The morning after the wedding felt like waking in someone else's skin.
Rhea sat on the edge of the massive bed, still dressed in the silken nightgown that palace maids had insisted she wear. She had barely slept. Not because of what didn't happen, but because of everything she couldn't stop thinking about.
The prince, her now husband had barely looked at her since their cryptic exchange in bed.
And now, without warning, the maid returned with news:
"His Highness requests your presence. You are to accompany him to greet the court."
The blood drained from her face.
She wasn't ready. Not for court. Not for royalty. And certainly not to be seen.
But by the time she stepped out of the chambers, clad in a pale blue formal gown trimmed with silver threads, Cyrien was already waiting.
He didn't say anything when she approached.
He simply looked her over, gaze lingering a second longer on the pendant placed around her neck — a red ruby stone hanging from a chain of woven glass. A symbol of her new status. His bride. The "Queen's choice."
"You'll stay by my side," he said coolly. "Smile. Nod. Don't speak unless spoken to."
Rhea stared at him, then raised an eyebrow.
"What am I, a robot?" as it jus came out of her mouth.
Cyrien blinked. "A what?"
"Nothing." She spoke softly.
His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, curious now — as if trying to solve a riddle that had changed halfway through reading it.
Then, without warning, he reached out.
A strand of her hair had come loose, swept across her cheek by the breeze. Cyrien's gloved fingers brushed it aside, gently tucking it behind her ear.
The touch was unexpected soft and almost… considerate.
Too intimate.
Rhea stepped back quickly, cheeks warming.
"M-Maid," she called, snapping her fingers a little too fast. "Can someone fix my hair again? It might be… um, messy."
One of the handmaids rushed over with a brush and comb, clearly startled. Rhea kept her face turned away, hoping no one noticed the way her ears had turned pink.
Cyrien said nothing, but the corner of his mouth lifted — just barely — before he turned back to face the grand doors.
Did he do that on purpose? Rhea wondered.
Was it another part of the act… or something else?
The doors opened.
Rhea straightened her spine, let the maid retreat, and stepped beside Cyrien once more.
Whatever game he was playing, she was in it now. And she would have to learn fast.
The courtyard was alive with movement as the carriage was drawn forward, a sleek obsidian vehicle adorned with the royal crest, a crescent moon wrapped in ivy. Two white-plumed horses stood in perfect discipline, awaiting the royals.
The palace maids lined up outside the stone steps, their hands folded neatly, heads bowed as a sign of respect.
"You may all be dismissed for the afternoon," Cyrien said simply, already helping Rhea into the carriage. "We won't need further assistance."
The head maid looked between the two, surprised. "Yes, Your Highness."
Rhea turned to them before stepping inside and gave them a polite smile — not forced, but not quite warm either. The maids returned the gesture with practiced obedience, though one younger girl offered a shy wave before quickly looking down again.
Then the door closed.
And silence settled in.
The inside of the carriage was luxurious velvet seats, golden inlay along the frame, small enchantments to cancel out the sound of the road. But it wasn't the interior that caught Rhea's attention.
It was him.
Cyrien sat across from her, legs crossed loosely, arms draped on either side of the seat, looking out the window at nothing. His profile was cast in soft light from the spell-lamps — sharp lines, a strong jaw, impossibly long lashes that contrasted with his otherwise hard expression.
He looked more like a painting than a man.
No wonder he's the firstborn. He looks like the moon carved him himself.
Rhea blinked, then caught herself.
Her eyes had wandered — tracing the line of his cheekbone, the arch of his brows, the little scar at the corner of his lower lip like an accidental flaw in marble.
And just as she dragged her gaze back up to his...
"Have you seen enough?" Cyrien asked, voice quiet — but laced with amusement.
Her heart skipped.
She straightened immediately, flustered. "I-I wasn't— I didn't mean—"
He didn't laugh.
But a smirk pulled at his lips — just a ghost of one. No warmth, but something like a tease.
And no smile… but his eyes had the faintest glint of something unspoken.
"Most people try to stare when I'm not looking," he said dryly. "You're bolder than most."
"I wasn't staring," she muttered.
"You were."
She folded her arms, flustered. "Maybe I was trying to figure out where your soul went."
"Ah," he mused. "Let me know if you find it."
They didn't speak after that.
But the silence was no longer cold.
It buzzed with something new — tension, heat, curiosity. A dangerous curiosity.
And as the carriage pulled into the grand marble courtyard of the upper palace, Rhea inhaled slowly, steeling herself for the moment those golden doors would open.
She wasn't ready for the court.
She wasn't ready for the Queen.
And she definitely wasn't ready for him.