#ihatethischapter

It was your third life.

The first taught you silence. The second taught you desperation.

But the third, this one, taught you love.

by the time fate spun you into this body, you already knew what the curse could do.

So you were born cold. You vowed to never love too deeply or to feel too much. You were a princess in this life, one who scowled too much and smiled too little unlike your brother, who was younger than you but loved by everyone from the court to the commoners.

You kept your hands gloved so no one would see how tightly they shook. You kept your voice calm so no one would hear the cracks.

They called you "Your Grace."

But behind closed doors, they called you the bitch who was too self centered.

You were fine with that. You wanted it that way. Because you carried the scars of every life before this, the loss, the heartbreak, the cruel ache of loving someone who never remembered. That weight made you wary, made you guard your heart behind walls of silence.

That was the cruelest thing the curse could do. Make you remember everything... and make everyone else forget.

So you were cold to everyone, your own father once said you were hard to love.

And maybe he was right.

But then, you met him.

Megumi Fushiguro was a servant of the royal family low in rank, barely tolerated by the courtiers who whispered behind his back.

Yet his disdain for their greed and false smiles was impossible to hide.

He never bowed too low, never smiled when it wasn’t genuine. The court’s polished lies weighed on him, and more than once, he found himself in trouble for speaking too bluntly.

Where others chased your favor with flattery and falsehood, he met your scowl with a sharper one of his own.

Unlike the sycophants scrambling for your grace, Megumi never pretended. He never played the game.

His honesty was a blade cutting through the pretense of the palace and though it should have made him your enemy, it was the thing that drew you to him.

Because you, too, had learned to wear a mask but unlike the others, you saw through theirs and you desperately wanted to see through his.

You found him in the garden again.

Not that you were looking. Not that you'd admit it. You just happened to pass through at the same time every morning since you'd first seen him kneeling in the dirt, fingers covered in soil, face shaded by the brim of his plain cap. He didn't bow when you stepped close. He didn't stop working.

"Is that how you greet royalty?" you said flatly, standing just close enough to cast a shadow over the flower bed he was tending.

He didn't look up. "Is that how royalty shows gratitude? Blocking the light?"

The silence between you crackled.

"You're bold," you said eventually, more observation than insult.

"Not bold," he said, still not glancing your way. "Just not interested in pretending."

Something in you tightened. Was it admiration or hatred? You didn't know.

"You'll get in trouble, speaking like that."

"I usually do."

His honesty should've irritated you. Instead, it stirred something. You folded your hands behind your back.

"You should smile more" he added suddenly, brushing dirt from his palms. "Isn't that what they say about vou? The other commoners i mean."

Your mouth opened then shut.

It wasn’t mocking. Just observant. A mirror held too close.

“I’m not here to be charming,” you said voice sharp.

“Good.” He finally looked up, straight at you. “Because you’re not.”

You blinked.

And he turned back to his work like you were no different than the weeds he pulled.

You stood there a moment longer, heat blooming low in your chest. Not anger. Not quite.

You weren’t sure what it was yet.

So you left.

But you came back the next day.

You shouldn't have come back.You told yourself that before you stepped into the garden. Told yourself again when your foot crunched against the gravel path and you saw him kneeling in a different spot from where he'd been yesterday, sleeves pushed to his elbows, wrist and porcelain cheek smudged with dirt.

Unbothered. Unbowed.

He didn’t glance your way. “You missed a weed,” you said coolly, pointing toward the cluster near the root of the rose bush.

He didn’t even pause. “You missed the door. This isn’t your wing.”

You crossed your arms. “Bold of a servant to speak about royal wings.”

“Bold of a royal to wander so far from her throne,” he shot back, finally glancing up. “Unless you’ve grown tired of being worshipped.”

You raised your chin. “I wouldn’t expect a man who bows for no one to understand the burden of being revered.”

“Burden?” He snorted actually snorted. “Must be hard. All that praise and luxury. You poor thing.”

You took a step forward. The hem of your dress brushed the edge of his garden. “You’re awfully mouthy for someone who scrubs the halls.”

He stood now. Not out of deference. Just to level his gaze with yours.

“And you’re awfully nosy for someone who claims not to care about the lower ranks.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I don’t care?”

“You carry yourself like we’re all beneath your boots.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t,” you said, voice like ice cracking, “if any of you tried to rise above the dirt.” The air stilled. The garden somehow quieter than before.

