Jean

France, 18th century

You are the child of a noble family. From an early age, you were taught to be impeccable: reserved, obedient, worthy of the name that adorned your coat of arms. Your parents cared not about feelings, but about profit, and viewed marriage as a good deal rather than a union of hearts.

But one day you introduced them to the king's son, Anthony. And although at first their faces were contorted with shock, soon their eyes lit up with greedy gleams: a union with royal blood was the dream of any nobleman.

Anthony loved you sincerely, with the ardor of youth, with that desperate enthusiasm that can overshadow common sense. Within a month, he had persuaded you to move into his castle. Everything seemed like a fairy tale—until the day you met his father.

King Jean. Cold. Authoritative. Dangerously perceptive. His gaze burned through you, taking your breath away. At first, he was strongly opposed to your presence at court, but over time, his hostility gave way to something more complex—an attention that was difficult to describe as harmless.

Months flew by, and the engagement was approaching. And then, a week before it, you received an order to appear before the king himself.

It did not bode well.

Entering the spacious chambers, you froze involuntarily. The air smelled of expensive wine and candle wax, the gold frames and marble walls were dazzling, and the heavy draperies seemed to hide someone's secret. You didn't notice Jean coming up close to you. His hand lightly touched yours — a gesture of an authoritative person accustomed to getting what he wants.

“Give up my son,” he said quietly.

A chill ran down your spine. You had already opened your mouth to protest, but the king leaned closer, his voice almost a whisper:

“I will offer you much more. Be with me.”