Chapter 9 #2
Leah looked up, surprise flickering in her eyes. "Your Majesty—"
"She's my fated mate." I cut her off, and for some reason, saying those words stirred an inexplicable anger in my chest. "You can dislike her. You can avoid her. But making her kneel publicly—that's insulting me. Insulting my fated mate is insulting me."
Leah's expression froze for a moment, then quickly softened. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty... I wasn't thinking clearly... I was just... so scared..."
Her tears flowed again. I sighed, walked over, and patted her shoulder. "Stop crying. I'll make her apologize—but not on her knees."
She nodded.
But that anger in my chest didn't settle. It grew stronger—so strong I had to take deep breaths to suppress it.
Why? Why was I defending a woman who'd drugged me, planted poisonous flowers, tried to hurt Leah?
I didn't know.
I didn't want to know.
The next afternoon, I had them bring Mia over.
She wore that gray maid's dress, hair carelessly pulled into a ponytail, face pale as paper. Dark circles shadowed her eyes—clearly she hadn't slept well last night. Or hadn't slept at all.
She stood in the center of the hall, head down, not looking at anyone.
Leah sat in a nearby chair. The gauze was off her arm, just a small patch of ointment remaining. She wore a light blue dress, hair braided elegantly, looking refined and proper—a stark contrast to Mia standing across from her.
"Mia," I began, voice echoing in the empty hall. "Yesterday, you physically attacked Miss Taylor. That was wrong. You need to apologize to her."
She looked up at me. Didn't move.
"Apologize," I said.
She stood there, spine straight, chin slightly raised. Those eyes stared right at me—no fear, no compliance. Just a stubborn, unyielding light.
Leah sat in her chair and sighed softly. "Your Majesty, forget it... If she doesn't want to, there's nothing we can do..."
That sentence was like lighting a powder keg.
Mia whipped toward Leah, a hoarse sound ripping from her throat.
She pointed at Leah, mouth opening and closing, desperately trying to say something—but she couldn't make a sound.
In her frustration, veins bulged on her forehead, fingers gesturing wildly in the air, then suddenly pointing at her own stomach.
I frowned.
"What are you trying to say? Write it down."
Mia frantically pulled paper and pen from her pocket, scribbled several lines, then shoved them at me.
"This isn't my fault at all—she tried to hurt me. And I'm pregnant with Your Majesty's child!"
When I saw that last sentence, I froze.
But my first reaction wasn't joy or emotion—it was suspicion.
How convenient. Right when I'm making her apologize, she tells me this?
Before I could speak, Leah was already shaking her head gently, her voice tinged with helpless pity. "Mia, you're still lying..."
Mia's eyes went wide as she shook her head desperately.
Leah's voice remained gentle but crystal clear. "You say you're pregnant, so why hasn't the healer reported this to His Majesty? Have you been examined? Are there records? Or did you just make this up on the spot?"
I fell silent. Leah had a point.
After all, Mia was my fated mate. A healer checked on her every week. If she were really pregnant, the healer would have told me immediately. Besides, Mia had no reason to hide it.
So she'd just lied.
Leah kept talking, voice gentle as if coaxing a confused child. "Mia, I know you hate me. But how can you be so heartless, casually using a child as a bargaining chip for favor? You'll never deserve to be a mother..."
Mia's right hand clenched into a fist.
I thought she was going to hit someone again. I even stepped forward, ready to stop her.
But she turned her head toward Leah—
A glob of spit landed in Leah's hair.
The hall went silent.
Dead silent.
Leah froze like she'd been turned to ice. After several seconds, she finally processed what happened, then erupted in a piercing shriek.
"Ahhhhh—Mia, what are you doing?"
Mia just stared at her with stubborn fury, looking like she wanted to tear into her with her teeth.
An indescribable rage surged through my chest.
Too crude! Too vulgar! In front of all these people, she spat on someone!
She looked like a lunatic.
My heart sank.
"Enough." My voice was ice-cold.
I walked forward, stood before her, and looked down at her.
"You did something wrong. Why won't you apologize?" My voice dropped low, low enough that only she could hear. "Do you have to make this such a scene?"
She looked up at me. No remorse in those eyes. No fear. Just that stubborn, undefeated light.
"You think you've been wronged?" I said. "Look at yourself right now—what's the difference between you and a madwoman?"
She didn't speak. Just looked at me like that.
That look infuriated me.
"Kneel," I said.
She froze.
"I said, kneel."
She didn't move.
I gestured. The servants immediately understood. They stepped forward, gripping her shoulders from both sides, pushing down hard.
She struggled briefly—but it was useless. Her knees bent until they slammed hard against the marble floor.
A dull thud.
She knelt there, hair falling forward, covering half her face.
The hall was utterly silent. I could hear my own breathing, hear the servants holding their breath, hear Leah's muffled sobbing.
"Apologize to Miss Taylor," I said.
She kept her head down. Said nothing.
"I said, apologize to her."
Slowly, slowly, she raised her head.
She looked at me. No tears in those eyes. No pleading. Just one thing—something like a fire-tempered blade, sharp and cold and stubborn.
She didn't apologize.
That look was like a needle stabbing into my chest.
My fingers clenched.
"Take her back," I said, voice hoarse. "Confine her to quarters. Without my permission, she doesn't take one step outside that door."
The guards pulled her up from the floor. Her knees seemed injured—she stumbled when standing. But she didn't lower her head, didn't cry, didn't look at me again.
They dragged her away.
Whispers rippled through the corridor from the servants, like wind rustling through leaves, spreading all the way down.
Leah was still crying, shoulders hitching, looking pitiful.
I stood there watching Mia disappear, the anger in my chest still unsettled, but another stranger emotion slowly rising—something I couldn't name, like a fishbone stuck in my throat. Couldn't swallow it down, couldn't spit it out.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
All I could see was her eyes—that hollow, stubborn look. And her trembling shoulders as she knelt.
What was she holding onto? What was she being stubborn about?
I rolled over, pressing the pillow against my face.
Stop thinking. She drugged you. She planted poisonous flowers. She tried to hurt Leah. She deserves this.
But that voice came back—that damn voice whispering in my head.
Are you really sure?
I wasn't sure.
I wasn't sure about anything.