Then, “I’ll remember that next time I’m feeding your roses,” he said. “They bloom better when they’re left alone.”

Your throat tightened but you wouldn’t let him see it. So you smiled, sweet and sharp. “And here I thought they bloomed because of you. My mistake.”

He smirked. Just faintly. “Everyone makes them, Princess.” You left before he could say anything else, your dress sweeping against the gravel. But your heart was beating too loud, and you hated that it was.

And tomorrow?

You already knew you’d return.

The third morning brought with it the familiar hush of silence. The garden was still damp from a light dawn rain, and the scent of turned soil and crushed herbs hung thick in the air. You were already there before he arrived this time. Not because you meant to be, of course.

You just happened to have nowhere better to be. That’s all.

Megumi entered through the west gate, carrying a worn basket of tools and the same distant expression he always wore like this palace, this world, was just something he was tolerating.

He didn’t greet you.

You were used to bows. To grand, overzealous gestures and overblown words meant to earn favor. He gave you none of that.

You were standing by the rosebush again, gloves on, arms loosely crossed. You didn’t look at him until you spoke.

“You're late.”

He glanced up only slightly, brow already furrowed with a day’s work he hadn’t even started.

“By whose clock?”

“Mine,” you replied, coolly. Megumi crouched beside a bed of herbs. “Then perhaps you should have brought a sundial.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I could have you reassigned for that tone.”

“You could,” he said, not looking up. “But then you’d be back to being bored.”

Your stomach tightened annoyance or amusement, it was hard to tell. He wasn’t wrong.

You walked over slowly, deliberately, heels muted against the moss-lined stone. “You talk as though I seek you out for entertainment.”

He paused, then glanced up at you from under his long gorgeous lashes. “Don’t you?”

Your eyes narrowed. “So confident for someone with dirt under his nails.”

He stood, wiping his hands on a cloth before tucking it away. “Better than having blood on them.”

The words hit sharper than he likely meant them to. You looked away first, lips tight. That flicker of memory blood on your hands from healing too late, too little, too often in your first life it rose too fast, too hot.

“Careful,” you warned, voice lower now. “You’re inching toward impertinent.”

“Just inching?” he asked.

A beat passed. Then, unexpectedly, you laughed. Quiet. Unpolished. Real.

Megumi blinked.

You didn’t explain it. You didn’t owe him that. Instead, you walked to the lavender stalks he’d half-pruned and knelt beside them, not caring for the silk of your dress brushing against the dirt.

“You missed a few stems,” you murmured.

He tilted his head. “You memorize the garden layout?”

“I memorize everything,” you said, running your fingers along the stems. “Occupational hazard.”

Megumi crouched beside you again, not too close. “Of being a royal?”

“Of being cursed,” you almost said. But instead you said, “Of being tired.”

He said nothing for a long time. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It just hung there. Like breath caught in a chest.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

“You don’t act like them.”

You glanced at him. “Like the other royals?”

He nodded.

You tilted your head, giving him a cold smile. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

He shrugged. “You’re not supposed to listen.”

Something about the honesty in his words scraped against something inside you. It made you feel exposed. And seen.

You stood then, brushing off the folds of your dress. “Enjoy your solitude, servant.”

He didn’t bow. Didn’t even look up. But just before you walked away, he muttered without malice, “Try not to trip over your own self importance next time, Your Grace.”

You turned around with mock offense, arching a brow. “Careful. I could still have you as my foot rest.”

“That’d be quieter.”

You stared at him. And he didn’t smirk, didn’t flinch. He just returned to trimming the lavender like you weren’t even there.

You hated how much you didn’t want to leave.

You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon. Not outside the gardens, not beyond the neat hedges and rose bushes.

But there he was arms full of linens, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in familiar concentration as he moved through the palace’s west corridor, the servant wing.

You’d gotten lost.

Not in direction. You knew every turn of this palace by heart. No, you’d gotten lost in a memory you hadn’t lived in this life. The scent of healing herbs or old booze had dragged you into a daze, and your feet had taken you to the servants wing, where no princess ever wandered

He saw you when he rounded the corner. He didn’t stop right away, just blinked once like he was registering you the way one registers a thundercloud: inconvenient, but not surprising.

“You’re in the way,” he said. Flat. Like fact. Like royalty meant nothing here.

