The world wanted a reunion; I gave them a war. The plaza was already packed when I arrived. Cameras lined the barriers. Reporters called my name with too-smooth smiles. Behind them, the crowd buzzed with eager anticipation—not for policy or progress, but for spectacle. And standing at the center of it all was Dorian Marell.
He looked exactly as he was meant to—every detail calculated for sympathy. Tailored navy suit, open collar, eyes soft and rehearsed. He stepped forward like the whole moment had been scripted. Maybe it had.
I walked toward the platform with my back straight and chin high. This wasn’t for him. This was to show the nation I wasn’t hiding.
As soon as I reached him, he smiled for the cameras.
“Elyse,” he said warmly, too loudly. “You look radiant.”
I didn’t answer. I turned toward the press with the calm they expected and none of the feeling. Then he reached for my hand. It was subtle—just enough for the cameras to see, just long enough to spark headlines.
“Let’s do this,” he murmured, still holding my hand. “For the nation.”
I clenched my jaw. I didn’t pull away, not with every lens on us. But I leaned in just enough for him to hear me.
“I’d rather die than come back to you.”
His smile didn’t falter. “Still dramatic, I see.”
“Still rotten,” I said.
As the press surged forward, Dorian angled his body toward mine just enough to block the worst of the flashes. It was a clever gesture, the kind that looked protective from the outside. But I knew better. Everything he did was choreographed.
“You could at least pretend,” he murmured without moving his smile.
“I’m already pretending not to slap you,” I replied under my breath. He chuckled, the sound low and smug. “That temper. You always did have trouble hiding it.”
“And you always had trouble earning it,” I snapped.
The cameras caught none of it. To them, we were still side by side, still the picture of reconciliation. I wanted to scream, but I blinked instead. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable.
“You should be thanking me,” he said quietly. “You’re more popular than ever.”
“That’s because I left you.”
“That’s because I let you.”
I turned my head just slightly, enough to show teeth without a smile. “You didn’t let me. You lost me. And now you’re trying to package it as patriotism.”
“For the nation,” he echoed, louder this time, for the benefit of those recording. I leaned in close, lips barely moving.
“The nation deserves better than a lie dressed up for the press.”
He held my hand tighter. Not rough. Just enough to keep the illusion.
“I know what they want,” he said. “And it’s not a war between us.”
“No,” I whispered. “It’s a coronation. And they want to know who’s still standing at the end.”
When the address ended, he stepped back half a pace. His fingers brushed mine again like muscle memory.
I pulled away fast. He kept his voice pleasant. “I’ll see you at the next council?”
“If I feel like watching something rot in daylight.” I walked faster, heels clicking hard on the stone.
Behind me, the crowd began to cheer, my eyes spotted Isolde in the crowd. She might be the only person who understood what just happened there. And the worst part is, she seemed satisfied with it.
Still, I didn’t slow until the last shutter had faded. Then I heard the voice that cut through it all. Jasper.
“Next time, I won’t let you go alone.”