My Husband Chose Her Over Me

CHAPTER 95, 26 years before — The Duty of Maiden

VIVIAN’s POV

The morning light spills through the arched windows like gold poured through crystal. I fold the last of the queen’s gowns, my fingers grazing silk so fine it nearly sighs beneath my touch. Pale blues, ivory lace, threads of silver—Her Majesty’s colors. Every hem has been inspected, every stitch perfect. The seamstress of House Ellar made certain of that.

I hum softly, something from my childhood, though I doubt anyone in these halls remembers such tunes. The palace air smells faintly of roses and wax—floral sweetness over polished stone.

Then the door bursts open.

“Lady Vivian!” a breathless voice calls. A young maid in a brown apron—her name escapes me—rushes in, curtsying so quickly she nearly drops her basin. “Her Majesty requests you. At once.”

I sigh inwardly but set the folded gown aside with care. “Of course she does.”

The girl looks frightened, as if I might blame her for the queen’s temper. I smooth my sleeves, pin my hair back tighter, and offer the smallest smile. “Breathe, child. She won’t strike you for bringing a message.”

The maid blinks, startled that I can jest in such moments. “Yes, my lady.”

When I reach the Queen’s Wing, the doors to her chambers are already ajar—an ominous sign. I step through carefully, bowing my head as I cross the threshold.

The chamber is chaos.

Silk and velvet lie strewn across the marble like fallen banners after a battle. Jewels glitter in unwanted corners, perfume bottles overturned, the faint scent of jasmine mingling with the sharpness of rage. And in the middle of it all, Queen Arinelle Verloren stands like a blade in sunlight, her dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders, her expression thunderous.

“Vivian!” she snaps, as though my very name is an offense. “Do you see this?”

I curtsy deeply. “Your Majesty.”

“Do not Your Majesty me when I have nothing fit to wear to my own ballroom!” She gestures wildly to the gowns on the floor. “All of it—unworthy. Stale! I have entertained merchants from Elerra and courtiers from Kallith; do you think I can appear in the same silks twice?”

I fold my hands together, calm as the marble beneath my feet. “Your Majesty, if I may—”

“You may not!”

Her voice cuts through the air like a whip, and the younger maids flinch. I glance around—half her retinue frozen in terror, unsure whether to clean or flee.

Still, I step forward, bowing slightly. “I had your new dresses delivered just this morning. The finest silks, from House Ellar. Would you allow me to present them?”

Arinelle’s gaze narrows. “You dare suggest I’ve forgotten my own wardrobe?”

“I would never,” I say softly. “But it may please Your Majesty to see what your seamstress has wrought. The moon-thread gown, perhaps.”

At that, her eyes flicker. Pride can pierce even anger. I signal to one of the maids, who hurriedly retrieves the new dresses from the parcel I left earlier. When the fabrics unfold—glimmering pale silver under the light—the Queen’s tone cools by a single degree.

“Yes,” she murmurs, touching the embroidery. “This will do.”

Relief passes through the room like wind through curtains. She tosses her hair back. “Dismiss the rest. I’ll have only you, Vivian.”

The other maids bow and scatter, grateful for the escape.

I approach carefully, handing her the gown. “Will Your Majesty require assistance dressing?”

“No,” she says sharply. “Leave it on the chaise.”

“As you wish.” I set it down gently, adjusting the fall of the fabric. Then, because I know I must walk a delicate line between servitude and service, I speak softly. “If I may ask—how fares His Majesty today?”

Her hands freeze.

The air between us sharpens. “That,” she says, each word clipped, “is not a question for servants.”

I bow at once, head lowered. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. My concern was only for your comfort.”

She exhales, impatient. “Men in crowns rarely need concern. Go.”

I retreat, silent. The doors close behind me, muffling her muttering about jewels and hairpins.

In the corridor, I breathe again. The Queen’s moods are storms—violent, passing, and always dangerous. I find the same young maid waiting by the pillars. She looks up at me anxiously.

