enjoyebooks CHAPTER 120
CHAPTER 120
POV: Evangeline
The first weeks of marriage feel like living beside a door that never opens.
Sebastian and I share meals, corridors, obligations. We do not share warmth. When we speak, it is with purpose, our words clipped and courteous, as if affection might be overheard and misinterpreted as weakness.
“Breakfast is at the eighth bell,” he tells me one morning, already standing.
“I’ll be there,” I reply.
He nods and leaves.
That is how most conversations go.
At court, they watch us carefully. A newly married pair is expected to glow. Instead, we are polished—appropriate, presentable, untouched by scandal or tenderness.
A lady-in-waiting murmurs one afternoon, “You are very composed for a bride.”
“I was trained well,” I answer.
She smiles, reassured, and moves on.
Sebastian walks beside me through the galleries, his hand occasionally brushing my sleeve when appearances demand closeness. His touch is light, deliberate, never lingering.
“You don’t need to look so tense,” he says quietly during one procession.
“I’m not tense,” I reply.
“You are,” he says. “You hold yourself like you’re bracing.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For disappointment,” he answers.
I consider that. “Experience teaches anticipation.”
He glances at me. “It also teaches restraint.”
“Yes,” I agree. “You’re very good at that.”
That earns a faint smile. “So are you.”
Evenings are quieter. We dine alone more often than not, the long table between us a reminder of distance. Servants pour wine we rarely finish.
“You eat very little,” Sebastian observes one night.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“You should maintain your strength,” he replies. “People notice these things.”
I set my fork down. “Do they notice when you’re absent?”
He doesn’t look up. “Absence is expected of a king.”
“You’re not king yet,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “But I will be.”
The certainty in his voice leaves no room for softness.
“Do you regret this?” I ask suddenly.
He pauses, then meets my gaze. “Regret implies choice. This was alignment.”
I nod. “Then we understand each other.”
He studies me. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I say. “We are not meant to be close. We are meant to be effective.”
“That,” he replies, “is an accurate assessment.”
We rise together. He gestures toward the door. “Rest.”
The bed is large. We occupy opposite sides like diplomats observing a truce.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Sebastian says once, turning slightly toward me.
“I’m not,” I answer.
“You’re very careful,” he says.
“So are you,” I reply.
He exhales. “Carefulness has kept me alive.”
“It’s kept me invisible,” I say.
Silence follows.
When he reaches for me, it is not rushed. It is not cruel. It is simply… procedural. He asks permission with his eyes, not his words.
“Yes,” I say.
After, he turns away, already withdrawing.
“You may sleep,” he says.
“I was planning to,” I reply.
He nods, satisfied.
I stare at the ceiling long after his breathing evens out, counting the spaces between thoughts.
***
Days pass. Appearances fill the hours. I learn the rhythm of the court—when to speak, when to smile, when to remain still.
“You’re adapting quickly,” Sebastian remarks during a council reception.
“I’ve had practice,” I say.
“With me?” he asks.
“With men who value order over emotion,” I reply.
His expression tightens briefly. “Emotion complicates governance.”
“So does suppression,” I say.
He looks at me, surprised. “You’re not wrong.”
We share a moment then—not warmth, but recognition.
Later, a courtier approaches us. “Your Grace, there are questions about heirs.”
Sebastian’s jaw sets. “It’s early.”
“Nevertheless,” the man persists.
I interject smoothly. “We will address such matters when appropriate.”
The courtier bows, appeased.
Sebastian glances at me afterward. “Thank you.”
“It’s part of the role,” I say.
“You handle it well.”
“So do you,” I reply.
One afternoon, I find Sebastian alone in the armory, staring at a row of swords.
“Do you train?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “When I have time.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
He considers. “It’s… clarifying.”
I step closer. “Violence often is.”
He studies me. “You speak like someone familiar with it.”
“I grew up watching it disguised as discipline,” I reply.
He nods slowly. “So did I.”
The admission surprises me.
“My father believed fear builds respect,” he continues. “It builds obedience.”
“And distance,” I add.
“Yes,” he agrees. “That too.”
We stand there a moment longer than necessary.
“You don’t ask much of me,” he says.
“I know what happens when you do,” I reply.
“And what happens?” he asks.
“You learn to want less,” I say.
He exhales. “You’re very controlled.”
“So are you,” I repeat.
***
At night, I sometimes wake expecting to hear Alexandro’s voice—soft, teasing, alive. Instead, I hear the measured breath of a man beside me who does not know my favorite color or the sound I make when I’m truly amused.
I sit up once, unable to sleep.
Sebastian stirs. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I say.
He studies me in the dim light. “You can speak freely here.”
“Can I?” I ask.
He pauses. “Within reason.”
I lie back down. “Then I won’t speak.”
He doesn’t push.
***
Weeks become months.
I grow efficient. Polished. Unremarkable in my composure.
“You never complain,” Sebastian notes one evening.
“I don’t see the use,” I reply.
“Neither do I,” he says.
There it is—the truth of us.
We endure side by side, two figures moving forward because stopping would invite questions neither of us wants to answer.
Motherhood is not yet discussed beyond polite deflection. The court waits, watches. I feel no urgency—only a quiet ache I refuse to name.
One night, as we prepare to sleep, Sebastian says, “You are stronger than you realize.”
“Strength isn’t loud,” I reply.
“No,” he agrees. “It’s persistent.”
I turn toward him. “We will persist.”
“Yes,” he says. “We will.”
The candles burn low.
This is marriage.
Not cruelty.
Not love.
Just survival practiced daily.
And I learn, slowly, carefully, how to exist within it without disappearing entirely—how to be a bride to a stranger, and still remain myself.