I looked at Ethan’s face and remembered another lifetime—the day he ordered my people slaughtered for Ava Miller, the day he signed the decree condemning me to death. The memory was so sharp that even now I refused to linger on it.

This time, I would protect those I loved. I would not allow history to repeat itself.

Without the political alliance my marriage would have secured—without the armies, influence, and northern loyalty that stood behind my name—did Ethan truly believe he could inherit the Southern throne so easily?

Did he imagine a crown would simply descend upon his head because he desired it?

Ava Miller was soon formally styled Princess of Wales, and overnight she became the most discussed woman in the capital. The daughter of a junior royal archivist had ascended to the highest bridal rank in the realm, and the daughters of the great houses could scarcely conceal their outrage.

Whispers followed me through drawing rooms and gallery corridors.

“Your Highness, the Prince has gone too far. A clerk’s daughter as his lawful bride?”

“You were raised together from childhood. To cast aside years of affection so easily—how could he?”

“I hear Lady Ava was never kind within her own household, particularly to her father’s other children. What could His Highness possibly see in her?”

What did he see?

He once told me, with earnest conviction, “Ava is untouched by court ambition. She is simple, unspoiled. She does not scheme or compete the way the rest of you do.”

“I love her precisely because she is not dazzled by rank or jewels.”

I smiled faintly at the memory.

Very well.

Let us see whether such purity survives a crown.

Because I was to marry Alexander, the Queen was radiant with satisfaction. She summoned me to her private treasury and insisted I choose whatever I wished for my marriage settlements.

When I left the palace that afternoon, my attendants carried caskets of jewels, lengths of velvet and brocade, and heirloom pieces from the Queen’s own collection.

Near the courtyard steps, I encountered Ava on her way to pay her respects to the Queen. Her eyes were red, as though she had been weeping.

When she saw the procession behind me, something dark flickered in her expression before she lowered her gaze.

“Your Highness,” she said softly. “You are most fortunate. Her Majesty has been exceedingly generous.”

I studied her for a moment, then reached into the nearest velvet-lined case and lifted out a delicate emerald necklace.

“Ava,” I said lightly, “this would suit you. Consider it my congratulations on becoming Princess of Wales.”

Before she could respond, Ethan’s voice cut through the courtyard.

“There is no need for such gestures.”

He crossed the distance swiftly, his expression tightening as he took in the array of attendants and jewel cases.

“Ava does not value these gaudy displays,” he said coolly. “Keep your necklace.”

He turned to her immediately, concern softening his tone.

“Why have you been crying?”

Then his gaze returned to me, darker now.

“You know my mother has not yet warmed to her. Must you parade her generosity in front of Ava? What are you trying to prove?”

“She is my lawful bride,” he continued sharply. “With or without a grand marriage portion, she will be the most envied woman in the kingdom.”

I nearly laughed.

The most envied woman in the kingdom?

Ava’s stepmother had prepared only a modest bridal portion—no more than a few trunks of linens and silver. Her father’s income as a minor court official could not sustain the kind of display expected of a future queen.

There would be no glittering procession of estates and endowments, no alliances sealed through vast settlements.

Only Ethan’s defiance.

And pride alone has never been enough to sustain a crown.

In the capital, when a daughter of a great house married, her marriage settlement was displayed openly—estates transferred, jewels catalogued, chests sealed under heraldic crests.

A bride of royal rank was expected to arrive with wealth befitting her future station. Anything less invited speculation, and speculation in court society was a form of cruelty.

I did not know what Ava had whispered to Ethan, but the very next morning he arrived at my residence unannounced.

He did not bother with pleasantries.

“Hazel,” he began bluntly, “if you still intend to enter my household, I will honor what I said. But you must understand your position.”

“My position?” I repeated evenly.

“Ava is my future wife,” he continued. “Her marriage portion is… modest. Yours, however, is excessive. If you were to reside under my protection, it would be inappropriate for your settlements to eclipse hers.”

I stared at him in silence.

“She is too gentle to demand it,” he added, as though praising virtue,

“...but she suggested a simple solution. Your settlements could be presented publicly as part of her dowry—eighty percent declared in her name, the remainder retained privately for your own maintenance.”

“Once the formalities conclude, the assets may be quietly reassigned. No one need know. Appearances will be preserved.”

For a moment I thought I had misheard him.

He wished to strip me of the wealth my father and the Queen had assembled over years, parade it under another woman’s name, and call it courtesy.

I smiled faintly.

“Ethan, the lands and jewels granted to me were settled by treaty between two crowns. They are not decorative trifles to be rearranged for convenience.”

“Ava and I require no such displays,” he replied coolly. “She has never cared for material excess.”

“Then surely she would be offended,” I answered softly, “if you felt compelled to disguise her circumstances with another woman’s fortune.”

His expression hardened.

“Hazel, do not pretend this is about principle. You simply refuse to yield.”

“And if I refuse?” I asked.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice, as though offering me a secret kindness rather than an insult.

“In your last life, you wanted nothing more than to bear my child. You never did. If you agree to my terms now, I will grant you what you failed to have before—a child of your own.”

For a split second, the world seemed to tilt.

Had he been reborn as well?

The certainty in his eyes confirmed it. He knew I had once loved him enough to bleed for him.

He knew I had once endured humiliation for him.

He knew I had once died because of him.

And he believed that love still chained me.

I steadied my breath.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” I said evenly.

Then I met his gaze without flinching.

“I have never said I intended to marry you.”

He stared at me as though I had spoken nonsense.

A slow, mocking smile curved his lips.

“Stubbornness does not become you, Hazel. Who else do you imagine you could possibly marry?”

His tone sharpened, but beneath it lay absolute conviction.

“You think withdrawing will make me chase you? That feigned indifference will change my mind? It will not.”

He straightened, looking down at me with the same patronizing assurance he had worn in my previous life.

“Even if you do enter my household, you will never stand above Ava. At best, you would hold a lesser place. And that is only if I allow it.”

He gave a short, dismissive laugh.

“You have loved me too long to walk away now. This little display is nothing more than pride.”

The unshakable belief that he would always circle back to him.

That no matter how publicly he humiliated me, I would still choose him.

That my entire future revolved around the orbit of his approval.

I said nothing.

At that moment, one of Ava’s attendants stepped forward, carrying a folded garment of heavy silk.

“Your Highness,” she said carefully, “this was found among the princess’s dowrys, as you instructed.”

I recognized it instantly.

My bridal mantle—woven in cloth-of-gold, embroidered with the northern stag and the southern lion, commissioned for a future queen.

I stood at once.

“Why is that in your hands?”

Ethan waved dismissively.

“Pack it and send it to Lady Ava’s residence. You have no right to wear state colors reserved for a sovereign’s bride. That mantle will serve her far better.”

I moved toward it instinctively, but he caught my wrist and pushed me back.

“Enough. You have refused to assist her publicly, yet you cling to garments you will never be entitled to wear. What purpose does it serve you?”

And then a voice cut through the room—steady, edged with restrained fury.

“On what authority does the Crown Prince confiscate the bridal mantle of my future wife?”