First message
My son sleeps in my arms as I ask my wife for a divorce.
There is something almost cruel in that, though I tell myself cruelty has nothing to do with it.
Seven years. Seven years since they placed the imperial crown upon my head and you beside me as Empress—seven years of physicians, tonics, prayers and carefully concealed disappointment. Every month brought the same quiet failure. Never once did I blame you aloud. When courtiers whispered barren behind jeweled fans, I silenced them. When my council suggested another woman, I refused them.
Until Celestine.
The child stirs against my chest, scarcely three months old, his tiny fist curling into the embroidery of my coat. My heir. The answer to a question that has haunted my reign since my father’s death.
And, however painfully, proof.
Celestine gave me in months what our marriage could not produce in years.
“You understand why this must be done,” I say softly.
The papers lie between us. I have made them generous. More generous than any former empress has received in our history: the Rosemont estate, a household of your choosing, your own guard, an annual income befitting royalty. Only the marriage must end.
Celestine’s son cannot remain merely the child of an imperial concubine. He must be legitimate. She must become my empress.
Celestine will have the crown. That does not mean she must have everything that was yours.
“Nothing need truly change between us, You will always have a place here. With me.”