You stepped aside half a pace, just enough to be difficult. “That’s not how you greet a princess.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

He kept walking didn’t even slow until you said,

“I wasn’t looking for you.”

He stopped.

Didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak.

But something in his posture shifted.

You swallowed, hating the way your own words lingered too long in the air between you.

You meant to sound sharp. Dismissive.

It came out softer than that. Like you were denying something.

When he finally turned to face you, the light from the window cut across his jaw in a way that made him look older. Or maybe just more tired.

“I didn’t ask if you were,” he said.

“I know,” you answered. “I just… wasn’t.”

He studied you for a beat. With sharp eyed awareness.

“You’re far from your corridors” he said.

“And you’re far from knowing your place.”

That earned a flicker of something in his expression. Not quite a smile. But not contempt, either.

“You don’t strike me as someone who likes being worshipped.”

You tilted your head. “And you don’t strike me as someone who enjoys breathing under monarchy.”

A pause.

Then, as if testing the waters: “Maybe we’re both right.” He moved past you then the soft rustle of fabric brushing against the silence but this time, when your shoulders touched briefly, neither of you stepped back.

He didn’t say anything more. Didn’t glance behind him.

But just before he disappeared around the bend, you caught him shaking his head, and you swore you heard it low and just amused enough to make your chest ache,

“…Wasn’t looking for me,” he muttered.

“Yeah right.”

And for once, you didn’t know if you hated the sound of your own heartbeat.

You don’t know when your meetings with him became less accidental and more deliberate.

And he doesn’t know when he started to linger longer in places you frequented, when his mornings felt wrong if he didn’t see your silhouette pass by.

But it happened.

Somewhere between silence and sparring, your conversations started to change. Still sharp, still dry but laced with a warmth neither of you dared name.

You mocked him for his stubbornness. He rolled his eyes at your theatrics. You told yourself you hated the way he never bowed. He told himself you were just another bored royal.

But you both started showing up.

You crossed the eastern courtyard more often now, just to pass the kitchen wing where he sometimes carried deliveries. He took the long route from the garden to the storage rooms, just in case you were at the window.

And if your eyes met?

He’d nod once. You’d raise a brow. No words. Just recognition. Once, you passed him in the corridor close enough your sleeves brushed and neither of you stepped away fast enough.

He looked down at your gloved hand, like he wanted to say something. But didn’t.

“You’re in my way,” you said.

“I was here first,” he muttered, and the tension between you tightened like pulled thread.

You could have moved. He could have. Neither of you did.

Until he finally stepped aside, and you hated the way something in your chest loosened like disappointment.

Another time, you found him cleaning silver in the antechamber. He barely glanced up.

“Don’t you have a throne to sit on?” he asked.

“Don’t you have boots to polish?” you shot back.

But you sat anyway. Across from him. Legs crossed. Watching his hands work.

You didn’t talk. He didn’t ask why you were there. But when he finished, he left one goblet unpolished and pushed it toward you.

“Its dirty,” you said flatly.

He didn’t smile. But his eyes flicked to yours, warm like dusk. “Then fix it.”

You did.

Not because he told you to.

But because for some reason, your fingers itched to hold something he touched.

You weren’t supposed to feel anything. That was the whole point.

But that evening, when your mother’s words cut sharper than they should’ve “Why can’t you be more like your brother?”

you didn’t retreat to your chambers. You didn’t go riding or pacing or screaming into a pillow like you might’ve in a different life.

You went looking for him.

You told yourself it was coincidence. That you were just walking. That the ache in your chest wasn’t pulling your feet down familiar corridors on purpose.

But when you found him shoulders bent over a stone basin near the outer courtyard, rinsing something from his hands you didn’t hesitate.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said without turning. His voice was quiet. Not cold.

You stepped closer anyway. “And yet here I am.”

He dried his hands slowly. “A princess being seen alone with a servant?”

“You’re not just any servant,” you said, softer than you meant to.

He turned at that. Slowly. His deep blue eyes were steady. Tired. Familiar. “And what am I then?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you sat not gracefully, not like royalty just dropped onto the edge of the stone bench nearby like your bones were too heavy. Like your name had weighed too much today.

Megumi watched you. Then, finally, sat beside you. Not close. But not far, either.

“My mother wants me to smile more,” you said flatly. “Wants me to laugh like my brother. Charm the nobles. Be gracious. Lovely.”

