[AMAL POV]
Three months into my campaign of strategic seduction, I had become intoxicated by my own success.
The evidence was everywhere: in the way Idris would abandon conversations mid-sentence when I appeared, in how his hand would automatically reach for mine during public events, in the soft way he'd say my name when he thought no one was listening. I'd created a perfect husband, attentive and devoted, and I'd begun to believe in my own creation.
The noble ladies' gatherings had become my favorite stage for this performance. Every Tuesday, the wives and daughters of the kingdom's most prominent families would gather in Lady Mariam's ornate sitting room, ostensibly for embroidery and charitable planning, but really for the ancient art of feminine warfare disguised as polite conversation.
"Your Highness looks radiant today," Lady Fatima observed as I settled into the circle of silk cushions, my hand resting protectively over my now-visible bump. "Marriage suits you."
"Thank you," I said, allowing just the right amount of bashful pleasure to color my voice. "I've been very happy lately."
Lady Zahra, whose husband held a minor treasury position, leaned forward with barely concealed envy. "The Prince seems quite devoted. We've all noticed how he's been... attentive."
"He has," I agreed, threading my needle with unnecessary precision. "Yesterday he cancelled three meetings just to walk with me in the gardens. He said my company was more important than trade negotiations."
The lie came so easily now that I almost believed it myself. In reality, he'd walked with me because I'd mentioned feeling dizzy and he'd been concerned about the baby's welfare. But the ladies didn't need to know that.
"How romantic," Lady Mariam sighed. "Tell me, does he still bring you roses every morning?"
Another embellishment, born from the single white rose he'd given me months ago. "Every morning," I confirmed. "He says he likes to see me smile."
"And the way he looks at you during court functions," Lady Yasmin added with a dreamy expression. "Like you're the only woman in the room."
I ducked my head, feigning embarrassment while secretly savoring their jealousy. "He's very... focused when he cares about something."
"You're so fortunate," Lady Zahra said, her voice tight with envy. "My husband barely remembers my name, let alone brings me flowers."
"Perhaps," I said with false modesty, "it's because we truly talk to each other. Idris says he values my opinions, my thoughts. He tells me I'm his closest advisor."
The words felt so real in my mouth that I almost believed them. After all, didn't he ask how I was feeling every morning? Didn't he listen when I spoke? Didn't he adjust his schedule around my needs?
Lady Fatima set down her embroidery, her expression wistful. "You've achieved what we all hope for—a true partnership. A marriage based on genuine affection rather than mere duty."
"I suppose I have," I said, my hand moving to my belly where the baby was beginning to show. "We're building something beautiful together."
The conversation continued around me, but I found myself lost in the fantasy I'd created. In my mind, I began to reshape our recent interactions, painting them with romantic intention. The way he'd held my hand during the council presentation last week—surely that was affection, not just public theater. The concerned look in his eyes when I'd mentioned feeling tired—that was love, wasn't it, not just worry for his heir?
"Your Highness," Lady Mariam said, breaking into my reverie. "You seem lost in thought. Happy thoughts, I hope?"
"Very happy," I said, and meant it. "I was just thinking about how grateful I am. For everything."
The weeks that followed were a blur of constructed bliss. I perfected the art of creating moments that felt intimate and meaningful, while Idris continued to respond with that same focused attention that I'd learned to interpret as devotion.
When I mentioned that the baby was keeping me awake at night, he arranged for a more comfortable mattress and began staying with me until I fell asleep. When I said I felt disconnected from the kingdom's people, he suggested we begin making joint charitable visits. When I complained about feeling useless, he started including me in some of his less sensitive meetings.
Each gesture felt like confirmation of what I'd convinced myself was true: that somewhere beneath the political arrangement, real feeling had begun to grow.
The noble ladies noticed, of course. They always did.
"The transformation is remarkable," Lady Fatima whispered during one of our gatherings. "When you first arrived, you seemed so... distant. Now you glow with happiness."
"Love changes everything," I said, the words feeling natural and true.
