Chapter 15 Titles, Not Touches
The garden is the only place in this palace that still remembers how to be honest.
Not the ballroom with its chandeliers and polished lies. Not the council chamber where men argue over maps like borders aren't made of bones. Not the throne room where every breath is measured and every glance is weighed.
Here, the air smells like dirt and crushed leaves. Sunlight slips through branches in broken ribbons. Bees don't care who I am. The fountain doesn't bow. The grass never once asked permission to exist.
I sit cross-legged on the ground with my back against the old oak, eyes closed, palms resting loosely on my knees.
No crown.
No silk.
No heavy embroidery meant to remind me I belong to everyone.
Today I have stolen myself back.
I'm wearing trousers plain, dark, practical and a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows. My hair is tied messily at the nape of my neck. My feet are bare against the cool earth. If anyone from court saw me like this, they would whisper that the Queen has lost her mind.
Let them.
Breathing in, I count slowly.
One... two... three...
My lungs fill. My shoulders loosen. The world quiets.
For a few heartbeats, I am not a ruler.
I am a girl trying to survive a future that already killed her twice.
I breathe out.
And right on the exhale, the garden betrays me.
"Isabella."
The voice arrives like a blade sliding into silk—soft, confident, intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl.
My eyes open.
I don't flinch. I don't turn. I don't even sigh, though I want to.
Footsteps crunch on gravel behind me. Unhurried. Certain. As if the path itself belongs to him.
"Isabella," he repeats, closer now, warm like we are lovers in some ridiculous song. "There you are."
I finally turn my head.
Alexander stands three paces away, dressed as if he stepped out of a painting meant to impress people who can't read. Fine coat. Polished boots. Rings that glint when he moves his hands. His hair is neat, his expression bright charming, effortless, rehearsed.
And in his hands
Flowers.
Of course.
A bouquet of late-summer blossoms, arranged carefully, the kind meant for a queen in a storybook. Soft petals. Sweet scent. A gesture meant to say See? I'm good. I'm gentle. I'm the man you should want.
He smiles at me like my life is simple and my heart is still his to hold.
"You disappeared," he says lightly. "I had to ask three servants where you went." He leans his head to one side, playful. "They acted like I was asking where the crown jewels were hidden."
My face doesn't move.
His smile falters just a fraction, like a musician missing a note and hoping the audience didn't notice.
Then he recovers, stepping closer, crouching slightly as if he's approaching a frightened animal.
"I brought these for you," he says, offering the flowers with a small flourish. "I thought after... everything, you might want something simple."
The flowers hover between us.
I stare at them.
I smell their sweetness, and suddenly I smell something else blood on my ground, a sword landing on the back of my neck, a familiar smile across from me, a slow burn blooming in my veins.
My throat tightens.
I lift my gaze from the bouquet to Alexander's face.
"I don't want them," I say calmly.
He blinks. "What?"
"The flowers," I clarify. "I don't want them."
He laughs softly, as if I'm joking. "Bella—"
"your majesty," I cut in, sharper now, "it's your Majesty."
The air shifts.
Even the birds seem to pause.
Alexander straightens slowly, bouquet still in his hands, confusion flickering across his features like a crack in a polished mirror.
"We're alone," he says, almost gently. "No one can hear."
"I can," I reply.
He exhales, smile tightening. "Isabella, what is this? You've never—"
"Never demanded respect?" I ask, tilting my head. "Or never demanded it from you?"
His jaw works as he tries to decide which answer will offend me less.
He chooses charm again, because it's his favorite weapon.
"You're tense," he says, stepping closer. "Come here."
He reaches for me like it's habit, like I'm supposed to melt into his hands.
His fingers brush my wrist.
I pull back immediately.
"Do not touch me," I say.
Alexander freezes mid-motion. His hand hangs in the air like he doesn't know what to do with it anymore.
His eyes narrow. "i can't touch you?"
"Yes."
"That's ridiculous," he scoffs softly. "I'm your fiancé."
