Henry shoved Lilian out of his chambers, the heavy doors slamming behind her. She stood there, stunned, completely naked, with only her hands to cover her shame.
Her breath caught in her throat. This… is my husband?
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, glancing down the corridor. No cloak. No cover. Just flickering torchlight and an endless hall. The nearest curtain was too high to reach without climbing the frame—and drawing attention would be worse than exposure.
She straightened.
"They'll look, but they won't dare touch," she muttered.
Head high, spine straight, Lilian walked down the corridor, her every step laced with cold defiance. Her bare feet whispered against the marble floor. Just as she turned the corner, her shoulder collided with someone. She stumbled slightly and looked up.
Prince Asher.
His eyes widened in surprise as he instinctively reached out to steady her. His gaze flicked down her body briefly, then away just as fast—his face unreadable.
Lilian rolled her eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. Without a word, she stepped past him, letting the scent of roses and defiance linger in her wake.
Inside her chamber, she slammed the door shut and finally exhaled.
Lilian leaned against the closed door, her breath shaky, her pride barely intact. The silence of her chambers wrapped around her like a cold blanket. For a moment, she simply stood there—eyes closed, fists clenched—fighting off the tears threatening to fall.
"Milady?" Roselyn's voice pierced the stillness. The chief maid had been waiting by the wardrobe, sorting through dresses for the following day.
Lilian said nothing at first, only straightened herself and crossed the room with poise, her bare feet making no sound on the polished floor.
"You're not supposed to be here tonight," Roselyn said softly, brows furrowed. "It's your wedding night…"
Lilian gave her a hard look, voice flat. "What are you doing?"
The question caught Roselyn off guard. "I— I was selecting an outfit for tomorrow. Prince Henry's favorite color is midnight blue. I thought—"
"I don't care what his favorite color is," Lilian cut in, walking over to the bed and pulling on a silk robe.
Roselyn hesitated. "Milady… I only meant to—"
"I don't recall asking for suggestions." Lilian's voice was sharp but steady. She made her way to the wardrobe, eyes scanning the rows of dresses. Her gaze landed on a bold crimson gown. "That one."
"The red, Milady?" Roselyn looked horrified. "It's… a bit too striking. Perhaps something more subtle?"
Lilian turned to her, voice cool and commanding. "Roselyn, do I need to remind you of your place?"
"No, Milady." The maid bowed her head quickly.
"Good. Then let this be the last time you question my decision without valid reason."
Roselyn bowed again, retreating quickly. "Shall I take my leave, Milady?"
"Do," Lilian said. "I'd like to be alone."
As the door closed behind her, Lilian stared at the crimson dress, a spark of defiance burning behind her eyes.
The morning light crept through the tall glass windows of the royal dining hall. Lilian, draped in crimson silk, glided to the table. She ignored the eyes boring into her—the colour she wore already a silent rebellion.
She picked up a piece of roasted meat and delicately brought it to her lips.
A sudden, thunderous slap shattered the air. The table fell into silence.
Lilian's face stung, her head turned slightly from the force. She slowly stood, lifting her chin.
"How dare you raise your hand at me?" Her voice was cold and measured.
Queen Beatrice glared at her with disdain.
"How dare you eat meat?"
"Excuse me?"
Beatrice's eyes narrowed. "It is forbidden for newly wedded wives to consume meat in this kingdom. It invites misfortune, disgrace, and sterility. Did no one tell you?"
Roselyn dropped to her knees behind them, shaking. "Forgive me, Your Grace—it was my fault. I forgot to warn her—"
"You incompetent wretch!" Beatrice raised her hand to strike the maid.
Lilian stepped forward, voice sharp. "Touch her and you'll answer to me. She's not the one who slapped a princess over a superstition."
The Queen's eyes darkened.
"Superstition? You insult our customs in my home?" She stepped closer. "You wear red, knowing my son prefers midnight blue. You eat meat. You speak out of turn. You defend a servant. And now you dare stand against me?"
Lilian folded her arms, unmoved. "If this is how you treat your family, I wonder how your enemies survive."
Beatrice gave a mocking smile. "Guards!"
Two armed men came forward and seized Lilian by the arms.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, her voice steady despite the chaos.
Beatrice didn't answer immediately. She took slow, measured steps towards her.
"To the wheel."
Lilian blinked. "The what?"
"The Wheel of Repentance," Beatrice said, eyes glittering. " To remind you, Princess… this is not your kingdom. And you may have married a prince, but you are not untouchable."
Lilian was dragged through the stone corridors, her feet barely touching the ground. The air grew colder the farther they went. They reached a shadowed chamber where a tall, circular wheel stood—made of iron and lined with ropes and wooden restraints. It was once used for war criminals. Now, it awaited a princess.
Without ceremony, the guards strapped her wrists and ankles to the wheel.
"You'll turn slowly under the torchlight," one of them muttered, "your back exposed to the air. No whipping. No blood. Just stillness, and the ache of restraint. You'll stay until sunset."
The wheel rotated, turning Lilian upside down, sideways, back again. Her arms began to ache, her shoulders screaming with tension. She clenched her teeth. But she made no sound.
Servants and nobles peeked through the doorway, whispering.
"She'll cry eventually."
"She'll beg."
But Lilian did neither. Her lips stayed closed. Her eyes stayed open. And in that stillness, she found something unexpected:
Power.