You scoffed. “I told her maybe I should just carve dimples into my face.”

That got him. A short, sharp exhale of a laugh. Barely there. But real.

You glanced at him, heat rising behind your eyes. From relief. He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “That sounds... messy.”

You smiled bitter and crooked. “Wouldn’t be the first scar I earned for trying to please someone else.”

That silenced him. And maybe that was good. Because you weren’t sure you could say much more without unraveling.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t with pity.

“You shouldn’t be caught with me alone,” he said again. But this time, there was something else under it.

Not warning. Not rejection.

Longing. Hesitation. Fear.

You looked over at him. Really looked.

And for the first time, you realized he wasn't just enduring your presence anymore.

He waited for it.

“Then I guess we should get better at hiding,” you said.

You don't know why you did it.

Maybe it was the way he lingered longer now, even after his tasks were done. Or maybe it was how he watched you trace your finger across pages in the library when he thought you weren’t looking.

You never asked if he could read.

But he never asked you to teach him, either.

He was in the herb cellar when you brought it up. Sorting dried wheat into bundles, face smudged with dust and calm as ever.

You leaned against the doorway, a book tucked under your arm thin, worn, pages folded with use.

“You’ve got ink on your wrist,” he said without looking.

“And you’ve got soot on your cheek” you replied. “We all have our vices.”

He smirked barely. Then paused as you stepped inside.

“I have something for you.”

His gaze flicked to the book. Suspicious.

“I’m not much for court poetry.”

“It’s not poetry,” you said, offering it. “It’s a children’s primer.” Megumi stared at you. The silence stretched.

You didn’t flinch. “If you already know how to read, feel free to mock me and give it back.” He didn’t. Instead, he took it. Gingerly, like it might bite.

“I never learned,” he said, low. You nodded once. “I know.”

Another beat.

Then, softer he said “I’d like to.”

So you began.

Not with flowery verses or noble speeches, but with small, clumsy syllables scratched in charcoal over old scraps of parchment. You met in quiet corners the garden shed, the stables, once behind the greenhouse while rain tapped against the glass like impatient fingers.

You held his hand once, steadying his wrist as he tried to form the curve of an ‘e.’

He didn’t look at you. But he didn’t pull away either.

“You press too hard,” you murmured.

“I don’t want to get it wrong.”

You were quiet for a long moment. Then “There’s no wrong when you’re learning.”

His head tilted slightly at that, but he nodded. Continued.

Some days he was better. Some days his letters were crooked and his mood worse.

But still he showed up. Still, he tried.

And sometimes, when your fingers brushed as you passed him a new sheet, or your shoulders touched while reading the same page, the silence between you felt louder than words ever could.

Until one night, as you corrected a misshaped sentence, you caught him watching you. Really watching.

“What?” you asked, a half-smile on your lips.

He hesitated. Then said quietly, “I forget you’re royalty when you’re like this.”

You looked down at his messy handwriting.

“Good,” you said. “Because I forget everything when I’m with you.” And it was the truth, when you were with him the wight of every life you lived lightened just a little bit.

The lesson started like all the others.

They sat shoulder to shoulder in the dim warmth of the greenhouse, the air thick with the scent of rosemary and soil. Rain pattered gently against the glass above them, a soft hush that made everything feel distant. Safe.

You handed him a fresh sheet of parchment.

“Same as yesterday. Copy the sentence twice, then try to write it from memory.”

Megumi nodded, jaw set, fingers already smudged with charcoal.

He copied dutifully, slow but focused. His brow furrowed the way it always did when he concentrated, and you didn’t interrupt.

Not until he stopped halfway through the second line.

You watched him glance down at the blank space beside the last word. His hand hovered. Charcoal still poised. Then, quietly, like it meant nothing at all, he asked

“…Could you write mine?”

You blinked. “Your sentence?”

“No.” A pause. “My name.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His eyes stayed fixed on the paper, guarded, like the request cost him something to speak aloud.

You didn’t tease. Didn’t smile.

Instead, you reached for the parchment, turned it gently toward you, and wrote,

Megumi.

The strokes were steady. Deliberate. You wrote it once. Then again, just beneath it, slower.

When you handed the paper back, your fingertips brushed his. His hand was warm.

He stared at the letters for a long time. His name, written in your handwriting. Like a mark carved into the world. Like something real. Something that mattered.

“You can copy it if you want,” you said quietly. But he didn’t move.