"And the Prince?" Lady Zahra asked. "Does he seem equally transformed?"
I thought of the way he'd smiled at me that morning when I'd complimented his new jacket, the way he'd lingered over breakfast to hear about my plans for the day, the way he'd kissed my forehead before leaving for his morning meetings.
"He told me yesterday that I'd made him believe in the possibility of happiness," I said, the lie so beautiful I wished it were true. "That before me, he'd resigned himself to duty, but now he understands what it means to want something beyond obligation."
The ladies sighed collectively, their romantic hearts thoroughly satisfied by my fairy tale.
But fairy tales, I would learn, have a way of crumbling when exposed to reality.
The revelation came on a Thursday evening in late autumn, when the leaves outside our windows had turned golden and my pregnancy had reached the point where I could no longer hide the changes in my body. I'd been feeling particularly confident that day—Idris had spent the afternoon with me, helping me arrange flowers for the upcoming harvest festival, and his attention had felt so genuine, so focused, that I'd almost kissed him when he'd handed me a particularly beautiful orchid.
I was still glowing from the memory when I heard voices in the corridor outside our chambers. Idris was speaking to someone—Captain Ali, I realized—in the low tones men used when they thought they were alone.
"The Princess seems much happier lately," the Chancellor was saying. "The change has been remarkable."
"Yes," Idris replied, and I pressed closer to the door, hungry for confirmation of what I'd convinced myself was true. "The strategy is working better than I'd hoped."
Strategy. The word hit me like a physical blow, but I forced myself to keep listening.
"Your Highness's instincts were correct," Chancellor Khalid continued. "Treating her pregnancy as a delicate condition requiring special attention has significantly improved her mood and cooperation. The kingdom has noticed the change."
"It's basic management," Idris said, his voice carrying that same practical tone he used for discussing trade agreements. "She needed to feel valued and cared for. Once I started providing that consistently, her whole demeanor changed. Happy wives are more compliant wives."
The air left my lungs in a rush. Management. Strategy. Compliance.
"The physicians were concerned about her melancholy affecting the child," Chancellor Khalid said. "But this approach has resolved that completely. She's eating better, sleeping better, engaging with court life. The heir will benefit from her improved condition."
"Exactly," Idris agreed. "And it costs me nothing. A few hours of attention, some gentle care, listening to her concerns—it's a small investment for such significant returns. She's gone from being a problem to be managed to an asset to be maintained."
Asset. Maintained. The words echoed in my head as I stumbled backward from the door, my hand pressed to my mouth to keep from making a sound.
"Should we continue the current approach?" Chancellor Khalid asked.
"Absolutely. Whatever she needs to remain in this state, provide it. If she wants company, I'll provide it. If she wants attention, she'll have it. If she wants to feel important, I'll include her in appropriate discussions. It's all performance, but it's effective performance."
Performance. Effective performance.
I sank into the nearest chair, my legs suddenly unable to support me. Everything—every smile, every gentle touch, every moment of seeming connection—had been calculated. I hadn't seduced him into caring for me. I'd simply provided him with a problem that required a solution, and being the perfect prince he was, he'd solved it.
The roses I'd convinced myself meant affection were just props in his performance. The hand-holding during public events was theater for the kingdom's benefit. The way he said my name softly was just another tool in his arsenal of management techniques.
I'd fallen for my own trap so completely that I'd convinced myself it was real.
The baby kicked then, a strong flutter that reminded me of the bitter truth: I wasn't his wife. I was his pregnant subject, a vessel carrying his heir who needed to be kept content and compliant for the good of the kingdom.
The door opened, and Idris walked in, his expression shifting into the warm, attentive mask I now recognized for what it was.
"Amal," he said, his voice carrying that practiced note of pleasure. "How are you feeling this evening?"
I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the performance for what it was. The slight softening around his eyes, the way his posture relaxed when he saw me, the small smile that played at the corners of his mouth. All of it calculated, all of it designed to make me feel special and cherished.
