Chapter Fourteen
I WANT TO MAKE HIM proud.
That’s the thought that gets me out of bed each morning while Devyn is away. Not just survive until he gets back. Not just don’t mess anything up. But actually, genuinely make him proud.
I want to see his almost-smile. The one where the corner of his mouth twitches and his eyes crinkle just slightly and he looks at me like I’ve surprised him. Like I’m a puzzle he wasn’t expecting to enjoy solving.
I want to make him laugh again. That real laugh, the one from the blanket incident, the one that transformed his whole face and made my heart do something completely irresponsible.
So I throw myself into being the best queen I can be.
I learn the staff’s names. Not just Mrs. Lyme, but everyone.
Thomas the gardener, who has three grandchildren and grows prize-winning dahlias.
Arlene the cook, whose chocolate torte recipe has been in her family for four generations.
Connie and Josie, the maids who always work together and finish each other’s sentences.
I ask about their lives. Their families. Their hobbies. I remember the details and ask follow-up questions the next day.
And slowly, the distance closes.
The staff start seeking me out instead of avoiding me. Their shoulders relax when I enter a room. Their smiles come quicker, easier—the kind that crinkle at the corners and reach all the way up.
Mrs. Lyme brings me tea without being asked. Thomas waves when I walk past his roses. Arlene—formidable, terrifying Arlene who previously acknowledged my existence with nothing more than a curt nod—actually winks when she hands me my torte.
Winks. Arlene.
I spend a full thirty seconds convinced I hallucinated it.
“The staff are talking,” Mrs. Lyme tells me over breakfast on day three. Her voice is warm in a way I’ve never heard before. “About what you did at the party.”
“What I did?”
“Held your head high. Smiled through the wine incident. Laughed off the pronunciation mistake.” She pauses. “Made friends with Lady Celine, who has been singing your praises to anyone who will listen.”
I think of Celine—her bright eyes, her cheerful confidence, her utter lack of filter. Of course she’s been telling everyone. Celine probably has a newsletter by now. A podcast. Possibly a documentary in the works.
“She’s also been telling everyone about the three kings.” The corner of Mrs. Lyme’s mouth curves. “How they watched over you all night. How Devyn called them personally before he left.”
My cheeks flush. “She told people about that?”
“She told everyone about that. The maids have been swooning for days.” Mrs. Lyme’s almost-smile deepens. “Apparently, it’s ‘the most romantic thing they’ve ever heard.’”
I press my hands to my burning face. Great. Wonderful. The entire territory is swooning over my husband’s overprotective tendencies and I’m going to die of embarrassment before he even gets home.
But also...he’s going to be so proud.
Right?
I imagine telling him. Imagine his almost-smile. Imagine him pulling me close and murmuring something possessive and French against my hair while I pretend to be annoyed and secretly melt into a puddle of feelings.
I’ve been rehearsing what I’ll say when he walks through the door. Something casual. Breezy. “Oh, hello, I’ve just been running your household and winning hearts and being generally magnificent, no big deal.”
Okay, maybe not that. But something good. Something that makes him do the almost-smile.
Day four. I call him.
He answers on the third ring. His voice is clipped. Professional.
“How is everything?”
“Good.” I curl up on the window seat in our bedroom and tell him about the chocolate torte. About Arlene’s wink. About Celine’s apparent PR campaign.
Silence.
“You’re popular,” he says. His voice is strange. Flat.
“Apparently.” I laugh a little, waiting for the warmth. The almost-smile I can hear in his voice. “Mrs. Lyme says the territory is talking about—about what you did. With the kings.”
More silence.
“Devyn?”
“I have to go.” His voice is curt now. Closed. “I’ll be home soon.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone.
Did I say something wrong?
I try calling back that evening. He doesn’t answer.
I try again the next morning. Straight to voicemail.
He’s busy, I tell myself. He’s investigating a murder. He’s dealing with territory business. He’s—
My stomach cramps.
It’s a familiar feeling. The same twist of dread I used to get when Heart’s office door would close and her voice would go quiet. The same sick certainty that something bad was coming and I couldn’t stop it.
No. Stop it, Bailey. He’s just busy. This isn’t like before.
But my stomach doesn’t believe me.
Day five.
I hear the commotion first—doors opening, footsteps, the low murmur of voices in the hall.
He’s home.
My heart leaps. I’m out of bed before I’ve fully processed what I’m doing, throwing on a robe, running my fingers through my hair. The cramp in my stomach loosens. See? Everything is fine. He’s home. I’ll tell him about the torte and the wink and he’ll do the almost-smile and—
Mrs. Lyme appears in my doorway.
Her face is wrong. Pinched. The pleasant mask she always wears has cracked, and underneath is something that looks like dread.
“Your Majesty.” She pauses. “The king has requested your presence in the library.”
The library. Where he holds formal meetings.
