The night was a sight to behold. A velvety expanse of darkness stretched across the heavens, littered with countless silver stars. Their twinkling reflections danced upon the polished pavement, giving the illusion of diamonds scattered across the ground.
Pedestrians moved briskly along the stone sidewalks, their hushed conversations blending into the distant hum of the city.
A woman moved among them, her gloved hands tucked into the pockets of her tailored pants. Her strawberry-blonde hair was gathered into a loose, messy bun, wisps of it slipping free with each step. Without hesitation, she entered the one place where she found an unexplainable sense of peace—aside from home.
There was something about this place, something that calmed her restless mind.
"Madam, please—ohh, erm, I-I'm sorry!"
A flustered steward had stepped forward, only to falter the moment he met her piercing gaze. His words stumbled over themselves, and in a desperate attempt to placate her, he bowed. Then bowed again. And again.
She walked past him without a word, leaving him nodding frantically at empty air, like a fool who had just performed for an unseen audience.
The passersby tried to suppress their laughter, but the effort was futile. Chuckles rippled through the gallery's grand halls.
A deep blush crept over the steward's freckled cheeks, burning its way up to the tips of his ears and the very roots of his almost-bald head.
"For a second there, I held my breath, thinking he had a death wish," a stewardess whispered to her coworker as they pushed a trolley cart stacked with delicate champagne flutes and golden pastries.
The gallery's guests—those with the power and wealth to be here—barely noticed the commotion.
Back Steps.
That was the name of the grand art museum, the largest in Country A. A place where history was told through the strokes of a brush, where past and future blurred into vivid, haunting depictions.
It was a world that only the elite could afford to enter, where millions, even billions, were spent on a single painting.
Not out of frivolity.
But because they understood.
They knew the worth of art, felt its echoes in ways the middle and lower class could never comprehend.
Money didn't just grant privilege—it granted the ability to feel certain things.
The museum had gained its name over time, its legacy rooted in its uncanny ability to depict both the past and the future.
Back Steps.
A fitting name for a place that walked its visitors through history, one masterpiece at a time.
The woman moved through the hallways, her steps light yet deliberate. And then she stopped.
Before it.
A simple painting, yet captivating in its raw emotion.
A woman stood with her head tilted toward the heavens, tears streaking down her jade-like skin. The brushwork was so meticulous that the tears almost seemed real, as if they could slip from the canvas at any moment.
Her cupid's bow lips were painfully pursed, as if she were trying to swallow her grief, to hold it in.
Opposite the painting hung another piece. The same woman.
Draped in an all-black cloak that swallowed her figure, leaving only her delicate face exposed.
She stood before the ruins of an ancient temple, its walls crumbling with the weight of time.
This time, her head was turned toward the viewer.
Her eyes, however, were closed.
The gallery was filled with more paintings of the cloaked woman, each depicting her in different settings and eras. Yet one eerie detail remained unchanged—her closed eyes and the unmistakable sorrow etched onto her face.
Not a single painting showed her with open eyes.
Not a single one depicted joy.
It should have been unsettling, even unnerving, but instead, she felt a pull—an inexplicable yearning toward the art.
She wanted to reach out, to brush her fingers across the canvas, to erase the pain from the woman's features.
But she ignored the feeling.
Shoving it down, she moved on, allowing herself to be captivated by the other mesmerizing artworks that made Back Steps live up to its legendary name.
Yet, while she was busy admiring the art—
He was busy admiring her.
From her unblemished, round face to the sinful curves hidden beneath her tailored attire, his gaze followed her, drinking in every detail.
---
The empress pressed her fingers to her temples, her head heavy with the weight of the decision before her.
They had to tell their son.
By now, he had likely already heard the whispers. As the future emperor, it would be disgraceful for him not to know of the affairs unfolding within his own empire—especially when those affairs involved him directly.
But it was their duty as parents to ensure he heard it from them.
That was where the real challenge lay.
"Your Imperial Majesty, dinner will be served in five minutes."
The soft voice of a maid broke through her troubled thoughts, pulling her back to the present.
