Lorenzo walked in silence until he reached the stone corridor leading to the small council chambers assigned to him during the king's visit. His two guards followed, exchanging a quick look. Finally, the younger one spoke.
"Your Highness… forgive us. We did not wish to interrupt."
A careful pause.
"The English girl...Lady Marie...she seems… fond of you."
Lorenzo's jaw locked.
"That is none of your concern. I have known you since we were children. Press me on this again and I will hang you myself," he said without raising his voice.
Both guards scratched the backs of their heads, sheepish.
"You need a drink, boss," one muttered.
They reached the yard where Lorenzo's guards were stationed. They were training and laughing, but the moment they saw him, they snapped to attention. One cocky rookie grinned and tried to challenge him. Lorenzo pinned him to the ground with a swift, effortless throw.
Laughter erupted.
The rookie lay stunned, having clearly messed around and found out. They loved him. They respected him.
They reached the door to his temporary office. One guard opened it, and Lorenzo stepped inside.
His adviser, old Marcello, was already there, hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes sharp as a hawk despite his years.
"You met the Boleyn girl Again," Marcello said without preamble. "Beautiful. Gentle. Unscarred by court venom. A good match, Highness. Perhaps the best you could hope for."
Lorenzo stopped mid-stride and turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
"A match?"
Marcello approached, hands folded behind his back. "Yes. You are of age. England seeks alliances. A wife of good reputation and soft temperament would benefit your claim immensely."
Lorenzo's jaw clenched until it ached.
"Marcello. Enough."
Marcello did not flinch. "It is natural you should consider her."
"There is nothing natural about it," Lorenzo snapped but edged with a pain only those closest to him ever heard. "Marie Boleyn is innocent. Sweet. She deserves a marriage that would give her joy."
"It would give you standing," Marcello countered.
Lorenzo shook his head, letting out a tired, humourless laugh. "You know what kind of husband I would be," he said. "You all know."
His voice softened, trembling with truth rather than weakness.
"I am not made for the kind of love she dreams of. I cannot give it. Not to her. Not to any woman."
For the first time, Marcello's expression shifted understanding, reluctant respect.
"A wife would expect… duties," Marcello said quietly.
"And I would fail her," Lorenzo replied simply. "Every day of her life."
Silence thickened between them, heavy with everything unsaid.
"A prince can offer her everything," Marcello pressed. "Status. Wealth. Protection."
"You know what I am," Lorenzo said quietly. "You know what I must pretend to be to protect our empire."
He swallowed.
"I am a woman," he whispered. "And no title, no crown, will ever change that."
"You are our rightful leader," Marcello snapped, frustrated. "You gave up the throne so your cousin could rule and avoid further bloodshed."
Lorenzo grabbed him by the collar.
"That is treason," he said coldly. "I advise you to stop talking."
Marcello sighed, the weight of years pressing through his breath, and ran a hand through Lorenzo's thick black hair with a tenderness he rarely allowed himself.
"It is all right, kiddo," he murmured. "I am sorry." His voice faltered, then steadied. "From the moment you were born, this life was pressed onto you. You never chose it. If your grandfather had not exchanged the babies, had not stolen your birthright and forced you into a man's skin to shield your cousin, you might have been our queen." A sad smile flickered. "A fair one. A brave one."
Marcello swallowed. "Hang me if you must. I will stand by every word. You never complained. You endured. But you deserve something that is yours."
His gaze softened. "Marie does not leave you indifferent. Do not deny it. Think of it, just once. It may be a blessing."
He hesitated, then added quietly, "And you know the truth of your heart. You do not love men. All your lovers have been women."
Lorenzo's grip loosened. She turned away, shoulders rigid, breath measured as if holding herself together by force alone.
"Leave me," she said, barely above a whisper.
Marcello bowed his head and before he left, he said:
"Enjoy your life! Fall in love! Live fully before the Sforza curse robs you of your life. She might be able to carry that burden with you."