I was shown to my room by a househelp, and it was grand. Grand like a room at the top of the tower where the princess was meant to feel comfortable and never leave.
I showered, applied oil, dressed in my robe with nothing underneath, sat on the bed with my hands folded and resting on my lap, and I waited. Waited for my husband, waiting for him to consummate our “marriage.” I wasn’t a fool. I knew about these things and why he married me.
My stomach twisted with nerves as I thought about how I was going to tell him. I would have to look him in the eye and tell him that I couldn't give him children, that I was broken. And then I will watch as disappointment fills his eyes. I would watch as the realization hit him that he had married broken goods.
Why didn’t Father tell him? Why didn’t
