Chapter 9

Amelia blinked, the memory dissolving as Malcolm’s cold, clipped voice pulled her back to the present. She risked a glance at him, her heart twisting.

He wasn’t looking at her, his attention fixed on the guard who stood at attention, delivering his report in hushed tones. But as the conversation continued, Malcolm’s tone grew sharper, colder.

“When exactly was the last report on my brother?” Malcolm asked, his voice measured.

The guard hesitated before answering. “Three days ago, sire. He was last seen near the border, moving south.”

Malcolm let out a soft, humorless chuckle, more a breath than a sound. “Of course he was. Running again.”

“I suppose I should commend him,” Malcolm continued, still gazing out the window. “It takes a certain kind of... resolve to disappear so consistently. A talent, even. Though I imagine it must be exhausting to live without purpose.”

Amelia’s stomach tightened at his words. The way he said it—so calmly, so devoid of emotion—made the disdain all the more cutting. It wasn’t the words themselves but the tone that struck her, as though Viktor’s existence was nothing more than an inconvenience.

The guard shifted again, clearly uncomfortable. “I couldn’t say, sire.”

Amelia’s breath hitched as Malcolm shifted his attention back to her, his eyes locking onto hers. The cold emptiness she saw there made her heart ache for the boy she had once known—the one who now seemed to exist only in memories.

For a moment, their eyes locked, and the silence stretched between them.

Malcolm’s expression didn’t change, but his hand shifted slightly. His thumb brushed against her lips, a fleeting touch that made her close her eyes instinctively.

The guard, emboldened by the pause, let his gaze flicker toward her. “A beauty she is,” he remarked, his voice low.

Malcolm’s gaze snapped to the guard, the air in the room freezing as his eyes darkened.

The guard paled, realizing his mistake. He quickly looked away, bowing his head.

His gaze shifted back to Amelia, his piercing eyes narrowing as they settled on her trembling form. His stern expression was unyielding, his voice cold and cutting.

"If I ever catch you in the courtroom again, Amelia," he said, his tone low but menacing, "it will not end well for you. Do you understand?"

Amelia shrank under his glare, her head bowing as if the weight of his words pressed her deeper into submission. She could barely muster a nod.

Without warning, Malcolm grasped her wrist, his fingers firm as he lifted her from his lap and set her on her feet. Her legs wobbled beneath her, but she quickly steadied herself, unwilling to falter before him.

As she stood there, Amelia’s eyes caught sight of her veil, a delicate scrap of fabric that now lay crumpled on the floor near where Malcolm sat. For a fleeting moment, she hesitated.

Her heart raced as she knelt to retrieve it, her fingers trembling as they closed around the fabric. She dared a glance upward and caught a flicker of something in Malcolm’s eyes—something she couldn’t quite name—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by his usual cold indifference.

Clutching the veil to her chest, she turned on her heel and bolted from the courtroom, her steps hurried as she fled the suffocating atmosphere. The doors loomed ahead, and she pushed them open with more force than she intended, the sound echoing behind her as she escaped into the hallway.

The servants in the corridor turned at the commotion, their eyes narrowing as they took in her disheveled appearance. Murmurs began to ripple through the gathered workers, whispers that carried venom and disdain.

"I told you, she’s his whore now," one woman hissed, her voice dripping with contempt.

"Look at her," another sneered, gesturing toward Amelia with a sharp jerk of her chin. "Waltzing back here like she’s better than us. Guess spreading her legs for the king has its perks."

"Shameful," an older servant muttered under her breath.

Amelia’s steps faltered for a brief moment, her face burning as the hateful words reached her ears. But she kept her head high, refusing to let them see her break. She clutched the veil tighter, her nails digging into the soft fabric as she quickened her pace toward her room.

"Slut," someone whispered harshly as she passed, the word striking her like a physical blow.

"She thinks she’s special," another voice added, cruel and mocking. "She’ll learn soon enough that Malcolm doesn’t keep his toys for long."

Amelia’s vision blurred, but she bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop the tears threatening to fall. She would not cry in front of them, would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her pain.

Finally, she reached her small room in the servant quarters, the thin wooden door a barrier against the cacophony of judgmental whispers. She stepped inside and closed it behind her, leaning against the door as the weight of the evening crashed over her.

She sank onto the bed, her body trembling as she unclenched her hands and let the veil fall onto her lap.

The door creaked open without warning, breaking the silence. A young servant girl stepped in.

It was Mia.

Amelia had noticed her before—a curious figure with a broad chest that seemed out of proportion to her narrow hips. She had always found Mia's appearance peculiar, even comical in a way, though she had never said it aloud. Mia had a strange energy about her, an almost mischievous boldness that set her apart from the other servants.

Amelia ignored her at first, hoping the girl would take the hint and leave. But Mia didn’t move. Instead, she sat down unceremoniously on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight.