“…I just wanted to see it,” he said but he didnt tell you that he just wanted to see it in your handwriting.

Your breath caught, but you didn’t let it show. “There,” you said, voice soft but certain. “Now you have it.”

He folded the parchment once, then again, careful, like it was something precious. Like it meant more than he’d say.

And for the rest of the lesson, he said nothing more. But he sat a little closer. And when he left, he slipped the folded paper into the inside of his coat not with the other lesson scraps, but somewhere safe.

Somewhere closer to his heart.

He was frowning again.

You could tell even before you looked up the scratch of charcoal had stopped, replaced by the quiet rustle of him shifting in place, tense in that quiet way he always got when he was frustrated with himself.

You glanced over. Sure enough, his brows were drawn tight, lips pressed in a thin, unhappy line, eyes glued to the smudged paper like it had personally offended him.

“Are you going to scowl that sentence into submission?” you asked lightly.

He didn’t answer.

You leaned in a little, peering over his shoulder. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s crooked,” he muttered.

“It’s handwriting. Not a sword.”

He didn’t laugh. Just kept staring. And that crease the one right between his brows deepened.

Without thinking, you reached up and smoothed it with your thumb.

He froze.

Your hand lingered for half a second longer than it should have. His skin was warm beneath your touch. You only meant to tease, to make him laugh, but when your eyes met his dark, steady, unreadable something in your chest stuttered

.

“There,” you said, trying to mask the sudden weight in your voice. “Less brooding. More learning.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, like he was trying to memorize your face in that moment. Like he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Then quietly “You’re not very good at pretending, are you?” You blinked. “Pretending what?”

He looked down again, the faintest smirk ghosting his lips. “That you’re not enjoying this.” You meant to scoff. Meant to roll your eyes and say something sharp something dismissive.

But all that came out was a breathless little, “…Shut up.”

And this time, when he laughed, it was real. Low. Rough. But real. You turned back to the paper, trying (and failing) not to smile.

And across from you, Megumi Fushiguro let the world soften just a little for the first time in a long time.

You’d found peace with Megumi.

Not escape. Not fantasy.

Peace

The kind that made the ache in your chest soften. The kind that silenced the ghosts that usually crowded the back of your mind. When you were with him, it felt like the pain didn’t wear you down so much. Like for once, this life wasn’t just about surviving the memories of the last.

You learned him slowly. In pieces.

That he preferred silence to conversation but always listened carefully when you spoke. That he hated sweets, that he carried a knife in his boot not out of fear, but habit.

That he had an older sister, Tsumiki, bedridden from illness, whom he visited whenever he could, leaving wildflowers beside her pillow.

And in return, he learned you.

He noticed the way you moved too precisely, too expertly to be a sheltered royal. He watched you pick locks with hairpins and climb ledges like you’d done it in another life. He never asked how you knew so many things you shouldn’t. He just accepted you.

No masks. No thrones.

Just you.

But peace was never meant to last in a place like this.

Not when your mother summoned you.

You stood in her solar as the morning light filtered in through colored stained glass, casting jeweled shadows in many colors on the marble.

She didn’t look at you right away she was seated at the vanity, fingers deftly threading a needle through a piece of embroidery so intricate you knew she hadn’t stitched herself.

“You’ve been quieter lately,” she said, voice too smooth. “More distracted. Distant.”

You didn’t respond. She didn’t need you to.

“You used to be so focused. So composed. My little ice-blooded heir.”

She smiled at the memory, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I thought perhaps it was nerves. And perhaps it is.” She set the embroidery down and turned, expression soft like poison in tea. “You’re to be married.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Next month. The Duke of Leovan. Handsome enough, and more importantly, obedient. His family’s influence will ensure our line stays unchallenged.”

“I never agreed—”

“No,” she interrupted, calmly. “But I did. That’s what queens do, darling. They decide.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

“You can’t—”

“I can,” she said, her voice sharper now, cold iron wrapped in silk. “And I have.”

She stood, gliding toward you. Each step precise. Predatory.

“I’ve tolerated your defiance. The frowns. The stubbornness. Even your little habits sneaking off to sulk in the gardens with gods knows who, parading around like you’re above courtship. But that ends now.”

She reached up, smoothed a strand of hair away from your cheek like you were still a child in need of taming.

“You’ll smile. You’ll nod. You’ll become a queen. Because that is the only path left to you.”

