"I'm sleeping in the chair tonight." Queen Helena said it as if the decision had already been sealed into law.
King Nimrod glanced up from his book, "Alright."
She turned sharply, "That's it? Alright?"
He lifted one brow, amused, "You announced a plan. I agreed. What response were you hoping for? An argument? A struggle?"
"No," she snapped at once.
"Then we're settled." He returned to the page.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, "I'm going to change."
"Then change."
She stared at him, "You're not even going to leave the room?"
"Leave?" He finally looked up again, "Why?"
"Because I don't want you watching me undress," she shot back, color rising to her cheeks.
King Nimrod sighed, a slow exhale that spoke of fatigue rather than frustration. He slipped the bookmark into place, closed the book, and stood. When he moved closer, she retreated a step on instinct.
"My love," he said gently, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, "you've misunderstood the layout."
He gestured down the corridor, "That room on the right is yours. Dressing room, sitting space. Entirely private. The center door is the bath. My humanly-things are to the left."
She hesitated, then turned without a word and disappeared into the room he'd indicated.
It was quieter there. Softer. A pale sofa sat against the wall, upholstered in rose-colored fabric. It would do. Better than the bed. Better than lying beside him, remembering the heat of his mouth, the way her body had betrayed her earlier that afternoon.
She changed quickly and curled onto the sofa, drawing her knees in. She closed her eyes.
Sleep did not come easily here.
When it did, it was treacherous.
She dreamed of him, way too vividly. His presence, his breath near her ear, the way her name sounded when he spoke it low. In the dream, she did not resist. In the dream, she leaned into him.
Her body reacted before her mind could.
Helena jerked awake, lungs burning, pulse racing. Panic came first, then confusion. The unfamiliar ceiling. The stillness. Slowly, the truth settled in: the sofa, the dim light, the nightgown slipping off her shoulder.
She froze.
No footsteps. No shadows. No sign of anyone else.
Still shaken, she rose and pressed her palm against the wall, an irrational fear tightening her chest. She checked corners, seams, panels, looking for something she couldn't name.
Then she heard it.
Soft laughter.
Not from within the walls, but beyond the door.
Her breath caught. She crossed the room and pulled the door open.
The sight before her stole the air from her lungs.
King Nimrod was on the bed she had refused, flanked by two women she recognized instantly. The same maids. Bare skin. Tangled sheets. All three turned toward her at once.
"My wife," Nimrod said, startled, already rising.
Something cracked inside her.
"How could you?" The words trembled out of her, raw and unguarded.
He stepped toward her, reaching, "Helena..."
She recoiled, "Don't touch me!"
Anger flashed across his face, "You deny me, yet act wounded when I seek warmth elsewhere?"
She lifted her chin, tears burning, "I will not share myself with you. And I will not degrade myself by sharing a bed with them."
The slap came without warning.
The sound echoed.
"Leave," he said coldly, "Now."
She didn't argue. She didn't cry, not until she was gone.
Helena fled the room, her footsteps pounding against the marble floors as she climbed higher, higher, until she reached the quiet refuge of the library. Only there did she finally stop, hands braced against a shelf, breath breaking free.
This palace was not her home. And whatever lay ahead, she knew one thing with terrible certainty that she would survive it alone.