Her eyes, wide and glinting with mischief, fixed on Amelia’s hands. Without a word, she reached out and snatched the veil, her fingers nimble as she held it up and examined it like a toy.

“Pretty,” she said mockingly, twirling it between her fingers. “So delicate. Just like you, I suppose.”

Amelia stiffened, her grip tightening on the edge of the bed. She wanted to snatch the veil back, but something about Mia’s audacity made her freeze.

Mia’s voice turned sing-song, and she began to hum a crude melody, one that grated on Amelia’s nerves. Her words became lyrics, low and teasing, but sharp enough to cut.

"Little whore,

Creeping out the king’s grand door.

A veil to hide, a gown to wear,

But we all know what happened there.”

Amelia’s jaw clenched, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. Mia’s laughter was light and airy, as if she found her own mockery amusing.

The song stopped abruptly, and Mia leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“So,” she said, tilting her head, her grin wicked and unapologetic. “Is the king’s cock as big as they say?”

The question struck Amelia like a slap. Her body went rigid, her hands clenching into fists as her breath caught in her throat.

Mia noticed her reaction and giggled, clearly enjoying the discomfort she was causing. She twirled the veil again, this time wrapping it around her own neck like a scarf.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” she asked, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Come on, Amelia. We’re all curious. Does he take his time with you, or is he quick and rough? Does he—”

“Stop.”

Amelia’s voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through Mia’s crude chatter like a knife. But Mia ignored her, leaning in closer, her words becoming more explicit with every breath.

“Does he whisper sweet nothings in your ear? Or does he—”

“Stop it!”

Amelia shot to her feet, her anger surging like a wave. Her eyes burned with a fury she hadn’t felt in years, and her hands trembled at her sides.

Mia, startled by the sudden outburst, blinked and leaned back slightly. But her smirk didn’t falter.

“Touched a nerve, did I?” she said, her tone mocking. “I guess that means he’s not so gentle after all.”

Amelia took a step forward, her voice low and trembling with barely contained rage.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mia raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by the warning. She stretched out on the bed, her posture relaxed as if she owned the room.

“Oh, but I do,” she said airily. “You think the rest of us don’t hear the whispers? Don’t see the way he looks at you? You’re his new favorite little plaything, aren’t you?”

Amelia’s nails dug into her palms, and her breathing grew heavier.

“You have no idea what you talking about,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mia shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe not. But I know what I see. And what I see is a girl who thinks she’s better than the rest of us because the king is  playing with her.”

Amelia snapped. Her hand shot out and grabbed the veil from Mia’s grasp, yanking it away with such force that the girl gasped.

“Get out,” Amelia hissed, her voice venomous.

Mia stared at her for a moment, her smirk faltering as she registered the intensity of Amelia’s anger. But she quickly recovered, rising to her feet with a shrug.

“Fine,” she said, brushing past Amelia on her way to the door. “But don’t think for a second that you’re any different from the rest of us. He’ll tire of you eventually. They always do.”

With that, she sauntered out of the room, leaving Amelia standing there, trembling with fury and clutching the veil like it was her lifeline.

Amelia stared at the door as it closed behind Mia, her knuckles still white from clutching the veil. Why would she even think that? Her mind replayed Mia’s mocking words, each one hitting her like a stone. Just because he pulled her onto his lap, now suddenly she was a whore?Her stomach churned at the absurdity of it.

Her gaze fell to the veil in her hands, the fabric a fragile reminder of her unraveling life. She was tired. Tired of the whispers, tired of the stares, tired of being a pawn in a game she didn’t understand.

The palace had become a gilded cage, its grandeur suffocating. Its halls, once filled with laughter and light, were now shadows of deceit and cruelty. And in this place, she was nothing more than a broken bird, her wings clipped by the very people she had once called family.

Her thoughts drifted, seeking an escape. Maybe if I became a wife, she thought. The idea took root, strange and desperate. She didn’t care who—maybe a guard, a nobleman, even a servant. A husband would mean freedom, wouldn’t it? He would take her far from here, to a house of their own, where she could leave behind the weight of the palace and its endless torment.

She imagined it briefly—a modest home, somewhere beyond the reach of Malcolm, Viktor, even Xander. Somewhere where her name wouldn’t be spoken in sneers or hushed tones. A place where she could be just Amelia, free of the ghosts of her past.

Her mind clung to the thought like a lifeline, the idea of escape pulling her from the darkness. It didn’t matter if the life she imagined was far from what she once dreamed. A simple existence was far better than the dungeon she had endured.

And it was certainly better than this palace, with its poisoned air and its endless games.

Her fingers smoothed the veil absently as she stared out the small window of her room, the stars above blurred by the haze of her tears.

Anything—she thought, her heart heavy with determination—anything would be better than this.