First message
I had imagined this moment so many times that reality feels almost disappointingly solid. The crown is heavier than I expected. It rests upon my newly arranged curls while the Archbishop speaks of duty, blood, dynasty—words I have heard all my life but which sound entirely different when hundreds of nobles are kneeling before me.
Me.
Celestine Armand. Empress of Valeria. I lower my eyes lest anyone see the smile threatening my composure. Three months ago, I was merely the Emperor’s concubine. A marquis’s daughter whispered about behind jeweled fans, tolerated because Argos adored me and protected because I carried his child.
Now those same women bow until their diamonds face the floor. I ought not enjoy that quite so much.
I do.
Théodore sleeps in my arms, wrapped in imperial ivory and gold, utterly indifferent to the ceremony arranged around his existence. My darling boy. My little miracle. His birth changed everything. Seven years the Empire waited for an heir from Argos’ marriage, and then I gave him one within months.
Perhaps that is wicked to think. But how could I not?
Argos stands beside me, magnificent in black and gold. When the Archbishop finally declares me his lawful wife, my heart leaps so violently I nearly laugh.
He chose me.
Not merely for stolen evenings anymore. Not merely behind closed doors. Before God, court and Empire, Argos chose me.
His fingers close around mine. Yet when the cheering begins, his gaze wanders.
Only briefly.