---
As the empress entered the grand dining hall, the servants lowered their heads in unison, their voices a harmonious chorus of greetings.
Her presence commanded reverence, and yet, her grace was effortless.
She walked toward the vast dining table—large enough to accommodate a hundred guests—her movements fluid, her waist swaying naturally to an unheard melody composed for her ears alone.
Though turmoil raged within her, it did little to dull the elegance that bled from her like the Arthanber Lake.
Such poise was not easily attained.
It was either a gift from the gods—
Or the result of years of merciless refinement.
---
"Victoria, please, not now." Arnold groaned, rubbing his temple.
The search for Ambrosia was already driving him to an early grave. The last thing he needed was to endure another of Victoria's endless tirades.
But she wasn't one to be ignored.
"If your people can't find her, then I think you should go see a witch. There has to be something they can do."
"There's no need for that." Arnold exhaled sharply. "The High Priestess knows something—we just don't know what yet."
Victoria scoffed.
"The High Priestess?"
The laughter that left her lips was anything but amused.
"And what makes you think she'll share? We all know what kind of person Akeeva is. She'll likely say, 'Am I supposed to know the whereabouts of your daughter? Don't come crying to me.'"
Arnold's patience thinned.
"Victoria." His voice dropped, ice creeping into his tone. "As much as I am your husband, I am also your king. You will know your place and not disrespect me."
Bloodlust and dominance rolled off him in a suffocating wave, forcing Victoria to bow her head against her will.
She had resisted.
She had fought it.
But in the end, submission was inevitable.
"As I said before, don't be ungrateful and childish."
Victoria seethed.
She had only been trying to warn him because she cared for him.
And this—this was how he repaid her? Scolding her as if she were some ungrateful child?
Fine.
Let him do as he pleased.
But when the consequences of his choices came crashing down upon him, she wouldn't be there to soften the blow.
His behavior toward her had changed.
And she knew exactly who to blame for it.
Ambrosia.
The mere thought of her sent a fresh wave of hatred surging through Victoria's veins.
No matter how indifferent or rebellious she acted toward her husband, there was still a tiny, whispering part of her that feared him.
Arnold was not a man to be trifled with.
At first glance, one might mistake him for a calm and composed king.
But that was a deadly miscalculation.
Beneath the deceptive innocence of his face lay a ruler whose grip on power was unshakable.
A ruler who stood at the top of the food chain in Amber Kingdom.
A ruler who did not forgive.
---
FLASHBACK
Years ago, when Victoria had first learned that Arnold had chosen her—
As his mate.
As his queen.
As his life partner.
Her mother had sat her down for a final lesson. A lesson in love, power, and survival.
"My daughter."
The older woman's eyes had been sharp, piercing through Victoria's very soul.
"You cannot fool your parents. We have known since the very first day that you began seeing the prince."
"We know he loves you. But never forget—no king is as innocent as he appears."
Her mother had sighed then, brushing a hand down Victoria's arm, grounding her.
"We know about your temper."
Victoria swallowed.
"And I am certain he knows of it too. He has seen it firsthand. And still, he chose you."
"But remember this."
The room had seemed to still, the weight of her mother's words pressing into her bones.
"A man can endure many things."
"But he will never tolerate his pride being trampled upon. Not even by you—his beloved queen."
"Tread carefully, my daughter."
END OF FLASHBACK
Victoria wiped a stray tear from her flushed cheek.
She had let herself get too comfortable.
She had forgotten her mother's warning.
But no longer.
She would reclaim what was hers.
And if that meant dragging Ambrosia to hell with her—
So be it.
---
"You look troubled, my love."
The emperor's voice was smooth, laced with quiet concern.
"I'm fine." Adira answered with a practiced smile.
But he saw through it.
He always did.
Still, not wanting to make a scene before the servants, he simply said—
"I'm your husband."
A simple statement.
Yet one that carried countless unspoken meanings.
Don't lie to me.
Don't pretend.
This conversation isn't over.
Adira sighed.
"Trust me, honey, I'm really fine."
She didn't want to burden him. Not when he already had the weight of an empire on his shoulders.
