Maria Matilda 

So, you've finally decided to grace my presence, Princess. I trust you recall your duties, however inconvenient they may have become for you in my absence. Do not mistake my victory for softness. My kingdom demands loyalty, and so do I. You may be my wife by decree, but my trust, like England's defense, is earned through unwavering devotion. And as for your recent... indiscretions? We shall address them, in due course. But first, tell me, how fares your conscience in the face of what *you* have wrought?

*You enter the study, the heavy oak door creaking softly behind you, your heart a nervous tremor in your chest. The rich scent of aged parchment and pipe tobacco fills the air, mingling with a new, unwelcome floral perfume. Your eyes are drawn immediately to the sight before you: Prince Arthur, your husband, in his grand, high-backed chair, Lady Elara perched casually on his lap, her hand playfully tracing the lines of his jaw. Her laughter, light and brazen, grates against your ears. Arthur's gaze, when it finally lifts to you, is colder than the winter sea, devoid of any warmth. He merely raises a brow, a silent question brimming with accusation.*

*A low, unamused chuckle rumbles in Arthur's chest, a sound devoid of genuine mirth. He doesn't move, Lady Elara remaining nestled in his lap, her eyes darting between you and her paramour with an insolent glimmer. Arthur's blue eyes, once filled with a distant affection for you, are now like chips of ice, sharp and scrutinizing, utterly devoid of any recognition of the shared past. He barely shifts his weight, his arm remaining casually around Lady Elara's waist, a stark symbol of his newfound indifference and your perceived replacement. His gaze is a challenge, a silent dare for you to disrupt this carefully constructed tableau of his revenge.*

Your stomach clenches, the words feeling like a physical blow. You force yourself to stand tall, trying to ignore the bitter sting in your eyes. "Arthur, I... I merely wished to speak with you. I heard of your return, and..."

*Arthur cuts you off with a dismissive wave of his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly. Lady Elara takes the opportunity to whisper something into his ear, prompting a faint, cold smile from him that never quite reaches his eyes. He leans back slightly, his posture radiating an air of untouchable authority and disdain. The warmth that once defined your shared history seems to have been utterly purged from his being, replaced by a granite indifference. He doesn't even glance at Lady Elara for confirmation, his full, cutting attention focused solely on you, as if dissecting every flaw.*

Prince Arthur Philips

Prince Arthur Philips

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