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Three years after she remarried Rhys Romano, Camille Blake attended a low-key alumni fundraiser and overheard a secret she was never meant to hear. Isla Sutton, her words slurring slightly from champagne, was holding court during a game of truth or dare. Someone had asked her for the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. She swirled the bubbles in her glass, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sleeping with Rhys Romano behind his wife’s back, obviously.” “The best part is, his wife actually thinks we’re over.” “I gave him a son. I live in a condo he owns, I drive his Porsche, and I use his Centurion card. Even his household staff answers to me.” When she finished, the room fell silent. Every eye in the place turned to Camille, waiting for the explosion. Because she was Rhys’s wife. ... But Camille didn’t cry. She didn’t make a scene. When a waiter passed by to refill her glass, she simply murmured, “Thank you.” After the party, the changes in her were subtle at first, but soon, people started to notice. First, her Instagram. Every post featuring Rhys vanished. When Rhys came home late, the living room lamp she always left on for him was dark. A short time later, Camille canceled her IVF appointments at the fertility clinic. Five years ago, she and Rhys had been in a horrific car accident. When the impact came, she had thrown herself over him without thinking. Rhys walked away with minor injuries. Camille, however, was in a coma for three days. The doctors later told her that her chances of conceiving naturally were almost zero. For the heir the Romano family craved,and for the family she had once desperately wanted,she had pushed herself for years. She went to the clinic every month and endured countless injections. She held on to endless, heart-breaking hope that one day, she might have their child. After the party, she stopped managing the Romano family’s social calendar. She stopped attending S......

Three years after she remarried Rhys Romano, Camille Blake attended a low-key alumni fundraiser and overheard a secret she was never meant to hear. Isla Sutton, her words slurring slightly from champagne, was holding court during a game of truth or dare. Someone had asked her for the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. She swirled the bubbles in her glass, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sleeping with Rhys Romano behind his wife’s back, obviously.” “The best part is, his wife actually thinks we’re over.” “I gave him a son. I live in a condo he owns, I drive his Porsche, and I use his Centurion card. Even his household staff answers to me.” When she finished, the room fell silent. Every eye in the place turned to Camille, waiting for the explosion. Because she was Rhys’s wife. ... But Camille didn’t cry. She didn’t make a scene. When a waiter passed by to refill her glass, she simply murmured, “Thank you.” After the party, the changes in her were subtle at first, but soon, people started to notice. First, her Instagram. Every post featuring Rhys vanished. When Rhys came home late, the living room lamp she always left on for him was dark. A short time later, Camille canceled her IVF appointments at the fertility clinic. Five years ago, she and Rhys had been in a horrific car accident. When the impact came, she had thrown herself over him without thinking. Rhys walked away with minor injuries. Camille, however, was in a coma for three days. The doctors later told her that her chances of conceiving naturally were almost zero. For the heir the Romano family craved,and for the family she had once desperately wanted,she had pushed herself for years. She went to the clinic every month and endured countless injections. She held on to endless, heart-breaking hope that one day, she might have their child. After the party, she stopped managing the Romano family’s social calendar. She stopped attending S......

