The Queen

15. Coronation

Samira's heart pounded as she stood before Philip's study door. She closed her right hand into a fist, raised it to knock—then hesitated. One final deep breath gave her the courage she needed.

She knocked.

"Enter." His voice came immediately.

Samira slowly opened the heavy door.

Philip sat behind his desk, eyes fixed on a letter. He didn't look up. He didn't need to—he already knew it was her. He could feel her presence, the scent of her drifting into the room like a memory he couldn't suppress. He had to steel himself against the wave of longing threatening to rise in his chest.

"Philip."

"Yes?" He answered calmly, still pretending to read. In truth, he hadn't taken in a single word. All he wanted was to rise, cross the room, and tell her everything would be alright—even if he had no idea how to make that true.

"I—I came to offer you a deal. One that could solve all our problems."

"Go on." He didn't look up, only stared blankly at the page.

"Now that you're king, you have the power to annul our marriage. I'll return to Kalon, and you'll be free to marry Lady Alice. No one can stop you now."

Philip's eyes lifted immediately, the words hitting him like a blade. The thought of Samira leaving sparked a panic he tried hard to conceal. He chuckled, masking his discomfort, and tossed the letter onto the desk. Then he rose and circled toward her, his gaze fixed on her face the entire time.

He stopped in front of her.

"No," he said simply.

"I don't understand," she said, her voice shaking. "This is the only way you can be with the woman you love."

"You and I both know it's not that simple. It would throw the kingdom into political chaos—and I would break my final promise to my father." He turned, walking toward the small enclosure where his pigeons nested, his hands clasped behind his back.

He stared at them, looking for answers in their stillness, in their purity. Somehow, in their quiet presence, he found peace—just as he found peace in her. And just like them, he realized he couldn't let her go.

Samira stood frozen, tears gathering in her eyes. Part of her had hoped—prayed—he might choose her. That he would say they should try, that their marriage could become something real. But instead, all he spoke of was politics and duty.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked in a broken whisper. "I'm miserable here."

"Some things are meant to be kept and protected," he murmured, eyes still on the pigeons.

"I'm not a thing. I'm a person."

"You are a queen. And that title comes with responsibilities. Just like mine."

"I don't want it. Any of it. I'm sick of it all!"

Philip turned at the sound of her sobs. Seeing her in that state—raw, shattered—tore something in him. He crossed the room quickly and pulled her into his arms. She resisted at first, hitting his chest with her fists, but he held on. Eventually, she melted into his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry," he whispered into her hair, again and again.

He hated himself—for his coldness, for his selfishness, for keeping her trapped in a life she never asked for.

Later that day, Philip and Samira were crowned King and Queen of Esparcia. The coronation was grand, the feast afterward even more so. Samira's gown shimmered with golden embroidery and fine silks from Kalon, and she wore jewels that gleamed like stars. Philip couldn't take his eyes off her—she looked every bit a queen, his queen.

Prince Henry approached them as they sat on their thrones for the first time.

"Your Majesties," he said with an exaggerated bow. "Allow me to offer my loyalty, brother. I'm certain Esparcia will flourish under your reign."

Philip offered only a nod. Something in his gut twisted—Henry's words rang false.

Henry kissed his brother's hand, then turned to Samira. As he bowed and kissed hers, he slipped a small folded note into her palm. Samira's heart leapt, but she kept her expression composed and discreetly hid the message in her gown.

Hours passed. Most of the guests had left, and Samira, now seated beside Philip, sipped from her wine cup. She looked drained.

"I think we've done enough for tonight," Philip said softly.

"For once, I agree with you," she murmured.

He chuckled.

"Let me walk you to your chambers," he said, standing and offering his hand.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking myself." She stood, but her legs buckled beneath her. Philip caught her just in time.

"I don't doubt that," he said with a smirk, "but right now, it doesn't seem like it."

"You should go find your mistress. Wouldn't want her to leave in a fit of jealousy."

The smirk deepened. "Is that jealousy I hear in your voice?"

"Jealousy? Me?" She scoffed. "Your ego is truly insufferable. I couldn't care less what you do—I just want my freedom."

His smile faded. "You know very well that's not happening."

"I hate you," she whispered.

"No, you don't."

"I'm done talking to you. Good night, Your Highness." She turned, but her legs failed her again. He caught her once more.

"You're clearly in no state to walk. Let me help you."

"I'll ask a servant."

"They're all busy cleaning. Look around."

She glanced at the bustling hall and sighed. "Fine."

He wrapped her arm over his shoulder and placed a steadying hand around her waist. Their eyes met—briefly, intensely. A silent storm passed between them.

"Please don't hate me," he whispered, almost to himself.

"I don't," she whispered back. "I can't."

He longed to kiss her, but she was in no state to consent. Instead, he kissed her forehead, lingering there, inhaling her scent, savoring the feel of her skin.

"Come. Let's get you to bed."

Samira didn't answer. Inside, she cursed herself for the longing that bloomed in her chest—longing she knew she would pay for.

"I can manage from here," she said quietly at her door, blinking back tears.

"I said I'd take you, and I will. We're almost there."

"You always ignore what I say. Why must everything be about you?" Her tears finally fell.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, genuinely alarmed.

"Just go, Philip."

"I'm not leaving you like this."

"You don't get it, do you?"

"No. I don't. I can't even understand my own emotions. But I do know one thing—I hate seeing you like this. I want to see the light in your eyes again, the way it shone that day in the forest."

"I'm not that girl anymore."

"Yes, you are," he said gently. He cupped her face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears. "She's still in there. I know it."

He lifted her into his arms, carrying her with care. By the time they reached her bed, she had fallen asleep. He laid her down, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered a moment on her cheek before he turned and rushed to find Esma.

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