Behind the Royal Mask

He Knows...

Beatrice sat by the window, her face pale and streaked with the remnants of tears. She stared blankly at the gardens below, the vibrant colors blurring in her vision. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap as though holding herself together. The letter, now crumpled and shoved into her desk drawer, seemed to weigh on her chest like a stone.

The knock at the door was soft, almost hesitant. Beatrice didn't respond, lost in her thoughts. The door creaked open, and she turned sharply, hastily wiping her face and forcing herself to stand.

Prince Caelon stepped inside, his usual charm absent, replaced with an uncharacteristic solemnity. His sharp eyes immediately fixed on her.

"You've been crying," he said, his voice low and steady.

Beatrice shook her head quickly, brushing her hands over her face. "Nothing happened," she said with a strained smile. "I'm fine."

Caelon walked toward her, his gaze unwavering. "You don't look fine," he said, taking her hand and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You look... distressed."

Beatrice flinched slightly under his touch, her lips pressing together. She shook her head again, unwilling to let her voice betray her.

Caelon tilted his head, his tone soft but probing. "Did Alaric figure out your identity, Beatrice?"

Her breath hitched, and she froze, her eyes wide. She stepped back, her composure slipping. "I don't know what you mean," she said hastily. "I am Lady Anya."

Caelon chuckled, the sound sending a chill down her spine. He dropped her hand and straightened, his entire demeanor shifting. His voice turned colder, laced with mockery.

"Beatrice," he said, his lips curling into a dark smile.

Her blood ran cold.

"I—" She stepped back further, her heart pounding in her chest. "I don't know who that is."

Caelon laughed, a low, menacing sound that echoed through the room. He shook his head as though disappointed. "You really think you can fool me, do you? That's adorable."

He took another step forward, his presence looming. "I've known for weeks, Beatrice. You're not Lady Anya. You're one of those lowly Vigil rats."

Her throat tightened, and her breath came in shallow gasps. She felt trapped, her legs refusing to move even as every instinct screamed at her to run.

Caelon seated himself on the couch, his predatory eyes never leaving her. "I have to admit, you put on quite an act. The meekness, the obedience. Impressive, really." He leaned forward, his voice dripping with disdain. "But to think you could deceive me? That was foolish, Beatrice. Pathetic, even."

Beatrice clenched her fists, trying to steady herself. "It doesn't matter now," she said, her voice trembling but resolute. "Even if you know my identity, Alaric knows your plans."

Caelon threw his head back and laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. "My dear Beatrice, you aren't as clever as you think you are."

He stood, towering over her, his voice dropping into a dangerous tone. "I lied about everything I said when you tried to get me drunk. Did you really think I was that naïve?" He smirked. "Though I'll admit, I might have had one too many and considered bedding you. That was a mistake I won't repeat."

Beatrice kept her gaze steady. "Your plans won't work," she said, her voice firmer now. "Alaric—"

Caelon cut her off with a sneer. "My plan isn't unfolding in two weeks, Beatrice. It's unfolding tomorrow."