The Royal Scapegoat

Consumation ko, death not

Daley and Roy were confined to a single apartment within the palace to "seal" their union. Daley saw the charade for exactly what it was. Lies. She sat at the vanity, unfastening her jewelry piece by piece, the silence in the room heavy and suffocating. Roy was nowhere to be seen.

Her mind drifted to the plan she had formed with Rachel. Her sister had been clever, using Roy’s devotion to open the borders for her. Daley however would take on the burden of the marriage just long enough to prove their incompatibility. Once they convinced the court the union was a failure, they could bring Rachel in properly.

And everyone would be happy again.

The door suddenly burst open. Roy stormed in, yanking off his shirt with a look of pure frustration. Daley averted her eyes, a hot flush creeping up her neck. For a split second, she wondered if he was actually going to attempt the "duty" their parents demanded. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

But Roy didn't even look at her. He grabbed a fresh shirt and a travel bag, his jaw tightened as he rampaged the table. What was it he needed on that table? Without a single word, he turned and vanished back out the door, leaving only the sharp, lingering scent of his cologne behind.

Daley’ s heart calmed itself.

"Well," Daley whispered to the empty room, "that was close."

A soft knock startled her as she was struggling with the laces of her corset.

"Who is it?"

"Olive. The Queen sent me," a voice replied.

Daley opened the door to find a young maid holding a small bottle and a bundle of silk. "I’ve been assigned as your personal attendant," Olive said with a low bow. "Her Majesty insisted I deliver this."

Daley took the bottle, looking at it with confusion.

"The Queen mentioned that this oil... heightens the senses of your skin," Olive said, her cheeks turning pink. "She suggested that if the Prince is hesitant, a touch to the—"

"I understand. Thank you," Daley interrupted, her face burning. "That will be enough."

Once the door was shut, Daley leaned against it and exhaled a jagged breath. She changed into the nightgown provided—a delicate, fitted piece of silk that felt like a second skin.

Trying to distract herself, she picked up a perfume bottle and began to hum, swaying slightly in front of the mirror. "Dance with me, darling," she sang softly to her reflection. "Fall hopelessly in love—"

The door creaked open.

Daley froze mid-sway, her arms still raised. Roy stood in the doorway, staring at her with an unreadable expression. Her heart stopped as the perfume bottle slipped from her hand, clattering onto the rug.

Neither of them spoke. Roy simply turned and shut the door again without a word.

"Oh, god," Daley groaned, burying her face in her hands. "How much more embarrassing can this get?"

She eventually fell into a restless sleep, only to be jolted awake by a thunderclap that shook the palace walls. She reached across the bed, but Roy’s side was cold and empty.

"Roy?" she called out. Silence.

She slipped into the corridor and found him. He was sprawled across the floor, drenched from the rain and smelling strongly of wine.

"Roy!" She knelt beside him, shaking his shoulder. He was ice-cold. "Please, wake up. I can't carry you."

He stirred weakly, his fingers fumbling for her wrist. His eyes were glazed, barely seeing her. "Rachel..." he whispered, the name he’d buried in his heart for days. "Please... I want Rachel."

Daley flinched. The depth of his longing for her sister was a physical weight to her. She knew he wanted Rachel, but that much?

"I'll fix it, Roy," she muttered, her chest aching. "I’ll fix everything."

She managed to get Olive to help her haul him inside. As Olive rubbed a warming balm into his hands, she looked up at Daley. "He reacts poorly to the cold, My Lady. You should apply the rest of this to his chest to keep the fever away."

"Me?" Daley stiffened.

"He is your husband," Olive reminded her gently before slipping out of the room.

Alone with him, Daley carefully loosened his damp shirt. As she spread the balm over his skin, the memories she had tried to bury came flooding back. The accident. The way she had stood by and let him take the blame for her father's fall. He had been so small, so terrified, and she had used him as a shield for her own guilt.

A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on his collarbone. "I was cruel," she whispered to his unconscious form. "And I was so, so wrong."

His eyes fluttered open. Through his blur of intoxication and fever, he saw a beautiful face framed by blonde hair. "Rachel?" he murmured, reaching up to touch her cheek.

Daley didn't pull away. "Rest," she whispered. "Morning is coming."

He pulled her closer, his arms encircling her waist with a feeble, desperate grip. "My Rachel..."

"I know," she breathed, her heart breaking for the man who didn't even know who was holding him. "Please, just sleep."

***

Morning light cut through the room like a blade. Roy groaned, shielding his eyes. "Mother, close the curtains."

"I'm not your mother," Daley said, placing a glass of water on the nightstand. "Drink this."

He squinted at her, his expression instantly hardening into a scowl. He knocked the glass away.

Daley calmly poured another. "Drink it. Unless you want the entire court gossiping about the state of the Prince this morning. I won't have the kingdom thinking I married a drunkard."

He hesitated, then downed the water with a disgust. "Husband," he spat. "You certainly enjoy the sound of that word."

"I don't," she replied flatly.

He moved to get dressed, but stopped dead. Something on the white silk sheets caught his eye—a dark, unmistakable stain.

The color drained from Roy's face. He looked at the bed, then at Daley, then back at the sheets. A chill ran down his spine as a sickening realization took hold. He didn't remember the night, but the evidence was right in front of him.