The East Wing had fallen into a rhythm of quiet pretense.
Every glance exchanged between Prince Alexander and Consort Sophia was measured; every word weighed before it left the tongue. To an untrained eye, their distance was unmistakable...an emotional frost creeping through what had once been whispered of as a growing bond. Yet beneath that façade, an invisible current pulsed between them, steady, alive, and fiercely protective.
Days had passed since the decision to play this dangerous game of deceit. Each morning, the servants found Sophia and Alexander seated apart at breakfast, their conversation polite and clipped. Where there had once been subtle warmth, now lingered a cool indifference.
Sophia played her role flawlessly. Her tone was courteous, her gaze lowered, her replies calculated to sound dutiful but distant. Only she could hear the thoughts around her, whispers of confusion, satisfaction, and suspicion tumbling through the minds of those who watched.
Finally, the prince grows weary of her influence.
Good. Perhaps the East Wing will return to proper order now.
Though… she looks troubled. Is the Prince truly angry with her?
Sophia heard it all, the half-formed judgments weaving themselves into a net she could control. Each rumor, each murmured theory, was another thread in the illusion she and Alexander had crafted together.
And Alexander, stoic as marble, played his part no less convincingly.
At breakfast, his voice was sharper, his questions curt. He scolded Damien for minor delays, chastised the kitchen staff for serving his tea lukewarm. Yet the sharpness of his words was only surface, beneath them, his thoughts were steady, aligned with hers.
It kills me to speak to her this way. She knows. She must know this is only for show.
Sophia would not look at him when he thought such things. If she did, her eyes would betray her.
After breakfast, she would walk the length of the East Wing, reviewing tasks and speaking with the maids. Her reputation for discipline had grown in his household, now the servants trembled slightly when she passed, even as they admired her efficiency. She corrected their posture, inspected ledgers, and inquired about every expense down to the last coin.
When she was alone again, she allowed herself a single moment by the window, one long breath as she stared across the palace gardens, where autumn leaves drifted like small golden embers.
This is necessary, she told herself. If they believe we are divided, we will learn who moves against us.
But pretending distance from the man she shared nights with was harder than she had anticipated.
That very night, when the doors of their chamber closed and the mask could finally drop, Sophia would melt into Alexander's waiting arms. His hands, once hesitant, now carried a quiet certainty, as though her presence was the only truth left in a palace built on lies.
"Too well," Alexander murmured once against her hair. "You play this role too well, Sophia. Even I begin to believe our distance."
Her lips had curved faintly against his chest. "Then it means we're convincing everyone else."
But tonight, even their warmth felt haunted by the weight of the charade. When she lay awake beside him after he'd fallen asleep, Sophia's thoughts wandered. Every soft breath he drew seemed fragile—every heartbeat too precious to risk.
And still, she could not shake the quiet storm of his unspoken thoughts.
If this plan puts her in danger, I will end it. Throne be damned.
She didn't move. Didn't let him know she'd heard. Her heart ached with tenderness she could neither express nor afford.
By the fourth morning of their act, the illusion had taken root. Even Damien, who knew them better than most, began to worry privately. He had seen too much devotion between them to believe the coldness real, yet he could not deny the signs.
But when no one was watching, in the quiet hours before dawn, their pretense dissolved into whispered affection. Sophia would rise before sunrise to help him stand, her hands firm against his back, guiding him as his strength returned.
"Again," she whispered one morning, steadying him.
Alexander clenched his jaw, sweat beading along his temple. The cane trembled slightly in his grip.
"Sophia—" he gritted, "—you'll wear yourself out."
She only smiled, faint and fierce. "And you'll lose your patience before I lose my strength."
He almost laughed then, a rough sound swallowed before it could escape. Her courage, the same reckless boldness that first drew him in, now kept him upright when his legs threatened to fail.
By the end of that week, he could walk several paces unaided. Yet no one outside their small circle knew. To the palace, he remained the weakened, bitter prince whose consort had fallen from grace.
The perfect disguise.
Far across the palace, in the Queen Consort's private solar, a different conversation was unfolding.
"Mother," Crown Prince Gabriel said, breaking the stillness, "you seem… distracted."
The Queen Consort's hands, slender and elegant, rested atop an unfinished embroidery frame. The golden thread glinted faintly in the lamplight as she raised her gaze to her son.
"I've received troubling reports," she said slowly. "About your brother and his consort in the East Wing."
Gabriel's lips curved faintly, his dark eyes sharpening with interest. "Ah. What of them?"
"Their relationship appears… strained. Some say they argue constantly. Others claim she's lost her influence." The Queen paused. "You know how the court thrives on whispers. But my intuition tells me there's more to this."
Gabriel's smile deepened. "And what do you suspect?"
"That Alexander's weakness, his isolation, has made him unpredictable. And the woman… she's clever. Too clever. I cannot discern whether she tempers him or drives him toward rebellion."
Gabriel leaned back, the picture of calm confidence, but behind his stillness, his mind worked quickly.
"Then perhaps," he said at last, "we should watch them more closely."
The Queen's brow furrowed. "Carefully, Gabriel. You underestimate that woman. There's something, different, about her. I've seen how she looks at him. It's not ambition. It's something deeper."
Gabriel's tone cooled. "Love, perhaps. But love makes people foolish."
"And fools," the Queen murmured, "are sometimes the hardest to control."
She reached for her embroidery again, but her hands had lost their steadiness.