I slammed the door harder than I meant to. The files hit the table in a loud slap, and my heels echoed too sharply as I walked across the room. I didn’t cry. I didn’t collapse. I was burning, and no one had the right to ask me to be calm.
Jasper stopped near the window, silent. Always there. Always watching. But this time, I didn’t care who saw the fire.
“I’m so tired of being used,” I said, dragging a hand through my hair. “By the council. By the Marells. By every advisor who tells me to play nice so the press won’t panic.”
He let me rage.
“They keep saying it’s strategy. That if I smile a little more, stand a little softer, they’ll stop seeing me as a threat. But I’ve played that part before. And I ended up married to someone who wanted to erase me.”
I threw off my shoes, hard enough to make a sharp knock on the floor. “I stood next to Dorian and pretended it meant nothing. I let him touch my hand. I let the world cheer for a lie.”
Jasper still didn’t speak. But he turned. Slowly. And walked to the couch.
“I’m not grieving,” I said, pacing again. “I’m furious. And I keep swallowing it because they told me I’d seem unstable. Do you know how insane it is to be labeled ‘unstable’ for being angry at people who humiliated you?”
He didn’t answer.
“I watched Isolde smile in the front row like she was proud. Like I was back where I belonged: quiet, next to him, wearing someone else’s narrative.”
My voice cracked and I hated it. Not from weakness, but from how long I’d held it in. I sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, fists in my lap. “I want to scream and ruin every headline they wrote today.”
“You should,” Jasper said. It was just two words. But it broke the tension in the air. I looked up at him.
“You think that’d help?”
“No,” he said. “But I think you deserve the space to be mad.”
I leaned back, sinking into the cushions. “They keep saying I represent legacy. I represent hope. But I feel like a prop. Like I’m being held up as proof of progress while they plan their next betrayal behind my back.”
“You’re not a prop,” he said. “You’re the reason they’re nervous.”
I swallowed hard. “Then why do I feel like I’m still asking for permission?”
“Because they’ve trained you to.”
We sat in silence for a while. I didn’t fill it. Neither did he. Then, softer, I said, “I didn’t let them win when I left that house. I didn’t let them win when I came back. But it feels like they’re still here, clapping every time I fail.”
Jasper leaned forward, forearms on his knees.
“They win every time you hold back.”
I nodded slowly. “Then maybe I stop holding back.”
He glanced at me. “You ready for that?”
“I think I’ve been ready,” I said. “I just didn’t believe I was allowed.”
“You don’t need permission anymore,” he said. “You’re not theirs to manage.”
I turned toward him fully. “Don’t let them win.” He didn’t hesitate. “Then stop letting them walk in front of you. I’m still behind you.”
I leaned against his shoulder. And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I was performing. I didn’t feel watched. I felt safe.