The words hang in the air between us, impossible and absolute.
I stare at him, certain I misheard, certain this is some cruel trick, another manipulation in a long line of betrayals. But Leander's expression is raw, stripped of all the masks he's worn since I arrived at Reaton.
No king, no carefully maintained dignity—just a man who's destroyed everything and finally sees it.
"Say that again," I whisper.
"I believe you." He takes a step toward me, then stops, as if unsure whether he has the right to come closer. "About the children. About Cecily. About everything."
My knees threaten to give out. I grip the back of the nearest chair to keep myself upright. "You... How long have you known?"
"Known?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "I didn't know anything with certainty until two days ago. But I've suspected, I've been investigating since the night of the ball. Since our conversation on that balcony."
He moves to his desk, picks up a stack of papers, then sets them down again without looking at them. His hands shake slightly.
"I couldn't stop thinking about what you said. About the deaths—the midwife, the physician, all the witnesses dying within weeks of the births. So I started questioning people—quietly, carefully. Anyone who might know something but wasn't important enough for Cecily to have eliminated."
"And?" My voice comes out hoarse.
"I found a servant, a girl who worked in the kitchens, who'd been approached by Cecily months before either of you went into labor."
He finally looks at me, and I see anguish in his blue eyes.
"Cecily offered her money—a substantial amount—to spread rumors if needed. To testify that she'd seen you acting strangely, making threats. The girl took the money but was too frightened to actually do anything."
"Until Cecily called in the debt."
"Yes. And she's not the only one. There are at least four others who were paid in advance, positioned to provide 'evidence' of your instability if it became necessary."
He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end.
"Cecily planned this months ago, Sybil. Before either of you even gave birth."
The cold calculation of it steals my breath. "She planned to steal my children before they were even born."
"Or eliminated." His voice breaks. "And I… I accepted it all. Believed every lie because it was easier than questioning. Because after eight dead babies, why would the ninth be different? Because I couldn't bear to look at another wrapped body, so I just... trusted what I was told."
The fury that's been simmering since the guards burst into my room finally boils over.
"Then why did you arrest me?" The words come out cold, sharp as ice. "If you believe me, if you've been investigating, why did you lock me in my chambers for three days? Why let me think I'd lost everything?"
He flinches like I've struck him. "Because I was still gathering evidence. Because I needed to be absolutely certain before I moved against Cecily."
"Then explain it to me." I'm shaking now, months of suppressed rage finally breaking free. "Make me understand why you thought imprisoning me was the right choice. Why your investigation mattered more than my freedom."
He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is heavy with regret.
"Because the moment I showed any sign of doubting Cecily, any hesitation about the charges against you, she would have known. She would have realized I was turning against her, and she would have struck first."
"Struck how?"
"Eliminated more witnesses, destroyed evidence, perhaps even targeted you directly."
His hands grip the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles go white.
"The guards outside your door weren't just keeping you imprisoned, Sybil. They were keeping you safe. Cecily's agents couldn't reach you while you were under official arrest."
"You used me as bait," I say slowly.
"No, I used the arrest to buy time without arousing suspicion." He finally looks at me directly. "Cecily expected me to lock you away. By giving her what she expected, I kept her from realizing I was gathering evidence against her."
"For my own good," I say, and the words taste bitter. "You imprisoned me for my own good."
"I know how that sounds." His voice cracks. "I know it doesn't erase the hurt, doesn't make those three days of isolation and terror disappear. But Sybil, if I'd shown my hand too early, if Cecily had realized I believed you, she would have killed you. And I couldn't… I couldn't let that happen."
I want to rage at him. Want to scream that his justification changes nothing, that strategic thinking doesn't erase three days of believing I'd lost everything. But beneath the fury, I hear the genuine anguish in his voice.
We stand in heavy silence, the wreckage of our past littering the space between us. All the miscarriages and stillbirths. All the distance and coldness. All the ways we failed each other, destroyed what we once had through a thousand small betrayals and misguided choices.
"I've made nothing but wrong choices where you're concerned. From the moment the losses started, I've hurt you."
Leander says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Even my attempts to protect you—pulling away to spare you more pregnancies, taking Cecily to secure the succession, distancing myself emotionally—all of it became weapons that wounded rather than shielded."
"Yes," I agree quietly. "They did."
"And now even believing you, even trying to do the right thing, I've managed to cause more pain." He moves to the sideboard, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. "I don't know how to make this right, Sybil. I don't know if I can."
He pours with steady hands despite everything, the wine dark as blood in crystal glasses. When he hands one to me, our fingers brush, and I feel the ghost of what we used to be—young and in love and certain we could overcome anything.
"A toast," he says quietly, raising his glass. "To truth, finally spoken. To justice delayed but finally coming."
I raise my glass, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should. "To truth."
Our glasses meet with a soft clink that sounds too loud in the quiet room. Leander drinks, but I can’t shake off the feeling of undone business. There’s still something that doesn’t sit right with me, that’s not letting me relax and enjoy the beverage.
Leander sets his glass down, watching me with those blue eyes that once looked at me with such love. That’s when I ask:
"What happens now?"
"Now?" He takes another sip. "Now we move against Cecily, use the gathered evidence. We reclaim our sons and restore them to you."
"Will you tell them?" I ask. "When they're old enough to understand? Will you tell them about me? About what their mother did to claim them?"
"Cecily won't be their mother." His voice hardens with determination. "She'll be in prison. Or executed for conspiracy and murder. The evidence we have—it's enough to destroy her completely."
"And the kingdom?" I gesture at the crown sitting on his desk. "What will they think of their king whose wife orchestrated such elaborate deception? Who eliminated witnesses and stole children?"
"They'll think I was a fool." He says it without hesitation. "They'll be right. But I'd rather be a fool who did the right thing eventually than a king who protected a murderer."
We fall into silence again, both of us processing everything that's been said, everything that can't be unsaid. The spoken words are loosening some of the tension that's held me rigid since the guards burst into my chambers.
"Tomorrow," he says suddenly. "Tomorrow I'm making this public."
My breath catches. "Tomorrow? So soon?"
"It has to be." He moves to his desk, shuffling through the papers stacked there. "Every day I wait is another day Cecily has to discover what I know, to destroy evidence, to strike first. Duke Phideus agrees—we move decisively or we lose our advantage."
The finality of it makes me dizzy. Cecily, gone. My sons returned to me. The truth finally revealed to everyone.
"Everything will go back to the way it should have been," he continues, warming to the vision. "Cecily defeated, justice served, our sons with their true mother. The kingdom will know the truth—that you were wronged, that you were always right, that you fought for your children against impossible odds."
He raises his glass, his movements energetic now, almost excited. For the first time since I've seen him, he looks like the young man I married—full of hope, certain that right will prevail.
"This deserves a proper celebration," he says. "A second toast. To tomorrow. To truth triumphant. To justice finally coming for those who've suffered too long."
His eyes are bright, his smile genuine. He truly believes this. Believes that tomorrow everything changes, that we can put the nightmare behind us and rebuild something better.
I raise my glass to meet his, even as something uneasy shifts in my stomach. "To tomorrow."
________________