Chapter Ninety-Eight

Chapter Ninety-Eight
The following morning, I am summoned by one of the attendants. No explanation, no reason given—only a quiet instruction that Her Majesty requests my presence in the private solar.
The room is sunlit, softened by velvet drapes and the scent of jasmine. The Queen sits near the window, a book resting unopened on her lap. Her posture is graceful, her expression unreadable. She gestures for me to sit across from her.
"Violet," she says, her voice smooth, melodic, yet carrying a weight that makes my skin prickle. "You seem unsettled these past few days. Are the demands of this house proving too much?"
I fold my hands in my lap, careful to keep my tone respectful. "No, Your Majesty. I am only adjusting."
Her eyes linger on me a moment too long, as though peeling back the layers of my composure. "Adjustment," she repeats softly. "Yes... adjustment is never easy. Especially when one enters a family as... storied as ours."
I hesitate, unsure if it is safe to respond, but silence feels more dangerous. "I understand."
The Queen inclines her head, a faint smile brushing her lips though her eyes remain sharp. "Do you? My husband's abdication was spoken of as necessity. But necessity is a word used when the truth is too costly to name. Some truths are like knives, Violet. They can defend, but they can also cut those who grasp them too tightly."
My breath stills. She has not asked me a question, yet she has placed one before me like a test. I force myself to hold her gaze. "And yet without truth, how can one ever know whom to trust?"
Her smile deepens—approving, perhaps, or mocking. I cannot tell. "You are sharper than I thought. That may serve you... or destroy you."
The silence that follows is suffocating. Then, lightly, almost tenderly, she adds: "Not all battles are won with force, my dear. Some are won by patience. Remember that."
She dismisses me with the smallest tilt of her hand, her eyes already drifting back to the unopened book. But as I rise, I know she did not summon me for idle words. She wanted me to hear her warning, cloaked as advice.
When I step back into the corridor, Rex is waiting, his jaw tight. "What did she say?"
I swallow hard. "She spoke of the abdication. She wanted me to know she knows. And Rex... she wanted me to feel it was not my discovery, but hers to control."
Rex's face hardens, fury flashing behind his composure. "Then it's her. She left it for you."
I shake my head. "Or she wants us to believe she did."
And suddenly, I understand the danger: Diego uses chaos, the Queen uses silence—but both are moving their pieces. And I am caught between them.
Rex listens in silence as I recount every word, every inflection of his mother's voice. His expression is still, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes.
"She wanted you to feel the weight of the abdication," he says at last, low and measured. "But she gave you nothing concrete. That is her way—she plants unease, not evidence."
I nod slowly. "And Diego does the opposite. He gives us sparks—too much eagerness, too many careless slips. He wants us to chase."
Rex leans closer, his voice dropping into something sharper. "Which means neither of them has the advantage. They are both playing games, but the moment we choose one side, we're trapped. So we don't choose."
My pulse quickens. "Then what do we do?"
He allows the silence to stretch a moment before answering. "We force them to reveal themselves. Together. Diego thrives on chaos—so we feed him just enough to make him think he's leading you into danger. My mother thrives on silence—so we hold ours, and make her believe we are too blind to notice. Between the two, one will overreach."
A thrill of unease runs through me, but also... relief. This is not reaction; this is strategy. "So Diego thinks he's pulling me in, while your mother believes she still holds the reins."
Rex's lips curve into a grim smile. "Exactly. They are both watching us. Let them. If they think they're steering us, they will grow bold. And when they act..." His eyes meet mine, steady and fierce. "...we will already be waiting."
I draw a breath, the plan settling into me like armor. "So we let them reveal themselves. On our terms."
"Yes," Rex says firmly. "No running to confrontations. No blind trust in warnings. We wait, we watch, and we turn their own moves against them."
For the first time since the document appeared, I feel something other than dread. Not safety—but control. We are not prey in their game. Not anymore.

