The Queen

12. Contrast

"Your Majesties, Princess Samira will not be joining you this morning for breakfast. She sends her deepest apologies," announced Esma as she entered the dining room.

Philip immediately lifted his head. Across the table, Henry shot him a murderous glare, one that Philip returned without hesitation.

"Oh?" the king asked. "May I inquire as to the reason?"

"My lady is unwell this morning, Your Highness."

"Unwell? I see. Please tell her we all wish her a swift recovery. And call for a healer if necessary," the king replied.

Esma glanced briefly at Philip, who was staring intently at his empty plate, jaw clenched, expression unreadable.

"I will inform my lady that you all wish her well," Esma emphasized the word all, curtsied, and exited the dining room. Only once in the corridor did she exhale the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She hurried back toward the princess's chambers.

A boy no older than six crossed her path and tugged on her sleeve. She bent down to meet his eye level.

"You have to go to the stables today at six," he whispered.

"What? What are you talking about? Who sent you?" Esma asked, bewildered. But the boy turned and ran off before she could press further.

She called after him, but he was already gone.

When Esma returned to the chamber, she found Samira seated by the window, still in her nightgown, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Years of service had taught Esma to recognize that faraway look. It was a kind of quiet despair that pierced her heart.

"My lady." Esma rushed to her side and took her hand. "What can I do to pull you from this state? It's painful to see you like this. You don't deserve it." She knelt before her.

Samira gently took Esma by the arms and urged her to stand.

"My dear friend, there's nothing you can do. The only thing that could bring hope back into my heart is returning home—and we both know that's impossible. I am doomed to spend the rest of my life in this foreign land, married to a monster. That is my reality. Don't be sad for me, Esma. This is my destiny."

"If only we could turn back time and—"

"I would still have done the same," Samira interrupted. "I have a responsibility to my people. Being a princess is not about gowns and tea; it's about sacrifice. It's placing your happiness second to the well-being of an entire kingdom."

"I'm proud of you. Proud to call you my princess and my friend. I still believe this will change someday. The gods have seen everything you've done. They will honor you, I know it. Please, don't lose hope."

Samira gave her a soft smile. Her hope had long faded, but Esma's words were a balm. Esma reminded her who she truly was—like a breath of fresh air.

"I'm tired. I didn't sleep at all last night," Samira whispered.

"Then rest, my lady. You'll feel better once you wake. I'll go prepare your favorite meal, if that's all right?"

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

Esma left, and Samira slipped into bed, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep almost instantly.

Hours later...

When Samira opened her eyes, a rose lay on the pillow beside her. Its deep red petals glowed against the stark white bedding. So different, yet somehow perfect together. The sight stirred something in her.