Lord Tristan sat in the palace garden, studying maps and navigation charts.
He noticed—again—that every maid, noblewoman, and servant who passed couldn't help but stare. Some even looked back twice.
It was annoying. Irritating.
Then, a pair of soft hands touched his shoulders.
Had he not been trying to maintain a semblance of peace, he might have slapped whoever dared to touch him without permission.
A whisper tickled his ear.
"My prince… my lord… my lover. How I need you dearly. I ache to be in your arms, to feel your lips on my bare skin."
Good gracious…
Had he really found this woman attractive before? Because now all he felt was a heavy wave of disgust.
He lifted her hands off his shoulders.
"My lord, what is it? What have I done to offend you?" she asked sweetly. "Let me apologize by sucking your cock?"
She leaned in, trying to kiss him, but he pulled away.
"Luciana… I'd prefer to be alone. I'm exhausted. I'd like to retire to bed, if you don't mind," he said, rising to his feet.
She stepped closer, tracing a gold thread on his shirt.
"Can I at least join you, Your Majesty? In your bed?"
"No," he said firmly.
Her voice trembled. "Are you abandoning me? Are you pushing me away?"
"Can't you hear yourself, Luciana?" he said, his voice lowering dangerously. "Don't you hear how desperate you sound? It's pathetic. You know how much desperation irritates me, don't you?"
He held her hand tightly.
"I'd like to be alone. Your presence… nauseates me."
Her face fell. "Anything you wish, Your Highness."
She bowed, but he could see the tears she was trying to hide.
He cursed himself inwardly for ever letting things go this far with her.
As he walked through the palace hall, his thoughts were heavy—until he heard voices coming from the visitors' parlor.
His brows furrowed. He stepped closer, curious.
Peeking into the room, he spotted his father and uncle deep in discussion—with three women seated before them.
His eyes locked onto one of them.
A woman with an aura as dark as the midnight sky.
She was breathtakingly gorgeous. Her long, rippling black hair was pinned beneath a stylish black hat. A delicate lace mask covered her face.
She wore a full-length crimson gown that hugged her curves elegantly. She was covered—and yet completely seductive.
Her red lips contrasted beautifully with her rich brown skin.
She didn't look like she belonged to this world.
When she smiled, it wasn't shy. It was confident. Bold. Dangerous.
Her back was straight, legs crossed, showing off her ankle boots—elegant, expensive. Her sparkling grey eyes locked with his, dead serious and unmoving.
When was the last time he paused to truly look at a woman?
Five bloody years.
When was the last time he marveled at beauty, instead of just choosing the prettiest one to warm his sheets?
She stared into him—saw him—and something wild stirred inside him.
He tried to slip away, unnoticed. But in his fluster, he accidentally pushed the door.
The loud creak drew attention. Her lips twitched with restrained laughter.
Tristan forced his face into a neutral expression and stepped in, gaze cold.
"Good day, Father. Good day, Uncle." He ignored the guests entirely—intentionally.
King Hansel shot him a sharp glare.
"Good day, son. I hope you've had your breakfast?" Lord Charles asked calmly. "Oh, and our guests—Lady—"
"Uncle, I haven't eaten yet. I was heading to my room."
He bowed slightly.
"You may carry on with your meeting."
Without a backward glance, he left the room.
It was late that evening when his father burst unannounced into his chambers—though Tristan had expected him earlier.
"How rude of you, Tristan Jerome Boltstruck!" King Hansel thundered.
Tristan barely looked up from the book in his lap, arching a brow with quiet disdain. "I wasn't being rude, Father. I was just being honest. Straightforward, even."
Hansel's face flushed with anger. "You're a mannerless disgrace! After all the etiquette you were drilled in at gentleman's school—what happened to it? Down the drain?"
Tristan's eyes returned to the page. His voice turned glacial. "Down the grave. Right along with my fiancée and my mother."
The words struck Hansel like a blade. "It's no one's fault, son. Rachel's death was—"
"Unavoidable?" Tristan nearly laughed, but there was no humor in it—only scorn. "Just like the death of my manners, apparently."
Hansel cursed under his breath. "Blast it, Tristan! You'll meet another woman. You'll love again. You're a man, not a forever-mourning widower."
Tristan finally closed the book with a deliberate snap and looked at his father, fury simmering beneath his calm exterior. "Right. Just like you got over it, yes? Like when you were fucking my mother's personal handmaid the night she was buried?"
Hansel's face went pale.
"Or the part where you think I didn't know she's pregnant," Tristan continued, voice rising, "and that you still had the audacity to sleep with my fiancée!"
Hansel staggered. "You—you saw?"
"Oh, I saw," Tristan said bitterly. "I saw her riding you while you thought I was away preparing our wedding."
He stood, tall and imposing, towering over his father. "I've imagined killing you, many times."
There was a long, brittle silence before Tristan added, "Yes, I'm a man. A man with gaping holes in his mind. I can't remember anything between the night my mother died and the day they told me my beloved fiancée was dead. But I do remember the cheating."
He stepped closer, voice raw with rage and sorrow. "So tell me, Father—what did Rachel look like? Why did I love her? Where did we meet? What happened after I went to sea following Mother's death? Why the hell did you sleep with her? How did I lose my memories?"
His voice broke into a growl. "Tell me, you bastard."
But Hansel said nothing—only stared, too shaken to speak.
"Of course you can't," Tristan sneered. "Because you're a pretentious, cowardly bastard who's been trying to erase his own son."
And without another word, Tristan turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving the door swinging behind him.