The news arrives with startling force. King Antonio delivers it himself, his tone grave, his words clipped: the President of France is coming to Spain tomorrow. Urgent, he says—too urgent to allow for ceremony or explanation. The announcement unsettles everyone who hears it, for a visit of this nature is never sudden unless the matter is serious.
That evening, Rex and I pause our endless search for answers and join his family in the dining hall for the last meal of the day. The chamber glows with the warm light of chandeliers, silver catching the firelight, crystal glasses arranged like jewels across the table. Servants move with quiet precision, the ritual of dinner unfolding with its usual grace. And yet, beneath the formality, unease clings to the air. Every glance, every silence, hints at the same question: why France, and why now?
Rex sits at the head of the table, unshaken. His voice is steady when he speaks, his hand sure as it lifts the glass, his manner perfectly composed. To any outside eye, he seems untouched by the urgency of the day's news. But I notice the smaller things—the measured stillness in his shoulders, the deliberate calm in his breath, the way his gaze avoids his father's for too long. He is calm, yes, but it is a calm carefully chosen, one that hides whatever unease stirs beneath.
I sit quietly at his side, though my thoughts are restless. My family has already returned to the States, and their absence cuts deep. Part of me aches to be with them, to escape this place where politics press in on every side. Yet I know I cannot leave Rex—not now, not when the burden of the crown weighs so heavily and tomorrow promises to bring still more.
So I stay. I sit beside him, silent but resolute, my presence a vow. Tomorrow will bring answers, or perhaps new dangers. But tonight, under the chandeliers and the watchful eyes of his family, Rex holds the table with his composure, and I remain at his side—anchored to him, waiting, bracing for the storm that is already on its way.

Rex joins me in the room, and he sits next to me on the bed. "I just wanted to talk to you about who's coming tomorrow."
"The president of France," I reply.
"Yeah and his family," he says. "His daughter is probably coming with them."
His silence stretches, heavy, and I know he is carrying something he hasn't yet told me.
"Violet," he says, his voice low, careful. "There is something you need to know."
I search his expression. "What is it?"
He exhales, eyes dark. "My parents... they wanted me to marry the daughter of the President of France. They didn't present it as a choice. They insisted. I thought it was only about securing a title, strengthening ties between two powerful families. But now—now I think it's more than that."
My heart jolts. The pieces start falling into place faster than I can catch them. "Rex... who did your dad cheat on your mom with?"
His jaw tightens. He doesn't look away, but his voice is sharp in its honesty. "I don't know."
I shake my head, the weight of the truth clawing at me. "If your parents insisted on that marriage, and now—suddenly, out of nowhere—they're coming to visit tomorrow, right after finding out about our engagement... Rex, they're not here to congratulate you. They're coming to speak to your parents. And it isn't about us. It's about the deal your father made with them."
Rex's shoulders stiffen. "A deal."
"Yes." My words come fast, urgent. "They're not just here for diplomacy, Rex. They're threatening your father tomorrow."
The silence that follows is thick, broken only by the muffled echoes of servants preparing the palace for the guests. Rex doesn't answer immediately. His calm is intact on the surface, but I can feel the storm beneath it—the weight of betrayal, the sharp edge of realization.
Finally, he nods once, steady, resolute. "Then we'll be ready for them."

The palace doors open with ceremony, but the air inside feels anything but ceremonial. Guards in their full dress stand rigid, courtiers bow low, and the French delegation sweeps into the marble hall with crisp precision. At their center, the President of France steps forward, his bearing one of practiced authority, every gesture calculated to command attention.
King Antonio and Queen Sofía descend the steps to greet him, their smiles polished, their words carefully measured. Yet from where I stand at Rex's side, I can see the tautness in their posture, the unspoken strain behind the greetings. They know—as we know—that this visit is not born of friendship.
Rex remains calm, the picture of composure, bowing with dignity when his parents present him to the French president. I can feel his hand brush mine briefly, the slightest touch, grounding both of us as the exchange begins.
"We are honored by your presence," King Antonio says, voice warm but clipped.
The French president inclines his head, but his eyes slide deliberately toward Rex. "It seems Spain has been full of surprises these days. A new king so young, and now an engagement announced with such swiftness. France values alliances built on tradition... and on promises kept."
The words are smooth, but the undertone is sharp enough to cut. My pulse quickens. I glance at Rex—he doesn't flinch, doesn't betray a flicker of unease.
"Spain values loyalty as well," Rex replies evenly. "We keep our promises to our people above all else."
The president smiles thinly, as though he hears more than Rex says. "I wonder, then, if promises made between families will be honored as firmly."
The meaning hangs heavy in the air. My breath catches, and I know Rex hears it too. This is not diplomacy—it is a reminder. A warning. A threat.
I lean ever so slightly closer to Rex, keeping my voice low enough that only he hears. "He's not here for courtesy. He's here to collect on the deal."
Rex's jaw tightens, but he doesn't look at me. "Then let him speak it aloud," he murmurs back. "And let us see how much power he thinks he holds."
The chamber falls quiet as both delegations take their seats, the weight of unspoken history pressing into every silence. Whatever truths are about to be revealed, they will no longer stay buried.