[AMAL POV]
The crystal chandelier above the dining hall cast fractured rainbows across the polished mahogany table, each shard of light dancing as if mocking the carefully orchestrated performance below. I adjusted the emerald necklace at my throat—a gift from Idris that felt heavier with each passing day—and forced my lips into the practiced smile that had become as natural as breathing.
"Your Highness," Lord Karim's voice cut through the gentle murmur of conversation, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. I turned toward him, noting how his dark eyes seemed to catalog every micro-expression that crossed my face. "I must say, the stories of your transformation have reached even our remote provinces."
The fork in my hand trembled almost imperceptibly. I set it down with deliberate care, buying myself a moment to compose the appropriate response. "You're very kind, my lord."
But kindness wasn't what I saw in his weathered face. Lord Karim was a man who'd survived three decades of court politics by reading people like scripture, and right now, he was studying me with the intensity of a scholar examining a particularly fascinating manuscript.
"It's not kindness, it's admiration." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone that somehow managed to carry to exactly the right ears around the table. "To rise from such... humble beginnings to become a princess worthy of our third prince—it speaks to exceptional character."
The words hit like carefully placed arrows. Humble beginnings.Worthy of our third prince. Each phrase was a reminder of the vast chasm between what I'd been and what I was pretending to be.
I felt the shift in the room's atmosphere before I saw it—the subtle stiffening of shoulders, the pause in conversation, the way goblets were set down with just a fraction more force than necessary. Everyone was listening now, waiting to see how I would respond to this delicate provocation.
But it was Idris's reaction that made my breath catch.
His hand had gone completely still on his goblet, fingers white-knuckled around the stem. When I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, I saw a muscle jumping in his jaw, the way it did when he was fighting to control his temper. For a heartbeat, I thought he might actually defend me—really defend me, not just the political asset I'd become.
"My wife is indeed exceptional," he said finally, his voice carrying that particular quality I'd learned to dread—smooth and controlled, but with steel underneath. "I consider myself fortunate."
Fortunate.
The word sliced through me with surgical precision. Not blessed. Not grateful. Not... anything that suggested I might be more than a beneficial arrangement.
Lord Karim's eyebrows rose fractionally, and I realized with growing horror that this entire exchange had been a test. He'd been probing, seeing how deep the cracks in our perfect facade ran. And Idris's response had just told him everything he needed to know.
"Indeed," Karim murmured, settling back in his chair with the satisfied expression of a cat who'd cornered a particularly interesting mouse. "Fortune favors those bold enough to seize opportunity when it presents itself."
The conversation moved on, flowing around us like water around stones, but I could barely focus on the words. My chest felt tight, as if the emerald necklace was slowly strangling me. I picked at my food, cutting the tender lamb into smaller and smaller pieces until it was nearly paste on my plate.
Across the table, Lady Fatima was regaling the group with a story about her youngest daughter's upcoming betrothal, her voice bright with maternal pride. "Of course, when true affection exists between the parties, it makes everything so much more... natural, don't you think?"
The comment was probably innocent. Probably. But in my heightened state, it felt like another blade finding its mark.
"Absolutely," I managed, my voice sounding far away even to my own ears. "True affection is... a rare gift."
This time, Idris did look at me directly. His brown eyes—the ones that had once looked at me with something approaching warmth—were unreadable. But I caught the slight tightening around the corners, the way his nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. He was angry. Whether at me for the slip in composure, or at the situation itself, I couldn't tell.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of forced pleasantries and carefully modulated laughter. I played my part—laughed at the right moments, asked the appropriate questions, complimented the ladies on their gowns and the gentlemen on their insights. But underneath it all, I felt like I was drowning in plain sight.
When we finally stood to retire to the drawing room for after-dinner drinks, I excused myself with a complaint of a headache. It wasn't entirely a lie—my temples were pounding with the effort of holding myself together.
"Of course, my dear," Idris said, his hand settling on the small of my back with practiced familiarity. To anyone watching, it would look like a gesture of husbandly concern. Only I could feel the rigid tension in his fingers, the way he was fighting the urge to grip too tightly. "I'll join you shortly."
But he didn't sound like he was planning to comfort me. He sounded like a man preparing for an interrogation.