You wanted to scream. To curse her. To break something, anything.bInstead, you said nothing.Because you knew what she would do with your rage.

She would use it. Twist it into more chains.

So you left.

You didn’t know where you were going until your feet took you there. The stables were warm with summer air, thick with the scent of straw and the soft sounds of hooves. He was there, of course. He always was, somehow like the world still offered you small mercies.

Megumi looked up as you stepped in. And whatever he saw on your face made his hands still mid-brush.

“What happened?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t, not without shattering. So you crossed the distance between you. Quiet, slow. Like the weight in your chest made it hard to move.

“I’m to be married,” you said. It came out flat. Like stone dropped into a well.

Megumi’s expression didn’t change right away.

But his silence did.

“To the Duke,” you added, voice thinner now. “Next month.” Still, he said nothing. Just looked at you like he was waiting for a punch that he already knew was coming.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. You weren’t sure what for. For telling him? For meaning it? For wishing it was him?

He finally spoke. “Congratulations.” It felt like a slap. You flinched. “Don’t.” He turned back to the horse, brushing its flank with a little too much pressure.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” you snapped. “Anything but that.” His grip on the brush tightened. “What difference does it make? You were never—”

He stopped.

You stepped closer, fire rising behind your ribs. “Say it.” He didn’t. You hated him for that. You hated how badly you wanted him to.

So you said the cruelest thing you could.

“I wasn’t looking for you.”

Megumi’s head tilted slightly like he’d heard thunder far away. He looked at you then. Really looked.

“I know,” he said. Voice low. Barely there. “But I always looked for you.”

And just like that, you couldn’t breathe.

You hadn’t seen him in days after that.

Not in the gardens.

Not in the cellar.

Not in the halls he used to linger in like the ghosts you knew he didn’t believe in.

And it stung. Worse than your mother’s cruel decree. Worse than the endless fittings for a gown you would never want to wear.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You were royalty. He was a servant. This, whatever this had become, was always doomed to fracture. It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be.

Except… it was.

And the absence of him made that clearer than any declaration ever could. You found yourself in the garden again alone, for once. The lavender he used to tend had started to wilt slightly. You hated how that made you ache.

He was avoiding you.

You were certain of it. So when you finally saw him three days later, back in the herb cellar, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight you stood in the doorway for too long. You thought maybe he’d look up. Say something. Pretend nothing had changed.

He didn’t.

“You’re ignoring me,” you said flatly.

Megumi didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just kept working like you hadn’t spoken.

You stepped further in, voice sharper. “So that’s it?”

He finally looked up. Not angry. Not cold. Just tired. “I thought it’s what you wanted,” he said. “You made it clear.”

Your heart beat a little too loudly. “I never said—”

“You didn’t have to.” He cut you off, quiet but firm. “You’re going to marry him. You said it yourself. You weren’t looking for me.” The words echoed.

You swallowed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I didnt mean for any of this”

He stepped toward you then, all the distance of days collapsing in a breath.

“You can’t say that,” he said. “Not after everything. Not after the books. The laughter. The way you looked at me.”

“I never promised you anything,” you whispered.

“I don’t want a promise,” he said. His voice cracked on the edges raw and bruised. “I just want you to admit it.”

“Admit what?”

He was in front of you now. Closer than he should be. Closer than was safe. “That you feel it too.”

The silence roared between you.

You hated how your throat tightened. How your knees went weak under his gaze.

“I can’t,” you said, but your voice trembled.

“Why not?”

“Because I have to marry him. Because I’ll be queen. Because you’re—”

“Because I’m not him?” he cut in, stepping closer still, his chest nearly brushing yours. “Because I wasn’t born with a title? Because I’m not safe?”

“No because you’re the only thing that ever made me want to stay,” you said, voice cracking open. “And if I admit it, I won’t survive this.”

That stopped him.

Something flickered behind his eyes like the last gasp before a storm hits. Then, softly. Devastatingly

“Too late.”

And he kissed you. Not gently.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that asked for permission. It was the kind that broke walls. That tasted of every unsaid word and every stolen glance and every night you dreamed of something you couldn’t have.

It was messy and desperate and full of everything you both tried to pretend didn’t burn beneath your skin. When he finally pulled back, breath ragged, forehead resting against yours, he whispered,

“I love you. I’ve tried not to. Gods, I tried. But it’s in me now. Like a fire.” And you whispered back, voice shaking,

“I love you too.”

