The Queen

29. Regret

"Care to explain what in hell is going on?" Philip's voice thundered through the room. His palm slammed against the hard wood of the desk, a sharp crack echoing in the silence. He ignored the sting in his hand, rage overpowering pain.

"I gave you one very specific order. One. And I come back to find it completely disregarded."

"First of all," said the Queen Mother calmly, seating herself across from him, "you need to mind the way you speak to me. You may be king, but I am still your mother. And no—it wasn't just one problem I had to handle. You left for months, abandoning this kingdom and all its burdens to me."

She leaned forward, tone sharpening.
"That particular problem, as you call it, was of your own making. Don't you dare place the blame at my feet. Remember, I wanted her gone. You stopped me. Now you want to play the noble king and expect all of us to bow to your moral compass? Too late for that."

Her gaze narrowed.
"In case you missed it, that girl is visibly pregnant. Do you have any idea what kind of scandal this could spark? When I discovered the truth, I made the only decision I could—to keep her here, under our control. She and her bastard child could become weapons in the hands of our enemies. I covered your back, Philip."

She stood, her voice ice-cold.
"Now that you're finally back, it's your mess to clean up. You're the king, after all."

Philip dragged a hand through his hair, her words slicing through his conscience. She was right. He had failed—failed to protect Samira, failed to cut ties with Alice when he should have, and now a life grew inside a woman he no longer loved. And that mistake might cost him the woman he did love.

His stomach twisted with guilt. Samira's face haunted him—how pale she'd gone the moment she saw Alice. How her body collapsed beside him. The physician's warning echoed in his ears: stress could jeopardize both mother and child.

A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Your Highness, the physician is here to speak with you."

"Send him in." Philip's voice was flat, strained.

The physician entered and bowed. His face bore the weight of bad news.

"My lord."

"How is the queen? And our child?"

"The queen is resting, and the child appears safe—for now."

Philip's heart stopped. "For now? What does that mean?"

"The queen is in the earliest stage of pregnancy. It's a delicate time. Emotional trauma, particularly grief or shock, can affect both her and the baby. Your Majesty... she just lost her father. And now..." The physician lowered his gaze, embarrassed.

"I understand," Philip murmured. "Thank you. That will be all."

When the physician left, Philip stood in silence, swallowed by shame. He had no one to blame but himself. In his selfishness, he'd created a storm now threatening everything he loved. How quickly life could shatter—how devastatingly fast everything could crumble.

Samira lay still on her bed, tears long dried. Not from peace, but exhaustion—her body simply couldn't cry anymore. The pain inside her heart eclipsed everything. Esma had left to fetch tea, and Samira only agreed in the hope of being left alone.

A knock startled her.

'Esma just left,' she thought.

Before she could speak, the door opened.

Alice.

She entered with the smugness of a cat who'd caught a bird. "So," she said with a soft giggle, "they tell me you're also with child. Isn't it ironic, the way fate works?"

Samira sat up slowly, her gaze steely.

"Leave."

"Oh dear," Alice purred, stepping further in. "How much more needs to happen for you to realize I'm here to stay?" She seated herself at the foot of the bed, uninvited.

"I don't know what Philip's been feeding you these last few months, but let's not pretend I'm his past. I'm his present—and his future. I carry his firstborn. His heir. You may be queen, and maybe you'll bear him more children, but I am the mother of his first. I am his only true love."

She leaned closer, her words venomous.

"The day my son becomes king, you'll be exiled to your pitiful homeland. I'll make sure of it. You will be remembered as the unwanted queen. Your children? Erased from history."

Samira's body shook, but her voice was steady.

"And you will be remembered as nothing more than a shameless mistress."

Alice's smirk faltered.

"You think this is a victory, but it's not. You'll never wear a crown, and that fact burns you alive. That's why you're here—trying to provoke me, trying to claim something you'll never have."

Before Alice could respond, the door swung open. Esma stood there, tray in hand, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Lady Alice, the queen has been ordered to rest. No visitors are allowed until further notice."

Alice scoffed. "And who the hell are you to tell me that?"

Esma's eyes narrowed. "No one of importance, just the woman who will drag you out by the hair if necessary."

Alice stalked forward, belly first, like a lioness ready to strike. Esma didn't flinch.

"You filthy scullery maid. You don't want me as your enemy."

"Funny," Esma said coolly. "Because people like me... we hear things. You don't want me as yours. Now leave, or I'll summon the king myself."

Alice's eyes blazed, but she turned and stormed out. The second the door shut, Samira collapsed into sobs. Esma rushed to her, wrapping her in a tight embrace.

Later that evening, Samira finally fell into a deep sleep. But it didn't last.

A sharp pain in her abdomen ripped through her, yanking her into consciousness. Gasping, she tried to sit, but another wave of pain made her cry out. She stumbled from the bed—and froze.

Her nightgown was soaked.

With trembling fingers, she touched the fabric.

Blood.

A scream tore from her throat. Her legs buckled beneath her as panic took hold.

Philip burst through the door. The second he saw her, he ran and caught her before she hit the floor, cradling her shaking body in his arms.

"Help!" he shouted. "HELP!"

And this time, the desperation in his voice echoed louder than any kingly command.