I dismissed my ladies-in-waiting the moment I reached our chambers, claiming I needed quiet to rest. But rest was the furthest thing from my mind. Instead, I found myself pacing the length of our sitting room, my silk slippers silent on the Persian carpet.
The room felt different in the lamplight—shadows stretching and shifting, making the familiar furniture seem foreign and vaguely threatening. I caught sight of myself in the gilt mirror above the mantelpiece and barely recognized the woman staring back. My skin was pale as porcelain, my eyes too large and too bright, my carefully styled hair beginning to escape its pins.
I looked like a ghost haunting someone else's life.
The door opened without ceremony, and Idris entered with the controlled movements of a man holding his temper on a very short leash. He didn't look at me immediately, instead moving to his desk and shuffling through papers with unnecessary force.
"That was well handled tonight," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Though I suspect Lord Karim left with more questions than answers."
"I'm sorry if I—"
"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. He turned to face me then, and I saw something in his expression that made my stomach drop. "Don't apologize. That's not what this is about."
He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a generous measure of water, his movements sharp and economical. When he turned back, glass in hand, his eyes were hard as chips of jade.
"Lord Karim asked me an interesting question tonight," he said, taking a sip and watching me over the rim of the glass. "After you'd retired, when the conversation became more... frank."
I felt cold suddenly, as if winter had crept into the room. "What kind of question?"
"He wanted to know if I was truly happy." Idris's voice was conversational, but there was something predatory in his stillness. "If my marriage was everything I had hoped for."
The words hung in the air between us like a blade suspended by a thread. I found myself gripping the back of a chair, my knuckles white against the dark wood.
"And what did you tell him?" The question came out as barely a whisper.
"I told him the truth." He set down his glass with deliberate care, the crystal chiming against the silver tray. "That you exceeded my expectations in every way. That you've become exactly what I needed you to become."
Needed. Not wanted. Not desired. Needed.
"But that's not really what he was asking, was it?" I found myself saying, the words coming from some deep well of hurt I hadn't even known existed.
"No." His gaze never wavered from mine. "He was asking if I loved you."
"And you said..."
"I told him what he didn't want to hear." His voice was flat, emotionless. "That what we had was something far more valuable than just romantic sentiment—we had partnership, mutual respect, and shared goals."
Each word was a stone added to the weight crushing my chest. "Very diplomatic."
"It was the truth." He moved closer, and I caught the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, something that had once made me feel safe and now only reminded me of everything I'd lost. "But it made me realize something important, Amal. About us. About what we need to discuss."
"Which is?"
"The future of our arrangement."
Arrangement. The word tasted like ash in my mouth.
"I thought we were discussing our marriage," I said, proud of how steady my voice sounded.
"Is there a difference?" He was watching me with clinical interest, like a physician studying symptoms. "We both knew what this was when we entered into it."
"We did?" The question escaped before I could stop it. "Because I remember you saying you cared about me. I remember you saying you wanted to build something together."
"And we are building something. A stable political alliance. A secure foundation for the kingdom's future." He sat across from me, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "What we're not building is a fairy tale romance."
"I know that." The words came out harsher than I intended. "Allah..., Idris, I'm not a child. I know you don't love me."
"Really?" He leaned forward slightly, and I caught a glimpse of something raw in his expression before he shuttered it away. "Because sometimes, when you look at me... when you smile at me like you used to..."
"Like I used to what?"
"Like you still believe in happy endings."
The silence stretched between us, taut as a bowstring. Outside, I could hear the night sounds of the palace—distant laughter from the servants' quarters, the soft tread of guards on their rounds, the whisper of wind through the garden trees.
"What do you want from me?" I asked finally.
"I want you to understand what this marriage requires. What it's always required." He stood and began pacing, his movements controlled but restless. "Lord Karim's questions tonight weren't idle curiosity. They were a test. The eastern lords are wondering if our union is strong enough to produce the heirs the kingdom needs."
My blood turned to ice. "Heirs..."
"Surely, that's self-evident." He stopped directly in front of me, his expression grave. "We've been married for nearly two months, Amal. The court is beginning to wonder. My advisors are asking questions about when we might expect an announcement."
I stared at him, horror blooming in my chest like a poisonous flower. "You want me to..."
