The Weight of a King's Shadow
As they were talking, the young man walking behind Brinda heard everything.
Every word.
Every teasing tone.
Every subtle implication.
And it burned.
His jaw tightened slowly, the muscle along his cheek twitching as his eyes fixed on Victor's back. That calm, unbothered figure walking ahead—black shirt, golden jacket catching the morning light—looked almost careless.
Too careless.
Like none of this mattered.
Like he didn't matter.
The young man's fingers curled slightly at his sides.
The woman he liked—no, the woman he had long convinced himself he would have one day—was looking at another man like that.
Not just looking.
Following.
Speaking lightly.
Smiling.
Even flirting.
And worst of all—
That man didn't even return it.
Didn't acknowledge it.
Didn't need to.
That was what made it unbearable.
Because this wasn't a rivalry.
Not even close.
Victor had already made it clear—
He had absolutely no interest in Brinda.
And yet—