"Yes we're betrothed," I correct. "Not married."
He takes a breath, visibly forcing patience. "In the past you weren't like this."
"In the past," I say, rising to my feet, "I was trying to survive the version of you I didn't want to believe existed."
His expression hardens for the first time. "What does that mean?"
"It means," I say evenly, brushing dirt from my trousers, "that you don't get to pretend intimacy is your right."
He stares at me as if I've spoken in a foreign language.
Then his gaze flicks over my clothes the trousers, the plain shirt, the bare feet. His mouth twists.
"What are you wearing?" he demands, as if my body is an offense.
"Comfort," I answer.
"You look like—" He stops himself, recalculates. "You look... informal."
"I am off duty," I say flatly. "The world will survive seeing me in linen."
"This is ridiculous," he mutters, then softens again as if he remembers he's trying to be charming. "Is there something wrong?"
I don't respond.
He takes my silence as challenge and steps closer, lowering his voice like he thinks tenderness will melt me.
"You've been avoiding me," he says. "You barely looked at me at the festival. You dismissed me at court. You—"
"I've been busy," I say.
"With what?" he presses. "Ignoring me?"
"With ruling," I reply. "A duty you seem to forget exists when you want something."
His eyes flash. "I want my wife."
A cold laugh slips out of me.
It's quick, sharp, and it makes his face darken.
"What?" he snaps.
"You want ownership," I correct. "You want access. You want the world to believe you've won something."
He steps closer, voice low. "Be careful."
I step closer too, closing the distance until he has to look directly at me.
"Or what?" I ask softly. "You'll threaten to break the treaty again?"
His jaw tightens. "If you continue behaving like this, I will have no choice but to consider my family's position."
"There it is," I murmur.
"What?"
"The truth," I say calmly. "You don't come here because you miss me. You come here because you want control."
His nostrils flare. "You're being cruel."
"No," I say. "I'm being honest something you fail to do ."
He glances down at the flowers still in his hand as if they were supposed to save him. He thrusts them toward me again, desperate for the gesture to work.
"I brought you these," he says, voice strained. "Like I always have."
I look at the bouquet.
Then I look at him.
He tries another tactic anger disguised as concern.
"Are you seeing someone?" he asks abruptly.
I blink once.
Then I laugh, this time slower, colder.
"You're serious," I say.
His eyes narrow. "Answer me."
"My personal life is none of your concern," I reply.
"You are my fiancé," he insists. "Your personal life is absolutely my concern."
I tilt my head. "No. It is not."
"Yes it is."
"No," I repeat, voice sharpening. "Not until vows are spoken."
He takes another step forward, invading my space. "You're mine."
The words are simple.
They are also a warning.
My spine goes rigid.
"I am not yours," I say quietly.
His expression twists. "You're acting like we're enemies."
"I have learned," I reply, "that enemies often smile first."
His face hardens fully now, charm slipping like a mask falling from an actor's face.
"Fine," he says, forcing calm. "Then let's speak of what matters."
He lifts his chin. "Set a date."
I stare at him.
"For what?" I ask, though we both know.
He scoffs. "For the wedding."
"I said not yet," I reply.
He exhales sharply. "You keep saying that."
"Because it remains true."
"You can't delay forever," he snaps. "The council is restless. My family is restless. The treaty—"
"—is intact," I interrupt. "And so am I."
"For how long?" he presses. "Delaying creates rumors."
"Let them whisper."
"They already are," he growls. "They're saying you don't want me."
I lift a brow. "Do they need more evidence?"
His eyes flare with anger. "You think this is a game?"
"I think," I say, voice calm, "that you keep forgetting your place."
He laughs—short, sharp, disbelieving. "My place?"
"You speak to me as if you're my equal," I continue. "You are not."
His mouth opens, outraged. "I will be your husband."
"And you will still not be my equal," I say, not raising my voice, not giving him the satisfaction. "Marriage does not crown you."
