Victor
The silence in the greenhouse was broken only by the soft buzz of insects and the hum of an old fan overhead. My boots crunched over the gravel path as I made my way through the maze of ivy and overgrown roses. My father always claimed this was our family's sanctuary. A place to think clearly. I never saw it that way. I saw it as a place where secrets rot in silence.
I found him sitting at a rusted wrought-iron table, nursing a glass of red wine like it held the answers to all his sins. I remained standing, arms stiff at my sides.
"You've started packing your office." I said, voice flat.
"Yes." he said, staring off.
I waited, but he said nothing else.
"You're stepping down," I said, forcefully. "And you still refuse to tell the council why?"
To this, he finally lifts his eyes, and they're duller than I remembered.
"You think they deserve to know everything," he asked. "You think the truth keeps us safe?"
"No," I answered, my voice barely above a whisper. "But lies get people killed."
"You have more important matters to worry about," he scoffed, turning his attention back to his wine. "Like your bride-to-be."
There it was. The reminder that I'm no longer just a son or heir. I was just a tool. A pawn to glue together two bleeding empires.
"I saw her leave the meeting room today. She looked like she'd rather be executed than marry me."
"She'll adjust." he said, as if we were talking about the weather.
"She's not livestock, father."
"No," he sighed. "But she's your responsibility now."
I clenched my jaw. I wanted to argue, to scream, but I knew better than to expect remorse from him. So, I turned to leave, but he spoke again.
"She's strong. Just like her mother," he said, looking up at the sky. "You'll learn to respect that."
And I realized. He didn't care if we loved each other. He only cared that we didn't tear each other apart in front of the family.
—
I found her in the courtyard, fingers skimming the rim of the marble fountain. She had changed into a midnight blue silk robe, her hair still damp from a shower. The moonlight made her look like a painting, tragic and unreachable.
"Can we talk?" I asked, stopping a few feet away.
"Do I have a choice?" she asked, not looking up from the fountain.
"No." I said.
That got her attention. She raised slowly; arms folded like a shield. "At least you're honest."
"Do you hate me?" I asked before I could process it. It was a pathetic question, but I needed to hear it.
"No," she said. "But I resent you."
I flinched. Somehow, that answer was worse.
"I never asked for this," she said. "You think I didn't dream of falling in love with someone? Choosing who I gave my heart to?"
"I never had that luxury either." I muttered.
She studied me for a long time. "I doubt you even wanted it."
"Maybe not," I shrug. "But I wanted you to want me. That part wasn't arranged."
A flicker of something passes across her face. Pity? Regret? I couldn't tell.
"I don't want to be someone's duty."
"You're not."
"You say that now."
"I'm not asking for love," I said walking closer, but I don't touch her. "Not today, but I need to know where we stand."
"We stand on a battlefield," she sighed, looking away. "One we didn't choose."
Silence settles between us again, heavier than before.
"I'll protect you," I said. "Even if you hate me every second of your life."
"Just don't ask me to be grateful for the cage." she said, finally meeting my eyes.
"Fair."
We stood there in the moonlight, neither of us moving. Two childhood friends promised to one another by blood and history, bound not by choice, but by duty. She turns and walks back inside without another word.
And I let her go.
For now.