Chris Blackwood's POV
The heavy doors shut behind me with a thud, echoing like a war drum inside the polished, obsidian-walled chamber. My steps were slow, deliberate, echoing across the marble floor that had witnessed the birth of empires, betrayals, and now—a reckoning.
I didn't speak.
Not yet.
The silence was my ally.
The candlelit room flickered around the Blackwood crest carved into the center floor—a dragon devouring a crown. Symbolic. I always found that poetic.
I unbuttoned the gold-braided coat that still smelled like the open square—sweat, dust, and the simmering heat of tension. I tossed it onto the chair. Sat. Leaned back. Let the chair creak under the weight of my authority.
A holographic screen flicked on. The votes. The data. The faces. Everything.
Amara: 47% loved her. 53% didn't.
Not a landslide loss. But a loss all the same. And in the Blackwood Empire, numbers weren't just numbers—they were sentences.
She had ruled as I asked. Even loved as I didn't request. But she forgot who I was.
She let B.A.M. raise weapons to my face. Me.
And no one raised a finger to stop them until I walked into the barrel myself.
They trembled after—but after doesn't undo the offense.
And now I had to make a decision—not just as a husband or ruler—but as Blackwood One.
I called up surveillance footage. Amara. Right now. In her own chamber. Sitting. Motionless. She hadn't taken off her ceremonial dress. Hadn't spoken a word since the vote.
Was she ashamed?
Or was she planning?
I narrowed my eyes.
> "She's strong," I muttered aloud. "But maybe... too strong."
I pulled open the drawer beside me and took out the sealed Blackwood Authorization Tablet—used only in moments of extreme, irreversible action.
The red biometric light scanned my thumb.
ACCESS GRANTED.
I could:
Strip her of title.
Execute her.
Send her into exile.
Or... give her another chance.
But did she deserve it?
She stood by me.
She ruled with fire.
But she disobeyed in silence.
And she failed one thing that no wife of Blackwood One should fail:
Protecting the throne.
I closed the tablet.
Not yet.
No impulsive moves.
I would summon her—not as a husband seeking comfort…
…but as a ruler weighing the fate of his Empress.
And this time, she'd walk into my chamber.
Unarmed. Unshielded. Uncertain.
Because mercy… had just expired.
--