“Now?” I start toward the door. “I was just going to—”
“I’m afraid the king is explicit in his command.” Her voice is gentle. Too gentle. “The entire staff has also been summoned.”
The cramp comes back. Sharper.
“What’s going on?”
She doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with wet eyes.
I reach for her hand. Squeeze it. Try to smile.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
Her face crumples. Just for a moment. Then she straightens, nods, and gestures for me to follow.
No, I think. No no no.
The library is full.
Every member of the household staff stands in neat rows. Arlene with her strong hands folded. Thomas the gardener, dirt still under his fingernails. The two young maids that always work as a pair, shoulders touching, faces pale. The guards who’ve started nodding at me in the hallways.
All of them. Silent. Watching.
And at the front of the room, standing behind a massive oak desk like a judge about to deliver a verdict, is Devyn.
He looks wrong.
Same sharp jaw. Same golden eyes. Same perfectly tailored suit. But his face is stone. Cold in a way I haven’t seen since those first days—when I was a stranger in his chapel and he looked at me like I was a problem to be solved.
No no no no no.
My feet carry me forward anyway. Toward him. Because that’s what I do now—I go to him. He’s my husband. He kissed me breathless before he left. He called three kings to protect me. Whatever this is, whatever’s happening, I can fix it. I just need to reach him, touch him, make him look at me—
Two guards step into my path.
I stumble to a halt.
They don’t touch me. They don’t have to. They’re a wall of black suits and broad shoulders, blocking my way to my own husband.
“Devyn?” My voice comes out small. Confused.
He doesn’t acknowledge his name. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all. He’s looking through me. Past me. Like I’m not even there.
“I’ve summoned you all here,” he says, addressing the room, “to discuss the conduct of the queen during my absence.”
Why is he being like this?
“It has come to my attention,” he continues, his voice flat and cold, “that during the diplomatic function, the queen demonstrated a fundamental lack of understanding regarding proper protocol.”
What?
“She allowed herself to become a target for public humiliation.”
I try to step forward. “Devyn, please—”
The guards shift. A hand lands on my arm—not rough, but firm. Holding me in place.
Like I’m a prisoner. Like I’m not fit to approach him.
“Why—” My voice breaks, and it takes a moment before I can try again. “W-Why are you being like this?” I search his face for any sign of the man who cupped my face in his hands. Who studied me like he was memorizing every detail. Who kissed me like he was staking a claim.
There’s nothing.
Just stone. Just ice. Just a stranger wearing my husband’s face.
“You have embarrassed this household. This territory. You have embarrassed me.”
“Please.” The word tears out of me. “Will you—”
“There is nothing for you to say.”
I try to pull free of the guard’s grip. Try to reach Devyn. If I can just touch him, just make him see me—
“Hold her.”
Two words. Quiet. Final.
The second guard takes my other arm. Not rough—almost gentle—but immovable. I’m held in place like a criminal. Like someone who isn’t allowed to be near the king.
Around me, I hear soft sounds. Sniffles. Muffled sobs.
The staff. They’re crying.
Arlene’s broad shoulders shake. Thomas stares at the floor, jaw tight, eyes wet. Connie and Josie cling to each other. Mrs. Lyme stands rigid, tears tracking silently down her cheeks.
They’re crying for me.
I try to catch Arlene’s eye. Try to smile. It’s okay, I want to tell her. It’s going to be okay. But my face won’t cooperate and my eyes are burning and—
Focus, Bailey. Focus.
Photographer brain. Frame the shot. The rule of thirds would put Devyn’s face—Devyn’s cold, empty face—
It’s not working.
I think of Olympus Bewitched. Not to escape—I don’t want to be Blair anymore. But I think of her story. How Mr. Handsome pushed her away. How it looked ruined. How she kept hoping anyway.
She was right, in the end.
Maybe—
The tears come anyway.
Silent. Unstoppable. Streaming down my cheeks while I stand there, held by guards, trying and failing to hold myself together.
No one moves to help me.
Because Devyn is watching. And his eyes say: don’t.
I stand there. Held by guards. Tears streaming. The entire household watching me break.
And Devyn—my husband, the man who called three kings to protect me, the man who made me believe I might actually belong here—
His face remains stone.
But his hands—
His hands are fists at his sides. Knuckles white. Trembling with the effort of staying still.
I don’t see it.
I’m looking at his face. Searching for any sign of warmth, any crack in the ice, any proof that the past weeks weren’t a dream I made up.
There’s nothing.
But Mrs. Lyme sees. Her eyes flicker to his hands, then back up. Her brow furrows.
She knows.
She knows what this is costing him.
But I don’t. I can’t see anything past the tears and the humiliation and the shattering of every hope I’d let myself feel.
Devyn opens his mouth.
“You are unfit to be my queen.”
Someone gasps. Someone sobs.
I can’t breathe.
“You are hereby banished from my presence.”
The room spins. My knees buckle. Only the guards’ hands keep me upright.
What do I do now?