The afternoon sun filtered through the stained glass windows of the Empress Dowager's salon. Henrik sat rigidly in an ornate chair, listening to his mother orchestrate his birthday gala.

"The invitations went out a few weeks ago," Dowager Empress Margarethe said. "Five hundred guests confirmed. The Viennese string quartet arrives tomorrow."

Across from him, Isolde perched on the settee. His mother held two-year-old Alaric, bouncing the boy on her knee. The child reached for the pearls at her throat.

"Now, the seating arrangements." Margarethe's voice cut like winter. "Isolde will sit at your right hand during the gala."

Henrik's jaw tightened. "Valeria is my wife. My Empress. She sits at my right."

The temperature dropped.

"Valeria is the mother of four daughters." Margarethe didn't look up from Alaric. "Isolde is the mother of your heir. The court needs to see you honor that."

"The Empress holds—"

"The Empress failed." Margarethe finally looked at him. "Four times. Isolde succeeded once. The mathematics are simple, Henrik."

Isolde's smile was poisonous. "The empire celebrates Prince Alaric. Your birthday is the perfect opportunity to show where the future lies."

Henrik stared at Alaric. Platinum blonde. Ice-blue eyes. Playing with his grandmother's necklace, oblivious.

"If you continue to elevate Valeria 's wounded feelings over the woman who secured your legacy," Margarethe said, "you look weak."

Weak.

"Isolde sits at your right," Margarethe said with finality. "Valeria may sit with the high nobility."

Henrik should refuse. Should fight.

"Fine."

Isolde's triumph was immediate. Margarethe looked satisfied, already moving to discuss wine.

Henrik sat there feeling something die inside.

---

Two weeks later, Henrik stood near the entrance of the Imperial Ballroom with Isolde on his right arm and his mother on his left. Gold leaf caught candlelight from crystal chandeliers overhead. Five hundred guests filled the space behind him.

His thirty-fourth birthday gala.

The herald announced arrivals. The Duke of Thornfield bowed low. "Your Imperial Majesty, may this year bring continued prosperity to the empire."

"Thank you, Your Grace. Enjoy the evening."

The Marquise of Blackwater next, dripping with emeralds. "Such a magnificent celebration, Your Imperial Majesty. The ballroom is exquisite."

"You honor us with your presence, Marquise."

The Astorian Ambassador. "His Majesty King Ferdinand sends his warmest regards and hopes for strengthened ties between our nations."

"Please convey my gratitude to His Majesty."

Just get through this.

The herald drew breath for the next announcement.

"Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Valeria Valerian de Montvoire."

Henrik's head snapped up.

She was beautiful. Dazzling. Hadn't aged a single day since he fell madly in love with her.

But she wasn't alone.

A man stood beside her. Military uniform. Medals across his chest.

Someone Henrik didn't recognize.

The stranger offered Valeria his arm.

She took it.

The whispers started immediately. Low and vicious, spreading through the entrance like wildfire.

"Who is that with the Empress?"

"I don't recognize him—"

"She brought another man to the Emperor's birthday?"

"Look at the Emperor's face—"

"This is scandalous—"

"After everything with Lady Isolde, the Empress dares—"

Henrik's vision tunneled. His heart hammered against his ribs.

You did this. You pushed her away. And now someone else—

He moved forward.

His mother's hand clamped down on his left arm like iron. "Compose yourself," Margarethe hissed, her voice deadly quiet. "You're making a scene."

Henrik pulled against her grip. Harder.

On his right, Isolde's nails dug into his arm through the fabric. "Henrik, where are you going—"

"Do not touch me."

He ripped both arms free with enough force that Isolde stumbled backward into a nearby guest.

The gasps were immediate. Shocked. Delighted.

Then he was moving. Long strides across the entrance hall. Guests scrambling out of his path. The whispers exploding into open murmurs.

"The Emperor—"

"He's going to—"

"Look at his face—"

She's moving on. She doesn't need you anymore. You threw her away and now—

Henrik's hand shot out and caught Valeria 's wrist.

Hard enough that his knuckles went white. Hard enough to leave marks.

The entire entrance hall went silent. Every guest frozen. Every eye on their Emperor gripping the Empress's wrist like a man who'd lost all control.

Two years of justifications shattered in an instant. Every excuse. Every rationalization. Every lie he'd told himself about duty and necessity and the empire's needs.

Gone.

All that remained was raw, desperate panic. Jealousy that felt like acid in his throat. Rage at the stranger. Terror that he was losing her. Guilt that screamed this was his fault.

"Valeria ." His voice came out rough. Broken. Barely controlled. "Who. Is. This. Man."