His face reddens. "When we marry, I will be king."
I stare at him like he's said something particularly stupid.
Then I shake my head slowly.
"No," I say. "You will be a prince-consort."
His lips part.
"A consort," I repeat, as if he needs it spelled in blood. "A decoration. A trophy."
His jaw clenches. "You cannot reduce me to—"
"Oh, I can," I cut in. "And I will."
He steps forward, voice low. "My family will not accept that."
"They don't have to accept it," I reply. "They have to endure it."
His eyes go hard. "If you continue humiliating me, I will break the treaty."
The words drop like a stone.
In the distance, the fountain keeps running. Birds keep singing. The world pretends it isn't listening.
But I am very still.
Then I smile.
It isn't pretty.
"If you break the treaty," I say softly, "I will destroy your kingdom."
Alexander's eyes widen. "You wouldn't."
"I would," I answer, and the certainty in my voice is the only weapon I need. "And you know I would."
He scoffs, trying to recover. "You speak as if you have power beyond your borders."
"I have power," I correct. "Period."
He takes a breath, then tries to regain control by leaning closer, voice silky. "You forget who I am."
I meet his gaze, unblinking.
"You forget who I am," I say.
A pause.
Then I step even closer—close enough that my voice can drop into something intimate without becoming kind.
"You are not even fifth in line to your own throne," I say quietly. "Do not mistake proximity to me for elevation."
His face contorts. "That is irrelevant."
"It's very relevant," I reply. "Because it explains why you're so desperate to marry me."
His eyes darken. "You're accusing me of ambition?"
"I'm accusing you of being dishonest," I say.
He jerks his chin toward me. "If you don't set a date, my father will interpret it as insult."
"Let him," I answer.
"You'd risk war?"
I hold his gaze.
"Its not a risk if i would win," I say simply.
The words leave a strange silence behind them one that doesn't belong to a garden. One that belongs to battlefields.
Alexander stares at me like he's seeing me for the first time.
Maybe he is.
"You've changed," he says finally, voice quieter.
I almost laugh.
"I grew up."
His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes, as if he's trying to decide whether kissing me would soften me or ignite me.
He chooses wrong.
He leans in.
I push him back with one hand against his chest firm enough to make him stumble half a step.
His eyes flare, shock and humiliation tangling together. "You're rejecting me?"
"I'm enforcing boundaries," I say, voice steady.
He laughs harshly. "Boundaries? Between a queen and her fiancé?"
"Yes," I reply. "Especially between a queen and her fiancé."
He drops the flowers.
They hit the grass with a soft, pathetic sound petals bruising against earth.
For a second, something flashes in his face anger sharp enough to be dangerous.
Then, like always, he covers it.
He smooths his expression, forces a smile, and tries to reclaim charm like it's armor.
"You're making a mistake," he says softly.
I tilt my head. "Am I?"
"You need me," he insists. "The alliance—"
"I need peace," I correct. "And you are not peace."
His jaw tightens. "You're speaking like you want me gone."
I look at him for a long moment.
"Want," I say slowly, "has nothing to do with it."
He stares, unsettled.
I step back, giving myself space, reclaiming the air between us.
"If you cannot wait until I am ready," I say calmly, "then you can leave."
His eyes narrow. "You'd send me away?"
"Yes."
"You can't do that."
"I just did," I reply.
He looks at the garden around us as if it might defend him. As if the trees might take his side.
They don't.
Nothing does.
Finally, he lifts his chin, pride snapping back into place like a shield.
"This isn't over," he says.
I offer him a small smile. "No. It isn't."
He turns sharply and walks away, boots crushing leaves, shoulders rigid with offended ego.
I watch him go until he disappears beyond the hedges.
Only then do I exhale.
Only then do I lower myself back onto the grass, legs crossing again, palms returning to my knees.
My heart is steady.
My hands don't shake.
But something inside me aches anyway not for him, not for what we had, but for the version of myself who once thought love could make a man honorable.