Chapter 70- The woman I Love
I smiled at him.
Not because there was anything pleasant left between us.
Not because I found satisfaction in the way his body had begun betraying him, nor because watching another person lose control of their own limbs had suddenly become something I enjoyed. Cruelty had never brought me joy. I did not believe it ever would.
The smile came because Nathaniel still looked confused.
He sat across from me with his back pressed rigidly against the chair, his fingers resting around the stem of the glass as though he were afraid loosening them might reveal how badly they had begun to tremble.
His face remained composed. It was an impressive attempt.
The same calm expression he carried through council chambers, dinners, and quiet conversations when no one had reason to question him.
Only his eyes had changed.
They moved too often.
Toward the bottle.
Toward the wine staining the carpet.
Toward the door.
Then back to me.
He was still searching for the moment when everything had gone wrong. The careless queen had left the ballroom alone. She had stumbled through the corridors. She had eaten the cookies without suspicion.
Every piece of the story had behaved exactly as he expected until it did not, and now his mind was trying to force them back into their proper places.
I allowed him the time.
Fear became far more useful when permitted to grow slowly.
I settled against the couch and crossed one ankle over the other, smoothing the skirt of my gown where crumbs had fallen across the fabric. The fire burned quietly behind him, filling the office with a gentle warmth that did not belong beside the tension forming between us.
"In all of Kyrian history," I said, "there have only been records of a few hundred bottles being made."
Nathaniel's gaze moved toward the dark bottle. It looked ordinary.
That had always been part of its danger.
No jeweled label. No golden writing. No elaborate crest declaring value. Only dark glass, a sealed neck, and wine sweet enough to make the person drinking it forget that beautiful things rarely survived untouched by greed.
Nathaniel swallowed.
The movement appeared more difficult than before.
"Then I should thank you," he said.
His voice remained measured, though something had begun tightening beneath it.
"For sharing something so rare."
I smiled more warmly.
"It was nothing."
My gaze dropped toward the cookies scattered across the table. One remained broken near the edge, sugar dusting the wood like pale snow.
"Wine is better when enjoyed with friends."
The word remained between us.
Friends.
Nathaniel looked at me.
I looked back.
Neither of us insulted the other by pretending it was true.
He shifted his weight in the chair. His right foot dragged slightly against the rug, as though he had intended to move it farther and discovered the order had not traveled properly through his body.
His eyes lowered.
Only for a moment.
Then he looked toward the bottle again.
"If so few were made," he asked, "why did they stop producing it?"
The question sounded curious.
Reasonable.
Almost conversational.
But curiosity had nothing to do with it now.
He wanted information.
He needed it.
A frightened mind collected facts because facts created the illusion of choice. If he understood the wine, perhaps he could understand what it had done. If he understood what it had done, perhaps he could calculate how long remained. Perhaps he could find a weakness. A delay. A way to leave.
I rested my head against the back of the couch.
"You think something so rare should have created enormous profit."
Nathaniel's brows drew together faintly.
"It would have."
"Would it?"
"Yes." His fingers tightened around the chair. "Something with that taste would have been desired everywhere. Nobles would have paid fortunes for it. Kings would have competed for every bottle."
I laughed softly.
"That is where you are mistaken." He stared at me. I turned the half-eaten cookie between my fingers, studying the faint cracks along its surface. "It would not have created wealth. It would have created devastation."
Nathaniel's expression remained controlled, but the hand resting against the chair stopped moving.
I could almost see the sentence rearranging his understanding of the bottle.
"The greed of men would have found a way to take root inside it," I continued.
"Merchants would have hidden bottles beneath ordinary cargo. Nobles would have paid more than kingdoms could afford. Rulers would have placed it on their tables and called it generosity while waiting for their guests to drink."
His eyes returned to the wine. "People would have killed for it," I said.
I paused. "And far more importantly, they would have killed with it."
Nathaniel's breathing changed.
Small.
Shallow.
The first real fracture in his calm.
"That is why it was declared illegal," I told him. "Why the vineyards were burned. Why were the families who knew how to make it killed from ever planting those grapes" I leaned forward slightly. "Possession alone carries a death sentence in Kyrian."
Nathaniel's face did not move.
But his eyes did.
