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A heavy silence blankets the room, so thick it chokes the air between them.
Only the faint strains of music from the ongoing celebration drift through the stone walls.
"Sit down," Lucas says at last, his tone unreadable.
Emilia obeys without a word, her movements stiff and controlled.
The chair creaks softly beneath her as she lowers herself.
Lucas pours himself a glass of water with calm precision, the sound of the liquid trickling into the cup far too loud in the quiet chamber.
He takes a sip. Her eyes never leave him.
The fear that once shimmered in her gaze gradually transforms—frosting over into something sharper, something colder.
Rage brews beneath the surface, igniting the grief that has lain dormant in her heart like dying embers waiting to burn again.
She wants him to suffer the same as her father.
After all, he is responsible.
Poisoning him would've been the easier path. Cleaner. Quieter. But it's not enough.
She wants him to know. Wants him to understand the pain his actions as King as caused.
Remembering the look on the prime Minister's face after meeting him in Lucas's chamber.
She presses her hand discreetly against her side, feeling the reassuring weight of the hidden dagger beneath the folds of her gown.
Lucas notices the brooding storm in her expression.
He places his glass on the table with a sharp clink, breaking the tension.
Without a word, he rises and begins to undress, slowly, methodically—ready to lie beside her for appearances, as the tradition dictates.
Emilia stands too, her pulse quickening. Fear twists in her stomach again.
What now?
Deciding to act on what Sophia instruct her about the first night before she leaves, Emilia move closer to him.
Her fingers hover near his shoulder, trembling slightly.
"Do you know how?" Lucas asks, catching her hand with a surprisingly gentle grip.
His touch is cold—unexpectedly so—and Emilia yanks her hand back as if burned.
"I don't," she murmurs, forcing herself to meet his gaze before looking away, heart thundering in her chest.
He doesn't press her.
Instead, he turns and continues undressing without her help, the slight tightness in his shoulders betraying mild irritation.
Within moments, he stands in nothing but a sheer undergarment, the dim candlelight casting faint shadows over his chest.
Emilia quickly averts her gaze, coughing lightly, and embarrassed.
"Aren't you going to undress?" he teases, amused by her sudden shyness.
Her eyes flick to him, then drop to the floor.
Why is she nervous now? She's come this far. She must not falter.
Emilia thought to herself.
She starts by removing her earrings, deliberately slow.
Her gaze flickers between her movements and his form—calculating what moment will be right.
But her eyes fall on his bare chest, and she quickly turns her head away again, jaw clenched.
Anger and frustration bubble up within her.
How dare he look so composed? So calm, after everything?
She fumbles angrily with the crown on her head.
Lucas watches her, then steps closer and gently removes the crown for her.
"No one is allowed to touch this but you and me," he says, his voice unexpectedly soft.
"You wear it only for official duties."
She nods stiffly, then grips the tie of her gown.
"I need to undress. You should turn around," she says flatly, no emotion in her voice.
Lucas raises an eyebrow at her tone, but he doesn't argue.
He walks to the bed, lies down, and turns his back to her, his silhouette outlined against the flickering candlelight.
Emilia begins to undress slowly, each motion filled with caution.
Her eyes flick to him repeatedly, making sure he doesn't look.
Lucas lies still, his breathing steady, though his mind whirls.
He has seen countless women bare before him—Eleanor, many times.
She will be the first woman ever to refuse him looking at her.
A flash of memory returns to him—her slap, years ago, after an innocent, awkward touch in the garden.
He nearly smiles at the absurdity of recalling such a moment now. Then realize he isn't hearing any sound from her.
Lucas wonder why she is suddenly quiet and frowns then turns, only to find a dagger pointed at his chest.
He reacts instinctively, grabbing her wrist just in time.
"Are you trying to murder your husband?!" he growls, the shock evident in his voice.
Emilia's eyes blaze with fury.
"You should've thought of that before you conspired to kill my father."
Lucas flinches—just barely—but the corner of his mouth lifts in a dangerous smile.
He releases her wrist slowly.
Without hesitation, Emilia plunges the dagger forward.
It pierces his chest.
A sickening gasp escapes her lips as the blade sinks in.
Blood gushes out, hot and vivid against the pale fabric of his garment.
Lucas winces, gripping the hilt with one hand.
He pulls the dagger free and tosses it aside.
"You missed your target," he mutters through clenched teeth.
The wound is deep—but not fatal. The blade is barely an inch away from his heart.
Emilia stares at the spreading bloodstain, stunned, her breath catching in her throat.
She feels sick—nauseated by the metallic scent, the sight, the reality of what she's done.
Her hand trembles as she tries to step back.
But before she can move, Lucas grabs her, dragging her down onto the bed with him, his strength undiminished.
The suddenness of it paralyzes her. His blood smears across her dress.
When she finally comes to her senses, she thrashes beneath him.
"I'll never let you touch me!" she hisses, struggling furiously, spitting the words into his face.
"You idiot," Lucas breathes, his voice low and strained.
He cups her cheek with blood-slick fingers and leans toward her neck—
Emilia closes her eyes, horrified, bracing herself for the worst.
But instead of a kiss, or worse, his body shudders—and collapses.
He goes limp against her.
Her eyes fly open. He isn't moving. Only shallow, ragged breaths escape him.
Panic surges through her.
She shoves him off with all her strength, stumbles to her feet, chest heaving with every breath.
She shakes his body once, twice—nothing.
Is he…?
She doesn't wait to find out.
Emilia bolts from the chamber, throwing the door open with trembling hands.
She runs.
Down the corridor, barefoot and silent.
Past sleeping guards and empty hallways.
Making sure no one sees her.
Almost everyone of the guards are at having fun at the moment and in other to give them privacy, none stayed close to the king's chamber.
Emilia doesn't stop until she reaches her quarters, her hands fumbling with the latch before slamming the door behind her.
Quietness settles with her as she stands alone.
She already calculated that those at the Queen's quarter will also retire for the night because she is to be with the king.
Emilia bends over, panting, shaking uncontrollably.
It takes several long minutes before she can force herself upright again.
Only then does she look down at herself—blood. On her neck. On her dress. On her hands.
Everywhere.
She scrubs herself raw. Rips off the soiled clothes and barely finishes changing into a clean nightgown before the knock comes.
"Your Majesty, what are you…"
Emilia pulls the door open just enough to yank her maids inside.
She slams it shut again.
"I thought you were in the king's chamber tonight…" Alice trails off as her gaze lands on the bloodstained gown crumpled on the floor.
June gasps.
"Your Majesty! Are you hurt?!" she rushes forward, eyes scanning Emilia's body for wounds.
"I just… saw my period," Emilia lies, her voice low and flat.
They clearly don't believe her—but neither of them presses further.
They are also aware of the dagger she took with her.
"Your…majesty…" June starts again, her voice faltering.
Alice cuts her off with a subtle shake of her head and kneels to pick up the dress carefully.
"We'll take care of it."
June disappears into the bathing room to fetch warm water.
Emilia sinks onto the bed in silence.
Her heart thunders in her chest, echoing louder than any music or footsteps outside.
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