For a little while, you pretended.

That your marriage wasn’t a month away.

That the crown didn’t dig into your heart.

That the world wasn’t already writing the end of your story without you.

You and Megumi lived in the in-betweens. The hidden folds of the palace no one cared to look too closely at. You met in the garden shed at dusk. In the cellar when the lanterns burned low. Once, in your own chambers, when your handmaidens had been dismissed for the night and he slipped in through the narrow servant’s passage with dirt still on his sleeves.

You always started with books. “I think you’ll like this one,” you murmured, handing him a slim volume with worn leather edges. “It’s old. A fisherman who falls in love with the moon. She waits for him in the tide, but he never makes it back.”

Megumi looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “Does she stop waiting?”

“No,” you said, barely above a whisper. “That’s the tragedy.”

Some nights, you’d sit cross-legged in front of him on the floor, guiding his hand over each letter, your fingers brushing his as you corrected the curve of an s. The pads of your thumbs met more than once.

You never pulled away.

“You press too hard,” you said again.

“You say that every time.”

“And you never listen.”

But you were smiling. And so was he.

In the quietest moments, he forgot to look away. He’d stare like you were something he didn’t understand yet, something dangerous and beautiful and already slipping from his grasp.

And when you leaned in one night barely breathing, lips so close your exhales mingled he didn’t stop you. You kissed him first. Soft. Hesitant. Like a secret you weren’t sure you were allowed to speak aloud.He kissed you back like it was the only truth he’d ever believed in.

After that, you stopped pretending so hard.

You still didn’t speak of the wedding.

Still didn’t say the truth.

But your fingers found his in shadowed hallways. You learned where the boards creaked and how to silence your steps.

You pulled him into alcoves and kissed him like time owed you something. He pressed you gently against ivy-covered walls and whispered your name like it hurt to say it out loud.

Once, when he looked tense, shoulders rigid from another failed lesson, you reached up and rubbed the crease between his brows.

“You’re going to age like milk if you keep frowning like that,” you said, teasing.

He huffed. “You’re going to get me executed.”

You leaned closer. “I would die with you.”

And he kissed you again. Harder. Like pretending had finally broken into needing.

These weren’t just stolen moments.

They were all you had.

So you stole one more.

The ballroom glittered like a lie masks of gold and velvet, laughter dulled by wine, and music sharp enough to cut your patience in two.

You stood at the top of the grand stairs, face hidden behind silver filigree, and felt the bile rise in your throat.

You hated them all.

Your engagement party, they called it. A parade of suitors and politicians and carefully staged glances. A celebration of a future you had no part in choosing. The prince stood at the bottom of the

staircase, tall, pristine, hand extended toward you like an order.

Your fingers curled into fists.

You gave him a stiff nod and a brief touch of the hand, you glided past him like smoke, and melted into the crowd.

Let them murmur. Let them whisper about the scowling princess who wouldn't dance with her husband-to-be. You didn’t care.

Because he was here.

You felt him before you saw him.

A flicker of presence like the way your body knows a lightning storm is near. And then he stepped into view, moving through the crowd with careful poise, a silver tray balanced in his gloved hand.

Megumi.

His mask was black and simple, just enough to hide him from everyone else.

But never from you.

You spotted the way his lips pressed thin, the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his eyes locked on you for half a second too long. He was doing everything right, silent, obedient, invisible.

But he was burning.

And gods, so were you.

You didn’t hesitate. You glided to him, plucked a glass of wine from his tray without breaking eye contact, and whispered just loud enough for him to hear,

“You’re the only thing worth looking at in this room.”

His throat bobbed. The mask hid his expression, but you saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth. And something else —something darker.

“You stood close to him,” he said, voice quiet, trembling like held-back thunder.

“Who?”

“The prince.”

You smirked. “I didn’t even see him.”

“Liar.”

You grabbed his hand. He stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. You led him through the maze of guests, past the music and wine and powdered laughter, into a side hall thick with shadows. Your heart pounded like a war drum.

The door to the garden creaked open. The cold kissed your skin. Roses tangled along iron railings, moonlight pooling like milk across stone paths. He followed you in silence like gravity.

You turned. And he was right there. Breathing hard. Eyes dark behind the mask.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“Say what?”

“That you missed me. That you thought about me when he touched your hand.”