Toward the bottle.
Then toward his own hands.
"What is it?"
The question came quieter now.
I did not answer.
Instead, I rose. The motion drew his attention immediately. His head turned as I crossed toward the desk, though the rest of his body remained unnaturally still.
I opened the lower drawer.
Inside was a much smaller bottle.
Clear glass.
No larger than my palm.
Nathaniel watched as I removed the stopper and lifted it to my mouth. The liquid inside was bitter. Sharp enough to burn the back of my throat and pull moisture into my eyes. I swallowed anyway, forcing myself not to grimace until the taste had passed.
Nathaniel stared.
I replaced the stopper.
"My apologies," I said.
His gaze remained fixed on the bottle in my hand.
"For what?"
"The cookies." I placed the small vial on the desk. "They were beginning to take effect." His eyes moved slowly toward the tray. Then back to me.
Understanding came in pieces.
"You poisoned yourself knowingly."
"I ate the cookies. You brought for me are you... Tell me, Nathaniel, were they poisoned?
"No... if you excuse me, I have overstayed my welcome."
"That you have."
I closed the drawer.
"You may go...if you can."
Nathaniel pushed against the arms of the chair.
The movement happened abruptly, driven by a fear he could no longer hide beneath calculation. His shoulders rose. One leg shifted beneath him. His body lifted a few inches.
For one fragile second, he almost stood.
Then his knee folded.
He fell forward.
His chest struck the low table with enough force to break one of its legs. Wood cracked loudly through the office. The tray jumped. Cookies scattered. The bottle rolled. Nathaniel's weight carried him through the collapsing furniture until he landed among splintered wood and spilled wine.
My crown slid from the edge of the couch.
It struck the floor.
Rolled once.
Then disappeared beneath the broken table.
I closed my eyes.
The silence afterward lasted only a breath.
Nathaniel groaned.
I looked down at the destruction in front of me.
The rug was ruined even more than before.
My crown remained somewhere beneath him.
I sighed. "I guess you could not." Nathaniel attempted to push himself upright.
His hands pressed against the floor. His arms trembled so violently that the effort barely lifted his shoulders.
He tried again, teeth clenched, breath coming hard through his nose.
Nothing happened.
I walked toward him.
Not hurriedly.
There was nothing left in the room that required speed.
His eyes followed my feet as I stepped around the broken wood.
I bent near the collapsed table and reached beneath one of the splintered edges until my fingers found the crown.
When I lifted it, dust clung to the silver.
A tiny shard of wood had caught between two stones.
I removed it carefully. Behind me, Nathaniel dragged in another breath.
"What did you do to me?"
I examined the crown rather than his face.
"Nothing you did not earn."
His jaw tightened.
"You are mistaken."
I looked at him then. He lay awkwardly against the floor, one shoulder pressed into the carpet, one leg bent beneath him. His face had begun losing color. Sweat gathered near his hairline despite the coolness of the room.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly.
"You do not know what you are doing."
I returned to the couch.
Sat.
Placed the crown beside me.
Nathaniel continued to struggle on the floor, each attempt weaker than the last. His fingers clawed against the rug. His elbow slipped through the spilled wine. His shoulder struck the floor again with a dull sound.
I watched.
The body was a stubborn thing.
It continued to believe in escape long after the mind had begun to understand that there was none.
"You may be right," I said. Nathaniel stopped. Hope entered his face before he could prevent it. A tiny loosening around the eyes. A breath held too carefully.
I smiled.
"Perhaps I am mistaken." He stared at me. "Perhaps I have done all of this to an innocent man."
My gaze drifted slowly across the room.
The broken table.
The cookies scattered between us.
Dark wine spread quietly across the rug, disappearing thread by thread into the fabric until it almost resembled fresh blood.
"But innocent people die every day inside this palace because of one person's mistake. One lie. One overlooked detail."
My voice remained calm, almost thoughtful, as though we were discussing the weather instead of his death.
"A servant trusts the wrong person. A guard opens the wrong door. A physician overlooks the wrong symptom. Someone believes a convincing lie... I smiled faintly. "
...and another innocent person disappears."
Nathaniel watched me without speaking. "
Tell me, Nathaniel..." I said quietly. "