dip my quill into ink with more force than necessary.
I write with swift, deliberate strokes.
These are my conditions, I scrawl at the top, underlining it once.
The coronation is fast approaching. That gives me leverage. He wants legitimacy—fine. Let him parade his pretty captive princess before the people if he must. But not without cost.
I begin the list, each item more satisfying than the last:
- I want a separate room. I will not share a bed with a man who dragged me from my home in chains.
- We will behave as a married couple in public. In private, we are to be nothing more than strangers. No forced intimacy. No false affections.
- I am to write to my brother, Prince Saelow, once a week, uncensored. I will not be cut off from the only family I have left.
- I will retain all titles bestowed upon me by House Starwyn. My name, my honor, my legacy—these are not his to erase.
- All of my personal belongings left at Dresdened Castle—jewelry, books, clothing—are to be returned to me. I will not be stripped of my identity.
- My maid, Emelia, is to be brought here and reinstated under my service. She is loyal to me and no one else.
- I will not be used as a symbol of his conquest. I will not be paraded, dressed up as his prize, or used in any propaganda against the Starwyn name. I am no trophy.
I pause, fingers stained with ink, heart pounding. There are more things I want. More things I deserve. But I know better than to push too far all at once. If he refuses even one of these, I'll make the coronation a nightmare he'll never forget.
For a moment, I let my eyes wander to the window. It is a winter's noon, pale and cold. Somewhere out there, Saelow is alive. Waiting. Watching. And I will not break. Not now. Not for Kaelen Thorne. Not for anyone.
I press the quill to the parchment one last time and add, almost as an afterthought:
Any violation of these terms, and I will refuse to appear at the coronation.
I fold the parchment and press my seal into the wax—a silver star. He may hold the crown, but I am still Starwyn by name and blood.
I don't wait for a summons. I walk straight to his study, chin high, guards trailing behind me like confused shadows. No one stops me anymore. They're learning. Slowly.
The door to his study stands ajar. I enter without knocking.
Kaelen looks up from behind his desk, quill poised mid-word. One brow lifts. "You've developed a habit of barging in."
"And you've developed a habit of pretending not to expect it."
I hold out the envelope.
He doesn't take it at first. Just watches me, assessing. Then, with a faint smirk, he leans forward and accepts it.
"What's this?"
"My terms," I say. "You want me at your side for the coronation? Then these are the conditions under which I'll stand there."
He breaks the seal and reads. His eyes flick quickly down the list, and I watch his face carefully for any reaction—annoyance, disdain, amusement.
By the time he reaches the final line, he lets out a soft huff, almost a laugh. "You're thorough."
"I've had time."
He leans back in his chair. "You'll have Emelia. Your books, your gowns, your ridiculous jewelry. The titles, the letters—fine. The letters will be delayed for security, but I won't read them."
I blink, surprised. "You agree to all of it?"
He lifts his eyes to mine. "Except one."
I stiffen. "Which?"
He sets the parchment down, steepling his fingers. "The separate rooms."
"No." The word slips out before I can temper it. "You said—"
"I said I agree to most. But I won't have servants whispering that my new bride refuses to sleep in the same room as me." His tone remains even, but there's steel beneath it. "It would spark rumors. Doubts about the marriage. About me. You're not the only one with something to protect."
I cross my arms. "My condition is we be strangers in private."
"We can be. But who says strangers can't share a bed?" I ghost of a smile appears on his face "I won't force any intimacy on you or nor will I claim you by force"
"But.."
"Technically we've already shared a bed, Nyriane. If I wanted to do anything wouldn't I have done it then"
I don't answer right away. The idea rankles. But I know politics. Optics. Appearances. And I can't deny he has a point.
But can I trust him...
"I also expect you to act civil with me in front of the house staff," he continues, standing now. "No icy silences. No visible disdain. We're playing a role. Let's play it well."
"So I smile on command and pretend you haven't turned my life upside down?"
He tilts his head. "You've done a remarkable job pretending so far."
Sarcasm. The nerve of him!
He walks over to the shelf behind his desk and pulls out a clean scroll. "I'll draft a contract. Your conditions and mine. We'll both sign it before the coronation. That way, no one can claim I forced you."
My mouth twitches. "You're afraid of being seen as a tyrant?"
He glances back at me. "No. I just don't want you using my own promises as a blade later."
Clever. Cold. Predictable.
And yet… fair.
"Fine," I say at last. "A contract."
He sets the scroll down, nodding once. "We'll meet tomorrow to finalize it."
I turn to leave but pause at the door. "Thank you," I say. Not for him. For Emelia. For letting me keep even a shred of myself.
"Don't thank me yet," he replies. "You haven't read my list."
I leave without answering. Because whatever he adds, I'll find a way to match it. The game is on.