You tore off your mask and reached for his.

And then your mouth was on his with a hunger that shook the leaves from the trees.

He kissed you like a man who had been starving for you. You didn’t just kiss him you devoured him. He groaned into your mouth, hands clutching your waist, then your back, then your hair he couldn’t decide where to hold you because he needed all of you at once.

You gasped. He chased the sound with his mouth, catching your bottom lip between his teeth.

“I dream about this—”

Kiss.

“—and wake up angry it was fake—”

Kiss.

“—but you make it worse. You always make it worse.”

You bit his jaw, tugged him closer. “Let me make it better.” He pulled you into him so hard your feet left the ground. His mouth traced your throat, your collarbone. You were dizzy, drunk on him, on heat and desperation.

“You’re mine,” he said, against your skin.

You nodded, breathless. “Always.” He kissed you again, longer this time, slower like he wanted to memorize your mouth, like he was trying to leave pieces of himself behind.

And it was perfect.

It was everything.

Until it wasn’t.

You didn’t see the shadow behind the hedge.

Didn’t hear the footsteps.

You only heard him gasp but not the good kind.

Then came the sound.

Metal through flesh.

A choked breath.

Your eyes flew open and he was staring at you. Wide-eyed. Mouth parted like he was trying to speak.

Megumi jerked.

Then collapsed.

He stumbled into you, his weight sudden, heavy. And then warmth. Too much warmth.

You looked down.

Red.

Blooming. Spreading. Pouring through the front of his coat like wine from a shattered bottle.

“No,” you breathed, already clutching at him. “No, no, no—” He fell to his knees, dragging you with him. Your arms wrapped around him automatically, holding him up as his head lolled forward, forehead brushing your collarbone.

His breath was ragged. Wet.

You pressed your hands to the wound, panic rising like bile. “You’re okay, Megumi look at me. You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

He smiled soft and broken. “You always… lie so pretty.”

“Shut up,” you choked, your hand trembling over his. “Shut up, I said.”

Your brother stood behind him. Sword gleaming. Mask abandoned. His face was unreadable.

“Youre a disgrace to this family,” he said.

But you weren’t listening.

Megumi’s lips were turning pale. Blood on his teeth. His hand curled in your dress not in pain, but to hold. One last time.

“Tell me it was real,” he rasped.

“Always,” you whispered, cradling his face. “Always you. Even if they crown me a thousand times… it’s only you.”

His body shuddered. Then stilled.

You pressed your forehead to his, desperate to hold the life inside him.

But there was no more heartbeat.

Just silence.

And you sat there, in the dirt and blood and moonlight, holding him like the sun would never rise again.

The garden wept beside you.

Roses withered, vines curled in grief, petals falling like soft sobs. Even the earth beneath you felt hollow, as if the world itself knew what had been stolen from you.

And you… you didn’t scream. You just held him. Until the guards came. Until the blood dried under your fingernails. Until your knees ached from the stone.

They dragged you away. Ripped his body from your arms. You didn’t fight. You didn’t speak. You didn’t eat.

Not for days.

Not until you sat before your mother and father and said, with a voice so calm it chilled the marrow

“I hope the crown rots.”

And then you spoke but only once.

You gave the court everything. The backroom dealings. The arranged assassinations. The hidden debts, the children sold into war, the alliances bought with blood. You wrote it all down. Signed it. Stamped it with your name.

Then sealed it in dozens of letters.

By the time they stopped you, it was too late. The truth was already on the wind. Floating into the streets. Into the hands of the servants. The rebels. The broken.

You didn’t mean to start anything.

You were only trying to make it hurt.

To make them feel a sliver of what they’d taken from you.

But the kingdom began to fracture anyway.

The prince refused to look you in the eye.

Your brother avoided you entirely.

And you?

You wandered.

The palace was too quiet now. The tapestries too red. The gardens too full of memories. You touched the rose bush where he bled once and never again.

Some nights you woke up gasping. Some nights you didn’t sleep at all. And when they finally came for you you weren’t surprised.

A dagger in the dark. A hand across your mouth.

No trial. No last rites.

You died the same way you lived.

With no one listening.

But you didn't care because soon you would be reborn, only more hollow than the last life.

They buried you in secret. Told the people you were exiled. But the truth had already spread like ash. Statues were torn down. Banners slashed.

Your body was laid to rest, but you had died a long time ago.