“Was she terribly angry, my lady?”

“No more than usual.” I manage a thin smile. “She found reason to calm herself.”

The girl exhales. “Praise the Saints.” Then, after a pause, she whispers, “Is it true, what they say? About the King?”

I study her face—so young, so eager for rumor. “What do they say?”

“That he hasn’t left his chambers for months. That the physician comes daily. That he—” She bites her lip. “They say he’s dying.”

My pulse stills. “Be careful with words like those. The walls have ears.”

“Yes, my lady.”

I dismiss her with a glance and continue down the hall, though her question lingers in my mind. No one has seen King Erian Verloren at court in weeks. The council meets without him. The Queen’s temper grows daily. Silence can sometimes roar louder than a thousand bells.

I turn down the west corridor, toward the nursery. The laughter of children once filled this wing; now it is hushed, measured, as if joy itself has learned to whisper.

When I push open the door, the sight before me makes my stomach drop.

Luisa, the young nursemaid, is half-asleep in a rocking chair, her hand dangling from the cradle where the little princess Kaela sleeps soundly. Her curls are damp with sweat.

“Luisa,” I whisper sharply.

She jerks upright. “Lady Vivian! Forgive me, I—”

“Where is the prince?”

Her eyes widen in confusion. She glances at the empty bed near the window and pales. “He—he was here, I swear it! I was only—”

“Sleeping,” I finish coldly. “You were sleeping while the heir of Verloren wanders gods-know-where.”

She begins to tremble. “Please, my lady, don’t tell the Queen—”

“Quiet.” I raise a hand. “If the Queen learns her son has slipped from sight, her wrath will burn half this floor. You’ll hold your tongue until I find him.”

She nods, tears shining. “Yes, my lady.”

I move swiftly, searching the corners, the adjoining chamber, the balcony, even behind the drapes. No trace of him. Panic rises, but I cage it behind the calm face I’ve learned too well.

A child’s laughter—soft, distant—echoes faintly through the corridor. I follow it.

At the far end of the hallway, a narrow window glows with afternoon sun. There, sitting cross-legged on the floor, is Prince Caden. His hair, just like his mother’s, catches the light in soft curls. He stares out at the gardens below, where the fountains glisten and the peacocks wander free.

“Your Highness,” I whisper.

He startles, turning to me. “Lady Vivian?”

“Yes, my prince. You gave us quite a fright.”

“I’m sorry.” He looks down. “I just wanted to see outside. The guards never let me go.”

My heart aches. “You know why that is.”

“I only wanted to walk in the sun,” he murmurs. “And maybe see Father. He doesn’t come anymore.”

The words twist like a blade between my ribs. “His Majesty is busy with kingdom affairs.”

The child’s frown deepens. “Then why doesn't Mother come either?”

I hesitate, then kneel beside him, lowering my voice. “Queens are at duty, too, my prince. You must not speak of it to anyone.”

He nods solemnly, far too old for his years. I offer him my hand. “Come. Let’s go back before anyone notices.”

He slips his small fingers into mine. As we walk, his voice barely a whisper: “Do you think Father will come to the ballroom tonight?”

“I hope so,” I lie softly.

By the time we return, Kaela stirs in her cradle, and Luisa nearly falls to her knees with relief. I motion for silence.

“No word of this leaves this room,” I say. “If the Queen asks, the prince was with me the entire time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady.”

I smooth Caden’s hair and tuck him into his bed, watching his eyelids flutter closed. For a brief moment, peace returns.

When I finally step into the corridor again, the chandeliers flicker, casting long shadows on the walls. Somewhere far away, music begins to rise—the Queen’s musicians rehearsing for the evening’s ball.

I stand still for a heartbeat, listening to the faint hum of life inside the palace, and think of the man no one sees.

The King.

And the silence that grows heavier every day.