And Allah help me, even knowing it was fake, my heart still responded to it.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
He moved closer, his brow furrowing with manufactured concern. "You look pale. Are you feeling well? Should I call for Master Kaira?"
"No," I said quickly. "I'm just tired."
"You should rest," he said, already moving toward the bed to adjust the pillows in the precise way he'd learned I preferred. "I'll stay with you until you fall asleep."
The offer, which would have filled me with joy an hour ago, now felt like a mockery. He would stay because keeping me happy was his job. He would hold my hand because it was effective management. He would whisper soothing words because they were tools in his strategy.
"That's not necessary," I said, but he was already settling into the chair beside the bed, his attention focused on me with that same intensity I'd mistaken for devotion.
"I want to," he said, and the lie was so perfectly delivered I almost believed it again.
But I knew better now. Prince Idris was exactly what he'd always been: a perfectly trained royal who excelled at giving people what they needed to serve the kingdom's interests. I'd needed to feel loved, so he'd given me the performance of love. I'd needed to feel valued, so he'd manufactured value. I'd needed to feel special, so he'd created the illusion of specialness.
And I'd been fool enough to fall for every moment of it.
As I lay there in the darkness, listening to his steady breathing and feeling the baby move restlessly inside me, I understood with crystal clarity that I'd become exactly what I'd sworn I'd never be: a woman who'd confused performance with reality, strategy with affection, management with love.
The perfect prince had given me a perfect performance, and I'd been stupid enough to believe it was real.
I turned my face away from him, staring at the wall instead of meeting his eyes. I couldn't bear to see that practiced concern, that manufactured warmth. Not when I knew what it really was.
"Actually," I said, my voice carefully neutral, "I think I'd prefer to sleep alone tonight."
There was a pause, and I could feel him studying me, trying to read the shift in my mood. This was probably just another problem for him to solve, another adjustment to make in his management strategy.
"Are you sure?" he asked, and I could hear the subtle recalibration in his voice. "You've been sleeping better when I stay."
Because that was the point, wasn't it? My sleep quality was just another metric in his performance review.
"I'm sure," I said, still not looking at him. "I think... I think I need some time to myself."
He was quiet for a moment, and I could sense him running through his mental catalog of appropriate responses. What did the perfect prince do when his pregnant wife suddenly wanted space? How did he handle this new variable in his carefully constructed system?
"Did I do something wrong?" he asked finally, and the question was so perfectly calibrated—concerned but not desperate, caring but not clingy—that I almost laughed.
"No," I said, and it was true. He hadn't done anything wrong. He'd done everything exactly right, exactly as he'd been trained to do. "I just need some space tonight."
"Of course," he said, rising from the chair with that fluid grace that I'd once found so attractive. "If you need anything—"
"I won't," I interrupted, then softened my tone to avoid seeming suspicious. "I just want to rest."
He paused at the door, and I could feel him hesitating, probably weighing whether this required further intervention or if he could safely classify it as normal pregnancy moodiness.
"Amal," he said, and there was something in his voice that sounded almost genuine. Almost. "Sleep well."
I didn't respond, didn't turn to watch him leave. I just lay there, listening to the soft click of the door closing, feeling the baby kick against my ribs as if it too sensed the change in the atmosphere.
Alone at last, I let myself feel the full weight of my humiliation. I'd played myself so thoroughly that I'd forgotten it was a game. I'd become so invested in the performance that I'd lost track of who was acting and who was real.
But I wouldn't make that mistake again. I wouldn't let him know that I'd heard, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing how completely he'd fooled me. I would play my part—the content, managed wife—and he would play his. The only difference was that now I knew it was a performance on both sides.
The baby kicked again, harder this time, and I placed my hand over the spot. At least this was real. This life growing inside me, this connection that belonged to no one but me. It was the only authentic thing in my world of perfect performances and strategic management.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but all I could hear was his voice: "It's all performance, but it's effective performance."
Yes, I thought bitterly. It had been very effective indeed.