HERA
The photographer's instructions sounded like muffled noise in the background as Atticus and I stood side by side, dressed in the finest royal attire, ready for the portraits that would forever mark us as king and queen.
He has not even looked at me yet, his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder, his posture painfully stiff. I forced a smile, even though it felt strained.
“Just a little closer, please, Lady Hera,” the photographer urged. I inched nearer, feeling the tension radiating from Atticus like heat from a fire.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as blink, and the forced distance between us felt like a wall he was determined not to break.
I didn’t need anyone to tell me that he was avoiding me, more obviously than ever since the last time he’d barged into my room and f***
