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AMARA POV
The West Wing was darker than I remembered.
No servants. No guards. Just the low hum of the security grid and the faint flicker of dying lights overhead.
My bare feet pressed against the marble floor, each step echoing louder than it should have. The air smelled like ozone and rage — the residue of his earlier outburst. Broken glass crunched under my heel as I turned the final corner.
There he was.
Chris.
My King. My husband. My storm.
He stood by the tall window, back turned to me, shoulders broad and tense beneath a half-buttoned shirt. The night wind pushed through the shattered pane, carrying the city's distant sounds — sirens, drones, silence.
I stopped a few feet away.
"Chris…"
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there — a silhouette carved out of firelight and pride.
"You've locked down the entire empire," I said softly. "Do you know what that means for the people outside? For the children who can't get home, the workers trapped in their towers?"
He finally spoke — voice low, rough.
"They'll survive. I've given them worse."
"Worse?" I whispered. "You're punishing an empire because you're angry with me?"
He turned then.
Slowly.
And when he faced me, I saw it — the red rims around his eyes, the fatigue behind his fury. The same man who used to sneak out of royal meetings just to cook dinner with me in the kitchen.
But now, that tenderness was buried beneath the King's armor.
"You defied me," he said quietly. "You came into my command hall after I said stay out."
I swallowed hard. "Because I was afraid of what you'd become if I didn't."
He stepped closer. "You think I've changed?"
"I know you have."
He laughed once, bitter and cold. "The empire doesn't have room for softness, Amara."
I met his gaze. "Then maybe the empire doesn't deserve you."
The silence that followed could've split stone.
For a moment, something flickered behind his eyes — something human. Then, like a reflex, he clenched his fists. "You think love fixes this?"
"No," I said, taking another step forward. "But love built this. Love gave you reason to rise from the ashes. Love is what made Chris Blackwood — not the crown, not the fear, me and you."
He looked at me then — really looked. The fight drained from his posture, replaced by something I hadn't seen in weeks: uncertainty.
The wind caught my hair as I reached out, touching his arm.
"Let me bring you back, my King," I whispered.
He didn't resist when my hand touched his face.
His breath hitched. The world seemed to hold still.
Outside, the city slept under forced silence. Inside, the King and Queen stood inches apart — the empire's fate balanced on their hearts.
For the first time that night, Chris didn't shout.
He just closed his eyes and said, almost like a confession:
"I don't know how to stop, Amara. Every time I try to lead with peace… I see blood instead."
I felt my throat tighten. "Then let me lead beside you. Let me be the peace when you can't find it."
He didn't answer — but his hand slowly, hesitantly, found mine.
And in that touch, the lockdown still held… but maybe the man behind the King had started to return.
— To be continued…