The German newspaper hit my desk like a gavel sentencing me to death.
Wiener Zeitung.
The headline was in jagged Gothic script. I didn't speak German, but I knew the date. And I recognized the seal. It was the Habsburg eagle.
Georges Danton leaned over my desk. He smelled of cheap tobacco, stale wine, and raw aggression. He was a mountain of a man, his face scarred from smallpox, his eyes burning with a terrifying intelligence.
"Shall I translate, Citizen King?" his voice was a low rumble, vibrating the quill in my inkstand.
I stayed seated. I forced my spine against the back of the velvet chair.
"I can guess the gist, Danton."
He tapped a dirty fingernail on the paper.
"It says Louis XVI pledges his eternal friendship to Emperor Leopold. It says the Revolution is a 'temporary madness.' It says you are waiting for Austrian bayonets to restore your 'God-given rights.'"
He leaned closer. I could see the broken capillaries in his eyes.
"It says you are a traitor, Louis."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
This was it. The smoking gun.
I had written that letter three weeks ago. It was a desperation move. A diplomatic stall tactic to keep the Austrian army from crossing the Rhine while I fixed the economy.
I thought it was safe. I thought my courier was loyal.
I was wrong.
"Where did you get this?" I asked. My voice was steady. Years of facing hostile boardrooms had taught me one thing: never let them see you bleed.
"Does it matter?" Danton sneered. "It's in Vienna. It's in Berlin. By tomorrow morning, a translation will be pasted on every wall in Paris."
He straightened up, crossing his massive arms.
"The National Guard is already fracturing. Lafayette can't hold them. The moment the sections read this, they won't march to the border. They'll march here. And they will put your head on a pike."
My mind raced.
Crisis management. Option A: Deny. Claim it's a forgery.
Rejected. Danton isn't stupid. He knows my signature. He knows my seal. If I lie and get caught, I lose everything.
Option B: Apologize. Beg for mercy.
Rejected. Weakness is death. The mob doesn't forgive; it devours.
Option C: Spin.
I had to reframe the narrative. I had to turn this liability into an asset. I had to treat this like a hostile takeover where the CEO has been caught insider trading.
I stood up.
I moved slowly. Deliberately. I walked to the sidebar and picked up a crystal decanter.
"Wine, Georges?" I asked.
Danton blinked. He expected fear. He expected shouting. He didn't expect hospitality.
"You offer me a drink?" he scoffed. "While the guillotine is being sharpened?"
"It's a '98 Burgundy," I said, pouring two glasses. "It would be a shame to waste it."
I held the glass out to him.
He stared at me for a long second. Then he snatched the glass. He didn't drink. He held it like a weapon.
"Stop playing games," he growled. "Did you write it?"
I took a sip of my own wine. It tasted like vinegar in my dry mouth.
"Yes," I said.
Danton's eyes widened. "You admit it?"
"I wrote it," I continued, my voice hardening. "And I sent it. And I would do it again."
"Then you are a dead man," Danton spat. He turned to leave.
"Sit down!" I barked.
It was the voice of command. The voice I used to fire incompetent VPs. The voice of the King.
Danton stopped. He turned back, surprised by the volume.
"I wrote it because it was the only way to stop an invasion," I said, walking around the desk. "Do you think we are ready for war, Danton? Really?"
I gestured to the window, toward the courtyard where the National Guard was drilling.
"Half those men have no muskets. They have no boots. If the Austrians attacked last month, Paris would be burning right now. I needed time."
"So you licked the Emperor's boots?" Danton challenged.
"I fed him a lie!" I slammed my hand on the desk. "I told Leopold what he wanted to hear. I played the part of the helpless victim so he would keep his armies at home."
I grabbed the leather-bound ledger from the corner of my desk. The one I had taken from Provence's room.
I tossed it to Danton. He caught it against his chest.
"Open it," I ordered.
He glared at me, then flipped the book open. He saw the columns of numbers. The payouts.
"What is this?"
"That is the ledger of the Comte de Provence," I said. "My brother. The man who was actually conspiring with the Austrians."
This was the pivot. The mix of truth and lies that makes a spin work.
"Provence was the contact," I lied smoothly. "He was funneling money to agitators. He was coordinating with the Émigrés. I knew he was plotting, but I needed proof."
I pointed at the German newspaper on the desk.
"That letter was the bait, Danton. I sent it to make Leopold think I was on his side. It made Provence careless. He thought he had won. He exposed his network."
I stepped closer to him. I was six inches shorter than him, but I didn't back down.