"Shh… keep your voice down. Your former fiancé is right outside…" The day after the prince rejected me, his youngest uncle pinned me beneath him. His hot 🔥 slammed into me again and again… ---Chapter 1 The Year She Was Seventeen Again "If there is someone you care for, say it. I want to hear it from you." The King's voice echoed from the raised dais, measured and steady, carrying both authority and a rare gentleness. Each word was deliberate, sincere. Elowen Hale stood frozen. In that instant, she understood—she had returned. She had been reborn, back to the year she turned seventeen. Today was the palace banquet, ostensibly a family gathering. In truth, the King had summoned her for one purpose alone. With his own mouth, he intended to decide her marriage. Elowen parted her lips, but the words caught in her throat. A surge of tangled emotions tightened her chest, her vision blurring with heat. "You need not be afraid." When she failed to answer, the King's voice softened further. "The Hale family has served the crown for generations. Your father, your brothers, your uncles—they all fell for Avenlor on the battlefield. Now, only you remain. I will personally see to your marriage. No matter whom you wish to wed, I will make it so." Even after living two lifetimes, the memory of Hale Manor still made Elowen's heart ache. Avenlor had stood for less than a century. Its foundation was shallow, its enemies numerous, its future fragile. Last year, the horsemen of the Northern Reaches had shattered the border defenses. The Hale family had been ordered north to defend the realm. On the day they departed, her father, uncles, and elder brothers had been full of spirit, laughing and teasing her until she found them unbearable. When they returned, they came in coffins. Their bodies were wrapped in torn, blood-soaked cloaks. Silent. Still. Her aunts and sisters-in-law scattered—some returned to their birth families, others remarried. Her mother, crushed by grief, fell ill and died at the start of the year. The once-lively Hale Manor was left with only Elowen. The King had named this banquet a "family gathering," but everyone knew the truth. He meant to marry her off. It was his way of honoring the fallen Hales. A light laugh broke the solemn air. "Why even ask, Father?" a girl said teasingly. "Everyone knows Elowen is hopelessly in love with Alaric. She's never exactly been subtle." It's Princess Maerwyn Valebourne—the King's favored daughter. In her previous life, Maerwyn had said the exact same words. Back then, Elowen had flushed crimson and lowered her head in shy embarrassment at the mention of Alaric Valebourne, the Crown Prince. The King had laughed heartily and waved his hand. "Then it's settled. We'll choose an auspicious day, and you and Alaric shall be married." She had poured herself into that wedding. Every detail. Every preparation. She told herself that effort mattered—that if she tried hard enough, he might notice her. Might care. But—on their wedding night, Alaric shut her out. He refused to touch her. Refused to let her near the bed. By morning, Elowen was still there, curled on the cold stone floor, fully dressed, staring into the dark. There was no intimacy. No heir. The King and Empress, once full of pity, gradually turned disappointed. The entire Crown Prince's Wing adjusted accordingly. Without favor, without a child, Elowen became invisible. Servants no longer bothered to hide their disdain. She endured it all in silence. Until one day, she overheard a conversation. Alaric was speaking with one of his close companions—about her. Only then did she realize that everything she had suffered, he had known. He simply hadn't cared. Or worse—he had allowed it. His voice had been cold, sharp with contempt. "She forced me to marry her," he said, "and now she's getting what she deserves." His companion hesitated. "But Elowen is beautiful. She genuinely cares for you. Do you really feel nothing for her?" Alaric didn't pause. "She disgusts me." The world went cold. I forced you to marry me, did I? Is that really what you think? It had been your father's decision. If you didn't want it, why hadn't you spoken up? Why punish me instead? In this farce, the King was praised as a benevolent ruler honoring a fallen hero's family. The Crown Prince earned favor. And Elowen—she alone paid the price. What had she done to deserve it? Grief clawed at her until she thought she might vomit, yet nothing came. Her eyes burned, but no tears fell. Numb, she went to Alaric. She stood before him and lowered herself into a deep, formal bow, asking for a dissolution of their marriage. Alaric, usually indifferent, snapped. Without warning, he seized a cup and hurled it at her. Elowen did not move. The cup struck her temple. Blood streamed down her face. For a moment, Alaric seemed startled, as though he might rise. Instead, he clenched his jaw. "There's no need to act pitiful." He refused the annulment. For days, he ignored her completely. Later—without explanation—he agreed. On the eve of their separation, Elowen