Queen Amara's POV:
The sound of shattering glass ripped through the silence.
It was past midnight. The palace halls were asleep — but my heart wasn't. I had just taken off my earrings when the door burst open with a violent crash.
Chris.
But not the Chris I knew — not the King, not the husband.
This was the storm wearing his face.
"Chris—" I barely whispered before his arm swept across the dresser, sending jewels, documents, and photo frames flying to the floor.
CRASH!
He didn't even look at me. His chest rose and fell with rage, his breathing wild. The veins on his neck stood out like lightning beneath his skin.
"Everything in this place is fake," he snarled, his voice rough and low. "Every smile. Every bow. Every goddamn word."
He grabbed one of my flower vases — the one I had bought from the artisans in the lower district — and hurled it against the wall. It exploded into dust and shards.
"Chris, stop!" I shouted, running toward him. "What's happening to you?"
He turned sharply, eyes blazing, face twisted with fury. "They think I'm losing grip! My soldiers, my ministers — they mocked me, Amara! In whispers, in silence, in looks. I felt it."
He kicked the chair beside the mirror, then slammed his fist against the glass until it splintered. Blood ran down his knuckles, but he didn't flinch.
The guards outside tried to rush in, but I raised a trembling hand. "Don't!"
He wasn't thinking — he was unraveling.
Breaking in real time.
"Chris, please," I begged, tears burning in my eyes. "You're bleeding. You're scaring everyone—"
He turned, eyes hollow, a dangerous calm settling into his voice.
"They need to be scared."
And then — CRASH! — he hurled his hand through the large chamber window. The glass shattered outward into the night air, raining down like falling stars.
The cold wind poured in, slapping his face, his blood dripping onto the marble floor.
He stood there, breathing hard, staring out into the darkness of his own city — the city that feared him, the city that loved me.
And then, in a voice barely audible:
"They should've never made me choose between fear and peace."
He dropped to his knees.
Just like that — the rage faded. His shoulders shook.
I ran to him, knelt beside him, wrapped my arms around his trembling frame. "You don't have to destroy everything to be heard," I whispered against his ear. "You already are the thunder, Chris… don't forget you're also the man."
He didn't respond. But his grip on my arm tightened — not in anger, but in surrender.
The guards stood frozen at the door, staring in silence.
The King had broken his palace tonight — and in doing so, revealed just how fragile even power could be.
—To be continued—