Chapter Ninety-Three

Chapter Ninety-Three
I sit at Rex's side, the weight of the evening pressing in as crystal chandeliers scatter golden light across the vast dining hall. The table is grand, lined with dignitaries and family alike, yet the arrangement feels deliberate, calculated. His parents are seated directly opposite us, regal and composed, while my family is placed further down, as though they are spectators rather than participants. They converse quietly amongst themselves, and guilt stirs in me—this distance feels wrong. They should not be so far removed.
Rex, however, refuses to acknowledge the division. His gaze never once meets his parents'. He sits tall, composed, yet there is a quiet defiance in the way he treats them as though they are absent, as though their power holds no sway over him. His hand rests firmly over mine, concealed on my lap beneath the linen-draped table. His touch is steady, deliberate—his silent reassurance that I am not alone in this gilded hall where every word and gesture carries weight.
The conversation flows in Spanish, smooth and practiced, beyond my grasp. I catch fragments here and there but cannot step fully into their rhythm. I maintain my composure, smiling politely, though I feel like an onlooker at my own table.
It is the former King who finally turns the discourse in my direction. His voice is strong, seasoned with authority, carrying across the table with the ease of one long accustomed to obedience.
"When," he asks, his eyes fixed on me, "are you going to learn Spanish?"
The words strike with quiet force, more expectation than inquiry. Before I can gather an answer, Rex intercedes, his voice sharp but calm, a shield drawn on my behalf.
"She will learn Spanish when she chooses to," he says firmly, "not when she is told."
The old king chuckles, though the sound is edged, condescending. "She must learn the language if she wishes to be Queen of Spain. Or will you alter the kingdom's official tongue to English for her sake? No, Rex. A queen must speak the language of her people."
The table stiffens with the weight of his words, his laughter faint but stinging. His gaze lingers on me, measuring, testing.
Rex does not falter. His reply is colder, deliberate, spoken with the cadence of a sovereign who will not be challenged. "She will learn at her own pace," he declares, his hand tightening over mine, "and no one—not even you—has the authority to dictate her readiness."
Silence descends, thick and unyielding. Conversation stutters and fades, replaced by the quiet thrum of tension that settles over the wineglasses, the polished silver, the very air between us. Rex has spoken, and in that moment it feels less like a son defying his father and more like a king drawing a line that none may cross.
The silence that follows Rex's words is heavy, but it does not last forever. His mother quickly steers the conversation elsewhere, smoothing over the discord with her graceful voice. Guests latch onto her words, grateful for the distraction, and the table resumes its performance of civility. Yet beneath the polite smiles and careful laughter, the tension simmers, alive and unyielding.
I sit in place, my fingers curled under Rex's hand, trying to steady myself. My family remains distant, their faces a mixture of pride and unease. I ache to be closer to them, to bridge the deliberate gap, but protocol holds me in place.
The meal continues—another course, another toast—until the former King leans back in his chair, his wine glass catching the golden light. His eyes, sharp and calculating, drift once more toward me.
"It is admirable," he says, his tone deceptively light, "that she has Rex to speak for her. But what of the people? A queen must have her own voice. Silence may be mistaken for weakness."
The words land like a blade, disguised as a jest yet carrying a clear sting. My heart jolts, and I lower my gaze, heat rising in my cheeks. For a moment I fear Rex will let it pass, but he does not.
Rex straightens, his voice cutting clean through the murmurs of the table. "Do not mistake silence for weakness," he says firmly. "There is greater strength in choosing when to speak than in speaking without thought. She is not voiceless. She simply does not waste her words."
The table stills again, eyes darting between father and son. The old king chuckles, though it is quieter this time, and takes a slow sip of his wine. His expression betrays nothing, but the challenge lingers in the air.
Rex's grip on my hand tightens, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. His tone softens only for me, though his eyes remain hard. "You owe no one an explanation. Not tonight, not ever—not unless you choose."
I swallow, forcing a small nod, though my chest tightens with the weight of it all. I can feel the eyes of the room pressing against me, waiting to see if I will speak, if I will rise to the provocation. But I remain still, shielded by Rex's unwavering presence.
