Reborn From Ashes: The King's Ruthless Queen

The carriage ride home was a torture of silence and complaints.

The wheels rattled over the cobblestones, shaking her bones. The interior smelled of Kenney's cigar smoke and his disappointment.

"A waste," Kenney muttered, staring out into the dark, snowy streets. "A complete waste of a new dress. I didn't even get near Sterling."

She leaned her head against the cold glass. The vibration of the carriage triggered a memory, sharp and violent.

Flashback.

The same carriage. Two years ago. She was crying. Shaking.

"He... he forced me, Kenney," she had sobbed, clutching her torn bodice. "The King. He pulled me into the box. I couldn't stop him."

Kenney had pulled her into his arms. He had cried with her. "I know, my love. I know. It's the Crown. We are powerless. If we fight him, he'll destroy us. He'll hurt Emily."

She had believed him. She had wiped her tears and agreed to go back to the King, to protect her husband. To protect her family.

It wasn't until she was dying, until the smoke cleared the lies from her eyes, that she understood. Kenney hadn't been helpless. He had set it up. He had left her in that stairwell on purpose.

End Flashback.

She opened her eyes. The streetlamps blurred into streaks of yellow light.

She looked at Kenney now. He wasn't crying. He was annoyed that his bait hadn't been taken.

"Kenney," she said, her voice cutting through the rattling noise. "If the King had noticed me... what would you have done?"

Kenney blinked, pulled from his sulk. "What?"

"If he wanted me. Not for conversation. But for... himself."

Kenney shifted in his seat. He adjusted his cuffs. He didn't look at her. "I would defend your honor with my life, Imogene. Of course."

Liar.

She laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound. "Of course you would."

She reached up to her neck. She felt the cool, smooth surface of the pearl necklace-the fake one.

She hooked her finger under the string.

"What's so funny?" Kenney asked, frowning.

She pulled. Hard.

The string snapped.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The fake pearls cascaded down her bodice, bouncing off the seat, rolling onto the floor of the carriage like hail.

"Imogene! What are you doing?" Kenney shouted, scrambling to catch them. "Those are heirlooms!"

"They're glass, Kenney," she said coldly. "Just glass."

She kicked a pearl with the toe of her shoe. It rolled under the seat.

When they arrived home, she didn't wait for him to help her down. She walked straight up the stairs, past the confused servants, and into the nursery.

She sat in the rocking chair next to Emily's crib. This was her fortress. Her sanctuary.

Meanwhile, across the city, the gears of fate were grinding.

In the Royal Study, a fire roared in the hearth. But the room felt cold.

Sterling stood before the desk, a file in his hand. He looked weary.

"Her name is Imogene Lloyd," Sterling said.

King Alaric sat in a high-backed leather chair, staring into the flames. He still wore his black shirt, the collar unbuttoned. He looked like a man possessed.

"Lloyd?" Alaric turned his gaze to Sterling. "The Treasury clerk? Kenney Lloyd?"

"His wife, Your Majesty."

Alaric's hand tightened on the armrest. "Wife."

The word hung in the air. It should have been a deterrent. It should have been a wall. Instead, she knew exactly what it was to him. It was a challenge. It was a transgression.

"Is she happy?" Alaric asked quietly.

"Kenney Lloyd is a man of... moderate ambition and flexible morals," Sterling said diplomatically. "He has been petitioning for the Undersecretary position for months."

Alaric laughed. It was a dark, ugly sound.

"Give it to him," Alaric said.

Sterling paused. "Sir?"

"Give him the position. Give him whatever he wants." Alaric stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the snow that covered London. "And in exchange... I want her."

"She is a married woman, Sire. This could be... complicated."

"Make it simple," Alaric commanded. "Arrange a reading. A private gathering at the Lodge. Invite her. Ensure her husband understands the terms."

"And if she refuses?"

Alaric touched the cold glass of the window. He was seeing a ghost. He was seeing Adella.

"She won't refuse," he whispered. "She ran, Sterling. But she looked back."