behind the mask

BEHIND THE MASK / episode 7- plan fail and realization?

Zayne had decided on something reckless.

If she could stand there, serene and untouchable, while he burned inside… then maybe it was time she felt a flicker of that same fire.

So he smiled—too easily, too brightly—at Lady Myra during the royal luncheon.

She was lovely, kind, and painfully eager to please. She twirled a strand of hair and laughed softly at everything he said.

From across the table, Yuri lifted her goblet, gaze unreadable. Not anger. Not jealousy. Just polite indifference, carved from marble.

It stung more than it should have.

Zayne leaned closer to Myra, forcing a charm that felt foreign on his tongue.

“My lady,” he said, voice smooth, “your perfume… it’s—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. The scent wasn’t right. It was sweet, too sweet, cloying. Not like Yuri—clean and cold, like rain on stone.

Myra blushed. “You were saying?”

Zayne’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. The words tasted wrong.

He caught himself glancing at Yuri again. She hadn’t moved, but her fingers were tight around her wine glass. A single muscle ticked in her jaw.

And for a fleeting moment, her eyes met his.

No warmth. No fury. Just a look that said, You’re embarrassing yourself.

He excused himself from the table before anyone could notice the storm behind his grin.

Outside, he leaned against the stone pillar, exhaling a shaky laugh. “Smooth, Zayne. Brilliant plan. Truly.”

“Was it?”

Her voice came from behind him. Cold as ever.

He turned. She was there, arms folded, the wind tugging at her cloak.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she said. “You, tripping over your words to impress her?”

“I wasn’t trying to impress her.”

“Oh? Then what was it? A social experiment?”

“Maybe,” he said, smirking faintly. “I wanted to see if you’d care.”

She stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “And what did you find?”

“That I hate every second I spend pretending not to want you,” he said quietly.

Yuri froze. For a moment, the mask cracked again—barely. Then she looked away.

“Don’t say things you can’t take back.”

“I’m not taking it back.” His voice dropped lower. “Not this time.”

Her silence said everything: her heartbeat was loud in her chest, her calm shaken—but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her jealous.

Instead, she turned, leaving him with a single, tight reply:

“If you ever try that again… make sure she’s worth the effort.”

Lady Myra had always thought herself clever — sweet enough to charm, graceful enough to be noticed.

And when the king smiled at her across the table, she thought, perhaps fate is kind after all.

But fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Because when Yuri walked into the room, everything changed.

There was something in the air — not coldness, not hostility — but a quiet storm, the kind that made you lower your voice without knowing why.

Yuri’s presence wasn’t loud; it didn’t need to be.

It was elegance forged in heartbreak.

Myra saw it instantly — the way Zayne’s eyes flickered to his wife even when she wasn’t speaking, the way he straightened unconsciously whenever Yuri entered the room.

He watched her.

Not with lust, not with curiosity — but with reverence.

And for the first time, Lady Myra felt like a thief.

An intruder in someone else’s home.

When she reached to pour him wine and her fingers brushed his, Zayne didn’t even glance her way. His gaze was fixed on Yuri across the hall, who was discussing trade routes with the ministers, her tone calm, commanding.

The realization stung.

“You seem distracted, Your Majesty,” Myra murmured, trying to sound playful.

Zayne blinked, polite but distant. “Do I?”

He smiled faintly — too faintly. “My apologies, Lady Myra. My thoughts… wander sometimes.”

To her, she wanted to say.

Later that evening, when the celebration ended, Myra found herself lingering by the corridor. Just once, she wanted him to notice her — properly.

But what she saw instead stole the breath from her lungs.

At the far end of the hall, under dim candlelight, Yuri was speaking with Zayne.

Their words were quiet, almost hesitant, but their bodies said everything:

The closeness, the tension, the ache.

He reached for Yuri’s hand — not forcefully, just lightly, reverently — and she didn’t pull away.

Something fragile in Myra shattered.

Because in that moment, she finally understood: she wasn’t part of their story.

She was a misplaced note in a song that already belonged to someone else.

And when Yuri’s gaze flickered toward her — calm, knowing, merciful — Myra felt small.

“Goodnight, Lady Myra,” Yuri said softly. “You must be tired.”

There was no malice, no mockery — only quiet certainty.

Like a queen dismissing a guest who had overstayed her welcome.

Myra curtsied low, her throat tight. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

When she left, her reflection in the mirror looked pale, guilty.

For the first time, Lady Myra realized what it meant to feel like a homewrecker —

Not because of what she’d done,

but because of what she’d tried to take.

TO BE CONTINUED