"I sent that letter. And two days later, I arrested my own brother for treason. Does that sound like a King who is selling out his country?"
Danton looked at the ledger. Then at the newspaper. Then at me.
He was processing it. I could see the gears turning.
The story made sense. It fit the timeline. It explained the arrest of Provence, which had shocked the city.
It was a brilliant, seamless lie.
Danton took a long drink of the wine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You are a dangerous man, Louis," he said softly.
"I am a necessary man," I replied.
"Maybe," Danton grunted. "But the people are simple. They don't understand 4D chess. They see a letter to the enemy, they see treason."
"That is why I need you," I said. "I need the Cordeliers to control the narrative. Tell them it was a sting operation. Tell them their King outsmarted the Emperor."
Danton laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound.
"You want me to be your press secretary? You want me to lie for you?"
"I want you to save the Revolution," I said. "If I fall, the Austrians invade. The Prussians invade. And everything you've built burns. You need me on this throne for six more months."
Danton finished the wine in one gulp. He slammed the glass down on the polished wood. It didn't break, but the stem cracked.
"Fine," he said.
The relief almost made my knees buckle. I held it in.
"But I have a price," he added.
Of course he did. There is always a buy-in.
"Name it," I said.
"Words are wind," Danton said, leaning in until I could smell the onions on his breath. "You say you are a patriot? Prove it."
He tapped the German newspaper again.
"Tomorrow. The National Assembly."
"Yes?"
"You will go to the podium," Danton said. "And you will declare the Émigrés—the nobles fleeing the country, your cousins, your friends—to be traitors to the nation."
My stomach dropped.
The Émigrés included the Princes of the Blood. My aunts. The people Marie grew up with.
"You want me to seize their lands," I whispered.
"All of it," Danton said. "And you will threaten them with death if they do not return. You will burn the bridge to your past, Louis. Publicly. Irrevocably."
He smiled, a shark showing its teeth.
"You give me that speech, and I will sell your lie to the sections. I will tell them you are a genius spy master."
He poked me in the chest with a thick finger.
"But if you waffle... if you try to protect your blue-blooded friends... I will let the truth out. And I will personally kick the stool out from under your feet."
"Twenty-four hours," I said.
"Noon tomorrow," Danton corrected.
He turned and marched to the door. His heavy boots thudded against the parquet floor.
He stopped at the threshold and looked back.
"Nice wine," he said. "Enjoy it while you can."
The door clicked shut.
The silence rushed back into the room, deafening and heavy.
My legs gave out. I didn't sit; I collapsed into the chair.
My hands started to shake. Not a little tremble, but a violent spasm. The wine in my own glass sloshed over the rim, staining my white cuff red.
I gasped for air. It felt like I had just sprinted a mile.
I had survived. For now.
I had bought a day of life with a lie and a promise to cannibalize my own family.
But the problem wasn't solved.
Danton hadn't leaked the letter. He had just found it.
The courier was dead or captured. Or worse—turned.
Or the leak came from inside the house.
I looked at the German newspaper again. The stamp was pristine. It hadn't been smuggled in a boot heel. It had been sent via diplomatic pouch.
Someone high up. Someone with access.
The hidden door in the wainscoting clicked open.
I jumped, my hand going to the letter opener—a poor dagger, but the only weapon I had.
It was Jean.
My spymaster looked pale. He was sweating, his gray hair plastered to his forehead. He never sweated.
"Jean," I breathed, putting the opener down. "Did you hear?"
"I heard, Sire," Jean whispered. He didn't step fully into the room. He stayed in the shadows of the passage.
"We have to find the source," I said, my mind already racing to the next crisis. "Who gave it to them? Was it the Austrians? Was it a mole in the Foreign Office?"
Jean shook his head.
"Sire," he said, his voice cracking. "It's not just the newspapers."
"What do you mean?"
"The Queen," Jean said.
I froze.
"What about her?"
"She received a package an hour ago," Jean said. "From Vienna. From her brother."
Oh no.
"She knows," Jean said. "She knows the letter is public. And she knows you used her family's safety as a bargaining chip."
I closed my eyes.
Danton was a shark I could feed. The mob was a beast I could distract.
But Marie?
Marie was a terrified mother holding a bag of diamonds, waiting for the axe to fall. And if she panicked—if she tried to run—Danton wouldn't need a newspaper to destroy us. He would just point at the fleeing carriage.
"Where is she?" I asked, standing up.
"Packing," Jean said.
I didn't wait. I ran.