"Come to my chambers tonight."
Her gaze snapped to his, ready to glare—
But in the end, she only sighed in defeat.
Because she knew—
Knew that he knew.
And that no matter how much she tried to evade him now, there would be no escaping him tonight.
---
Whispers slithered through the castle corridors the moment the empress stepped into the emperor's chambers.
It had been years since she last crossed that threshold.
And in a palace where gossip was an unspoken currency, the servants couldn't help but talk.
"Trust me, something is definitely going on," one servant murmured, eyes darting around cautiously.
"They already have two grown children, and it's been a while since they… you know—"
"Take your mind out of the gutters, girl!"
Her partner shot her a stern glare, though the faintest flicker of curiosity glowed in her own eyes.
The royals knew about their servants' gossiping escapades, but getting caught in the act? That was an entirely different matter—one that would cost them more than just their loose tongues.
"I mean," the first servant whispered, still undeterred, *"I get that they're older now… but they're not old."
And that was the irresistible sweetness of gossip.
The unknown.
The what if?
---
Inside the emperor's chambers…
Dante gazed into his wife's troubled eyes, naked worry flickering within his own.
Here, they were alone.
No kingdom. No subjects. No expectations.
There was no need for masks.
Cupping her beautiful face in his large, calloused hands, he brushed his thumbs gently across her cheeks.
"I'm okay, my love."
Her whisper was fragile, trembling, but the tears gathering in her eyes betrayed her.
She wasn't okay.
She didn't have to pretend—not before him.
Not before the love of her life.
The dam broke.
Silent tears spilled freely, warm against his hands, searing against his heart.
Dante clenched his jaw, an ache settling deep in his chest. He hated seeing her like this—so burdened, so exhausted from always being strong.
If he could, he would lock her away.
Hide her.
Protect her and their daughter from the merciless world beyond these castle walls.
But they were rulers.
And weakness was a luxury neither of them could afford.
Bending closer, he pressed his lips to hers—a kiss soft yet desperate, as if trying to pull her pain into himself.
He sucked on her lower lip, a silent plea for entry. She granted it eagerly, melting into him, aching for his warmth.
In that moment, there was no empress.
No crown.
No burdens.
There was only a woman—his woman—seeking comfort in the arms of the man she loved.
She wanted to forget.
Forget duty. Forget pain. Forget everything.
Dante slid the silk straps of her nightgown down her shoulders, his breath hitching as her bare skin was unveiled before his hungry gaze.
Gods, how he had missed her.
"I'm going to make everything right, my love."
His promise was a whisper against her lips, but it sent pleasurable shivers rippling down her spine.
She nodded, her eyes locking onto his. The royal purple of his irises darkened—deepening into the blood-red hue of his desire.
"It feels like forever since I last drowned in your warmth."
A soft moan of longing escaped her lips as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, claiming his lips once more.
Heat pooled in her lower belly, her body responding to his touch, her desire igniting like a long-forgotten flame.
Tonight, she wouldn't be the empress.
She would only be his.
---
Alaric was too calm.
And that was the problem.
The rage was there, simmering beneath his skin like molten lava, but instead of erupting—
It was contained.
Silent.
And that silence was suffocating.
He knew the rumors were true.
But hearing it from his parents? That was what truly sent cracks through his composure.
Still, he gave nothing away.
Alaric was infamous for his cold, detached calmness.
And tonight, he upheld it.
"I'm going to drive around town for a while."
His voice was steady, betraying nothing.
"I'm coming with you."
He didn't protest.
Didn't argue.
Just shrugged as if to say, Suit yourself.
Then, without another word, he turned and left—trying to escape the weight pressing down on his chest.
---
The moment he saw her, he moved.
It wasn't a conscious decision.
It wasn't planned.
His body acted before his mind could catch up.
And by the time he realized what he was doing—
It was already too late to turn back.
He was standing directly behind her.
Close enough to inhale the addictive scent of her hair.
Close enough to feel the warmth of her presence.
Close enough to know—
That whatever pull she had on him was something he couldn't ignore.
Not anymore.