looked around the chambers and realized she felt nothing for them. There was nothing she wanted to take. In the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Married at seventeen. Four years later, she was all sharp edges and hollow eyes—pale, exhausted, worn thin. At least she would be free. She fell asleep. And woke again at seventeen. Perhaps even the heavens had taken pity on her. "Oh?" the King said thoughtfully, turning back to the present. "She likes Alaric?" "Yes," Maerwyn said with a playful smile. "Elowen is completely smitten. "She's always bringing him pastries she bakes herself. Once she hurt her hand and kept insisting it didn't hurt at all—though I ended up eating most of them. "And not long ago, when Alaric lost something important, he was in a foul mood. Elowen even came to ask me what symbol he preferred. She wanted to replace it for him herself." As Maerwyn spoke, Alaric's brows knit together. His discomfort was unmistakable. To him, all of this was nothing but an unwanted burden. Around the hall, guests began turning to look at Elowen. Some curious. Some amused. All eager for spectacle. Another girl might have felt humiliated. Elowen felt nothing. This was insignificant compared to what she had already lived through. The King laughed. "So you like him that much? You grew up together—naturally, it must be mutual. In that case, I'll arrange the betrothal myself—" "Your Majesty." Elowen's voice cut through the hall. The King turned. “Hmm?” Her eyes were faintly red, but her voice was steady. This time, she didn't even look at Alaric. She stepped forward and bowed deeply, her posture formal and composed. "It is true that I grew up alongside His Highness," she said clearly. "But I have always held him in respect. I have never once harbored improper feelings toward him." Silence fell across the hall. Elowen did not see it, but Alaric's brows drew even tighter. The King frowned slightly. "Are you certain?" Elowen knew he would not relent unless she named someone. She remained bowed and answered with solemn conviction. "I have long admired the Duke of Duskmoor. If I may become his wife, I would have no regrets in this life." The grand hall erupted in an instant."What? The Duke of Duskmoor?" "She really said she wants to marry him?" "Why would she give up the Crown Prince for the Duke?" "Does she even realize he's in no condition to marry anyone at all?" The whispers surged like a rising tide, rippling across the hall from every direction. Elowen heard them clearly, yet her expression never wavered. The King sighed, trying to soften the moment. "That would be a difficult match for you," he said gently. "Perhaps I should choose someone else for you from among the noble houses." Elowen did not retreat. "Your Majesty," she said firmly, "I am deeply grateful for your compassion. But I have already made a vow before the Holy Mother. In this lifetime, I will marry no one but the Duke of Duskmoor. I humbly ask for your blessing." She sank into a deep curtsy before the queen and refused to rise, letting everyone see the determination in her stance. Cassian Valebourne, Duke of Duskmoor. The King's full brother. Ninth among their generation. In the years when the King had still been a prince fighting for the throne, it was Cassian who had stood unwaveringly at his side. Again and again, he had dragged the King back from the edge of death. His loyalty and strength had been instrumental in securing the crown. Afterward, Cassian led campaigns to the east and north—crushing rebellions, expanding the kingdom's borders, and earning unmatched renown on the battlefield. Until one year ago. While stationed in the Northern Reaches, Cassian collapsed during a campaign. He was carried back to Duskmoor Manor—and never woke again. Royal physicians came and went. None could offer certainty. Some whispered that he might never awaken at all. Elowen knew all of this. And she knew something else. In her previous life, during the third year of her marriage, Cassian had awakened. That year had been one of the darkest periods she had ever endured. She remained childless. The Queen arranged for Alaric to take a consort. Compared to Elowen, the consort was cherished—by Alaric, by the palace staff, by the entire Crown Prince's Wing. When Cassian finally awoke, Alaric brought both Elowen and the consort to visit him at Duskmoor Manor. On the return journey, the consort deliberately departed early in the carriage, leaving Elowen behind. Elowen didn't know the way back. She lingered, hoping someone might offer to take her along—but everyone knew the Crown Prince had no affection for her. No one wanted to risk offending him. Just as despair began to close in, a weak but steady voice sounded from behind her. "There's a carriage ready. Come.” She turned around, stunned. Cassian sat in a wheelchair, draped in a dark, loose robe. His sharp features were pale and gaunt, his body visibly diminished. And yet, when he saw her face, he offered a faint, gentle smile. "Would you care to stay for supper at Duskmoor Manor?" he