Two days. It had been two glorious, luxurious, emotionally unstable days of silk sheets, aggressive kindness, and servants who didn’t secretly wish I’d fall down the stairs.
I had begun to breathe. Not because the trauma was gone. No, no. That would require divine intervention and maybe a 12-part therapy series.
But I was stable enough to eat pastries without sobbing and summon lightning without breaking windows. Progress.
So, naturally—the Queen summoned me.
It wasn’t some cold throne room with gold chairs and a terrifying echo. No. This was her private tea salon. Lush carpets. Soft music. Lavender perfume in the air. The kind of room where scandals were whispered and alliances were sealed with clinks of porcelain.
She sat across from me. Regal. Warm. Dangerous.
Queen Aurelia of the