"I want you to be practical." His voice was gentle now, which somehow made it infinitely worse. "We both knew this day would come. The kingdom needs continuity. The succession must be secured."
"You're talking about having children." The words felt foreign on my tongue. "With me."
"Yes."
"Even though you don't love me."
"Especially because I don't love me." He sighed, sitting back down, his hands clasped in front of him. "Love complicates things, Amal. It makes people irrational, unpredictable. What we have is cleaner. More honest."
"Honest?" I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You call this honest?"
"What would you call it?"
"Heartbreaking." The word slipped out before I could stop it, and I saw something flicker across his face—surprise, maybe, or regret. "I would call it heartbreaking."
We sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us like a physical presence. Finally, he spoke again, his voice softer than before.
"I'm not asking you to love me, Amal. I'm asking you to help me serve the kingdom we're both bound to protect."
"And if I say no?"
"Then we'll find another way." His eyes never left mine. "But I need to know where you stand. I need to know if you can do what's necessary."
Another way.
The words echoed in my mind like a death knell, and suddenly I could see it all with horrible clarity. The royal physicians would be summoned. There would be whispered consultations, carefully worded diagnoses. The princess suffers from a condition that prevents conception. Such a tragedy. Such a disappointment.
And then... then there would be another woman. Some carefully chosen noble daughter with the right bloodline, the right connections, the right functioning womb. She would stand where I stood now, wear the gowns I wore, sleep in the bed I'd thought was mine. She would give him the sons I couldn't, and I would become what I'd always feared most—a footnote in someone else's story.
The first wife. The barren one. The one who wasn't enough.
My hands began to shake. I pressed them against my thighs, trying to still the tremor, but the panic was spreading through me like wildfire. He would cast me aside so easily, wouldn't he? I'd seen it in his eyes tonight—that clinical assessment, that cold calculation of my worth.
"Amal?" His voice seemed to come from very far away.
I was drowning in the realization that I had no power here, no agency, no choice that wouldn't end in my destruction. If I said no, he would find reasons to replace me. If I said yes...
If I said yes, maybe there was still a chance. Maybe if I gave him what he needed, if I proved my worth in the most fundamental way a wife could, maybe he would see me differently. Maybe carrying his child would awaken something in him—some tenderness, some protectiveness, some shadow of the feeling I'd once thought I'd seen in his eyes.
It was a desperate hope, pathetic in its transparency. But it was all I had left.
"I..." I started, then stopped, my voice catching. The words felt like swallowing glass. "I don't need time to think."
His eyebrows rose fractionally. "No?"
"No." I forced myself to meet his gaze, even though it felt like staring into the sun. "I'll do it. I'll... I'll give you what you need."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or relief. But not gratitude. Never gratitude. That would have implied I was giving him a gift rather than fulfilling an obligation.
"Are you certain?" His voice was careful, professional. "This isn't a decision to make lightly."
Lightly. As if anything about this conversation had been light. As if my heart wasn't shattering with each word I spoke.
"I'm certain." The lie came easier than I'd expected. "You're right. It's what the kingdom needs. It's what... it's what I'm here for."
He nodded slowly, and I saw him relax slightly—tension leaving his shoulders, the hard line of his mouth softening just a fraction. "Thank you, Amal. I know this isn't easy."
Thank you. He was thanking me for agreeing to let him use my body to create the heirs he needed. As if I were a merchant agreeing to a particularly favorable contract.
"When?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
"When what?"
"When do you want to..." I couldn't finish the sentence. The words stuck in my throat like thorns.
"Ah." He looked uncomfortable for the first time all evening. "We don't need to discuss the specifics tonight. Perhaps in a few days, when we've both had time to... prepare ourselves mentally."
Prepare ourselves mentally. Like we were discussing a medical procedure. Which, I supposed, we were.
"Amal." Something in his voice made me pause at the door to my chambers. When I turned back, he was standing by the window, his profile sharp against the moonlight. "For what it's worth, I do respect you. More than you know."
Respect. It was something, I supposed. More than contempt, less than love. A cold comfort for a woman who'd traded her heart for a crown and was now being asked to trade her body for a child.
"Good night, Your Highness," I said softly.
"Good night, Amal."