By the time dessert arrives, the hall feels like a battlefield disguised in silk and crystal. The smiles are practiced, the laughter restrained, but beneath it all lies the echo of Rex's defiance—and the knowledge that this war of words is far from over.

I sit on the bathroom floor, my dress gathered tightly in my fists, tears falling faster than I can wipe them away. The silence is heavy, broken only by my uneven breaths. I excused myself politely after dinner, a fragile smile plastered on my face, but it was a lie. I needed distance—space to breathe, to hide.
Rex followed me. I know he is waiting in the bedroom even now, unwavering in his patience. He says tears are not weakness, that feeling is not failure. But how can I not feel weak, when the very people who should safeguard their dignity use it instead as a weapon?
Tonight was not just dinner. It was a gathering of power, a room filled with names that hold weight across this country. And yet, in front of them all, Rex's family tore into one another as though there were no eyes upon them. The former king, stripped of his crown but not his authority, spoke his disapproval aloud—his disdain for me, for the idea of Rex marrying an outsider. It was deliberate. Calculated. His words were not whispered, not confined to family, but laid bare for all to hear. A public strike, veiled as tradition.
And Diego—ever reckless, ever grasping—seized the moment. He embarrassed his own parents, mocking them, pulling their shame into the open. It was chaos dressed in finery, as though the table itself had become a stage for betrayal.
I cannot stop thinking about the crown—how it was passed down sooner than expected, how Diego suddenly grew bold, demanding what had never been his. Why then? Why now? The timing feels too precise to be chance. The crown did not simply change hands; it unsettled something deeper, something hidden.
I can almost hear Gracie's voice in my mind, sharp as a blade:
First things first: public image. Carry yourself with dignity and composure when you are in public.
You cannot, under any circumstance, publicly criticize another member of the royal family.
Yet that rule was shattered many times and tonight too, not by me, not by Rex—but by the very man who once ruled, and by the son who still hungers for power. Why is the law only binding for some, but not for them? Why does the family splinter openly now, when under the former king's reign it was held in place?
The cracks are widening. I can see it, even if no one dares to name it. The crown sits on Rex's head, but the loyalty around him is fractured. And the humiliation I felt tonight—it was not an accident. It was part of something larger, something shifting beneath the surface.
I wipe my tears, but suspicion lingers heavier than sorrow. This is not weakness. This is warning.
I step out of the bathroom, the faint echo of running water still clinging to my ears. I expect the room to be empty, yet Rex sits on the edge of the bed, waiting. The sight of him unsettles me. Guilt presses against my chest—he has been waiting for me, while I stole time for myself. Time I needed, but still, I left him there.
The moment our eyes meet, he rises. His posture is deliberate, his face shadowed with words unspoken. "My father—" he begins.
I cut across him, my voice trembling with urgency. "Help me. Please, Rex. Help me understand what is happening. I feel as though there are cracks in everything you show me, empty spaces no one fills. I am trying to see the whole picture, but pieces are missing."
He frowns, taken aback. "What are you talking about?"
"When did your father take the crown?" I demand, my tone sharper than I intend. "When did he become King of Spain?"
"When my grandfather died," Rex answers without pause.
"And your grandfather?" I press.
"The same," he replies. "When his father died."
"Then why did your father hand you the crown early?" I ask. The question burns inside me. "You told me he is sick, but wasn't your grandfather sick too?"
"Yes," Rex admits, his voice quieter now, more measured. "My grandfather was far sicker than my father is. But succession does not rest only on health. It rests on whether a man can carry pain and responsibility together. Not everyone can."
"Your father proved more than you think tonight," I say, searching his face, searching for answers that refuse to come. "There is something happening, Rex. I can feel it. I just cannot prove it yet. I need a board, something to place all my thoughts upon, so I can see how everything connects."
For a moment, he studies me—his expression unreadable, though his eyes betray something deeper. Then, without hesitation, he extends his hand toward me. "Follow me," he says.