When Valeria woke the next morning, a wave of disorientation washed over her. Strong arms encircled her, and her cheek rested on the steady rise and fall of someone's chest. Confusion quickly turned to horror as she realized where she was—and who she was with. She lay on the king's chest.
Her body went rigid as the events of the previous night came flooding back. Shame, rage, and humiliation collided in her chest, and she scrambled to move away. In her haste, she slipped and tumbled off the bed, landing unceremoniously on the floor. The sharp pain in her hip was nothing compared to the storm raging inside her.
The movement roused the king. He sat up, groggy but alert, his eyes finding her immediately. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his voice deep and husky as he asked, "What are you doing on the floor, my dear?"
He looked almost harmless, almost human, in that moment. But Valeria wasn't fooled. The memory of his touch, his words, and his audacity were still fresh in her mind. Her fists clenched as anger coursed through her veins.
"Get out of my room," she spat, her voice cold and resolute as she pushed herself to her feet. She stood tall, head held high despite the turmoil beneath her surface.
The king, infuriatingly relaxed, leaned back against the pillows with a smirk. "Technically, this room—and everything in this palace—is mine. So, by that logic, this is my bed." He gestured lazily at the space around him. "But let's not argue semantics. Let's talk about something more important." His smile widened, and Valeria braced herself for whatever lunacy he'd say next. "How did you enjoy last night? It was amazing, wasn't it?"
Her blood boiled as she stared at him, stunned by his audacity. Yes, for a fleeting moment, it might have felt good—but that didn't matter. He had tied her to this bed, ignoring her protests, and touched her against her will. She didn't even fully understand what exactly he had done, but it wasn't what she wanted. The humiliation burned deep, and the memory of her helplessness from last night clawed at her. She had never felt so powerless in her life. "Amazing?" she hissed, her voice laced with venom. "It was torture. You are a monster. Now leave."
The king didn't flinch. Instead, he stood and strolled toward her, closing the distance between them with an unnerving calm. When he reached her, he tilted her chin up with a firm hand, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"When you moaned so sweetly last night," he murmured, his voice low and taunting, "it certainly didn't sound like you thought it was torture. Why deny it?"
Her fury exploded before she could think. With a sharp crack, her palm connected with his cheek, leaving a red imprint. She didn't care about the consequences—slapping him felt good. For the first time in what felt like forever, she had taken back a shred of power.
The king turned his head back toward her, his expression darkening. Before she could react, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrists in an iron grip and shoving her against the wall. His body loomed over hers, his presence suffocating. "Don't think I'll let you get away with this just because I love you," he growled.
She scoffed, her lip curling in disgust. "You still call this love? What you feel isn't love, your majesty. You're sick in the head. This—what you're doing—is nothing but a power game so you can feel in control."
His expression softened, but not in a way that comforted her. His grip loosened slightly, and he reached up to brush a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. "Why is it so hard to believe?" he asked softly. "You are the perfect woman for me, Valeria. Just stop being so stubborn and hotheaded for a moment."
She recoiled from his touch, her stomach twisting. "Get out," she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. She stepped away from him and moved to the door, standing beside it like a sentinel. "Now."
He let out a long sigh, his disappointment almost theatrical. Slowly, he retrieved his shirt from the floor and slipped it on. As he walked toward the door, he paused, leaning down to place a kiss on her cheek. She froze, her skin crawling as his lips brushed her. "This isn't over, my dear," he said with maddening calm. "I have business to attend to, but you will join me for dinner tonight."
Before she could respond, he slipped through the door, locking it behind him. She stood there, stunned, before furiously wiping her cheek with the back of her hand, trying to erase the sensation of his kiss. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced them back.
Minutes later, a maid arrived to prepare her bath. Valeria scrubbed her skin until it was raw and pink, as if she could wash away the memory of his touch. When she finally stepped out of the bath, her reflection in the mirror caught her attention. Her dark eyes stared back, filled with a rage she couldn't contain.
This had been the final straw. Last night had shattered something inside her, but in its place, something new had emerged—something furious, something determined.
She dressed swiftly, her movements sharp and deliberate. Without hesitation, she grabbed the chair from her vanity and hurled it through the glass of the locked balcony door. The shattering sound reverberated through the room, the fractured glass scattering like glittering shards of ice across the floor. Ignoring the danger, she stepped over the jagged fragments and onto the balcony, the sharp edges pressing against her soles through her shoes. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air fill her lungs. For the first time in days, she felt like she could truly breathe. It was reckless, yes—but it was hers. A small act of defiance, a moment of freedom that belonged to her and no one else.