I knew it was coming, but I still wasn’t ready when I saw his face on every screen. Dorian stood behind a podium draped in Marell colors, sleeves rolled, voice calm and controlled. “I still love my wife,” he said, as if it were truth and not strategy. “And I never stopped.”
The press ate it up. They called it brave. Romantic. Noble. They looped the clip on every network, set it to soft piano music, pulled out our wedding footage like we were a love story begging for redemption. I watched it in silence, jaw locked. My hand gripped the armrest of the chair until my knuckles turned white.
He was rewriting the story, word by word. And no one questioned it. I turned off the screen and walked straight to the strategy wing. My heels echoed across the marble as aides stepped aside. I didn’t look at anyone. I didn’t need sympathy. I needed space to think.
I sat at the long glass table and opened a clean sheet of paper. I drew three columns: public perception, internal risks, leverage. If he wanted to play this through charm and manipulation, I would counter with preparation. I had no interest in winning their hearts. I would win their decisions.
That afternoon, one of the senior council members pulled me aside after a committee briefing.
“Just between us,” he said, smiling, “there’s growing belief that reconciliation might be… beneficial.” He couched it in soft language. Peace. Unity. Stability. But the truth beneath it was clear: the public liked Dorian’s version better than mine.
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I said. He nodded, pleased with himself. I walked away, boiling.
By late afternoon, the palace press room was filled with new questions. Most weren’t about policy. They were about Dorian. Did I plan to respond? Would I consider returning to the marriage? Would I acknowledge his public affection?
I kept it short. “There’s no comment at this time.” “Our focus remains on governance.” But it didn’t matter what I said. It was all measured against the one word he offered—love. He said it once. They echoed it a hundred times.
That evening, I met with Calan. He didn’t bring it up directly, but the subject hovered in the space between every word.
“This could settle things,” he said carefully. “They like resolution.”
“They liked me more when I stayed quiet,” I replied. “Now they want the tragedy to have a happy ending.” He looked at me for a moment, then nodded.
“Just make sure it’s your ending. Not his.”
Back in my rooms, I tried to write a speech, but every version made me look bitter or weak. If I defended myself, it would be spun as petty. If I said nothing, I looked like I had something to hide. He knew exactly how to trap me. Say one word, and he could claim victimhood.
Jasper came to the door without knocking. He didn’t ask for permission anymore. He just walked in and leaned against the frame like he was holding up the wall.
“He’s gaining traction,” he said.
“I know.”
“They’re calling it sincere. Selfless. They’re calling you proud.”
I turned toward him. “Because if I’m proud, I must be cold. And if I’m cold, he must be warm.”
He nodded once. “And if he’s warm, they’ll forgive anything.”
I didn’t want to hear it, but I needed to. “So what do you suggest I do?”
He studied me. “Just don’t let him near you again.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You think I would?”
“I think he knows exactly which parts of you still remember him. And I think he’ll use them.” I stayed silent. My hands were steady, but my heart wasn’t.
Jasper’s voice dropped lower. His jaw clenched, just a bit.
“If he gets near you again,” he said, “I walk.”