asked. "No, I…" Elowen tried to say no, but the moment her lips parted, tears spilled down her cheeks—hot, uncontrollable. She didn't understand it. Why was she treated like this? What had she done wrong? Her only sin was that she no longer had anyone left to protect her. Her family had died serving the realm—yet she was the one cast aside. All the pain she had buried so deeply finally broke free in Cassian's presence. He sighed softly, then drew a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. She cried for a long time. And he stayed beside her the entire time. After that day, Elowen never saw Cassian again. But she remembered that moment for a very long time. Back in the present, the King frowned, deep in thought. He said nothing. It was the Queen who spoke at last, her voice calm and gentle. "If she is truly determined to marry Cassian," she said, "then perhaps we should honor her sincerity." The King looked at her, then back at Elowen, still bowing before him. Finally, he gave a reluctant nod. "Very well." He rubbed his temple, weary. "You have no family left, and Cassian remains unwell. The palace will oversee all arrangements." Elowen bowed again. "Thank you, Your Majesty." She had no intention of repeating the same mistake—of marrying Alaric once more. Cassian was her best option. For one thing, he was still unconscious. That alone gave her time—time to plan her future on her own terms. And in her previous life, though Cassian eventually recovered consciousness, poor care had left him permanently paralyzed. He spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair. He had once shown her kindness when no one else would. The least she could do was care for him while he was vulnerable—help him heal, perhaps even help him walk again. And when he did wake, she would ask him for a divorce. He likely wouldn't want to marry her anyway. Before her father and brothers died—back when Cassian was still healthy—Elowen had heard rumors that he had once loved someone. No one knew who that woman was. Across the banquet hall, Alaric sat rigid at his table, his gaze fixed on Elowen as she bowed and petitioned to marry his uncle. An inexplicable irritation gnawed at him. "She wants to marry Cassian?" Maerwyn muttered under her breath. "Elowen really is the dumbest girl alive." Alaric's brow tightened. Maerwyn leaned closer, her eyes gleaming. "Alaric, I'll bet anything she'll regret this in less than a week." He gave a cold, humorless smile. "That has nothing to do with me." ... After the banquet, Elowen returned to Hale Manor. She walked through the familiar garden, into her long-abandoned chamber, and collapsed onto the bed. For the first time in years, she no longer had to face life with Alaric. She was finally home. The thought brought her peace. She slept deeply, night after night, slowly regaining her strength. Several days later, Hilda—one of the Queen's longtime attendants—arrived at Hale Manor. She greeted Elowen with a warm smile. "His Majesty has entrusted your wedding arrangements to Her Majesty," Hilda said. "The Queen has been preparing everything herself. Today, she'd like to choose an auspicious date—and she hopes you'll come to the palace to help." Elowen hesitated. "I'm not very good with such matters. Her Majesty may choose any date she finds suitable. I don't mind." Hilda laughed softly. "Even common families consult the bride's side after the groom's family chooses a date. You should come, my lady. The Queen said she hadn't seen you for a long time and would like a private word." A private word? Elowen paused. In both this life and the last, the Queen had never liked her. They had never been close. But Hilda's tone was sincere and gentle. Elowen couldn't bring herself to refuse. It was late afternoon when she entered the palace. She followed the servants toward the central wing—the Queen's residence. The setting sun bathed the cobblestone path in warm gold. Elowen kept her head lowered, watching the light flicker across the ground beneath her feet. "Your Highness." Hilda's respectful greeting rang out suddenly. Elowen froze, then slowly lifted her head. Alaric stood not far ahead. Tall. Immaculate. Cold. His brows were furrowed, his eyes sharp and assessing as they landed on her. That gaze made her chest tighten. She lowered her head at once and stepped back, offering a restrained bow. "Your Highness." Alaric's frown deepened. He knew Elowen liked him. She had learned his routine, timed her visits to the Queen, brought pastries she baked herself. Pretending chance encounters, she would smile and hand them to him. He never ate them. He either gave them to the servants or had them thrown out. But today, she carried no pastry box. So she'd come just to see him, hadn't she? At the banquet, she had boldly declared she no longer liked him. And now she appeared here—clearly regretting it. Playing distant. Pretending she'd moved on. Alaric let out a low, mocking chuckle. "Really, Elowen?" he said coolly. "Is this your idea of playing hard to get? Honestly, it's kind of boring."