Chapter 11: Crushed Macarons

Ilaria lingered in the middle of the chamber, unsure of what to do with her hands, her breath, her very presence. Her eyes drifted toward the door just as it closed behind the woman, catching a fleeting glimpse of the Chamberlain bowing low in respect. Is she a noble? Someone of high standing, without a doubt.

And yet, why had she never seen her before? Ilaria prided herself on remembering faces, especially those of the aristocrats she had been introduced to in Noctharis. She had made an effort to build cordial bonds with many of them, even if only as acquaintances. But this woman…she was a stranger.

Did she come here with him?

Her chest tightened, the thought striking sharper than she expected as she veered her attention back to the man sitting nonchalantly, still flipping through the parchments without a care in the world. She had only seen her today, draped so easily over her husband’s shoulder and standing so close it seemed natural.

Did he…cheaton me?!

The question came unbridled. Yes! What else could this mean? A husband she had not seen in six long months, sitting there with a stranger pressed so close to him. He could have met her in that time and chosen to bring her here. What other explanation was there?

“What?” His voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, startling her. Levan had not even turned fully to face her, still seated as though nothing were amiss.

Flustered, Ilaria scrambled to compose herself, forcing her hands to gather the folds of her gown as she dipped into a curtsy. Her voice wavered only slightly. “I greet His Highness, the Crown Prince.”

Levan’s head finally turned, his gaze settling on her with a slight furrow of his brow. Golden eyes flaring it almost feel like he wanted to burn her with his gaze.

“You’re being too formal.” His voice was even, almost careless, as if her stiff greeting had mildly inconvenienced him.

Ilaria’s lips parted as she slowly regained her composure, then closed again. She could not think of a single proper response, her mind was still stuck on the phantom image of the woman’s lips brushing his cheek and the thought of who she might be.

Levan did not press. Instead, he gestured faintly to the seat opposite him. “Sit.”

Her throat tightened as she gulped. She smoothed her skirts unnecessarily before obeying, perching on the edge of the couch like a guest rather than his wife. The only sound between them was the soft flipping of papers. She clasped her hands in her lap, her lashes lowered, waiting for him to speak.

When he did not, Ilaria slowly lifted her eyes to peek at him. Not her head, only her gaze. He had changed into a cleaner attire fit for a prince. There was no trace of dust or blood clinging to him anymore. Still, that did not make him less intimidating in his own quiet way.

His broad frame was draped in a dark tunic of midnight blue, embroidered subtly with silver threads that caught the light like constellations. A black mantle clasped with the sigil of the Black Dragon rested over his shoulders. His hair was no longer damp with rainwater. It fell neatly back, accentuating the sharpness of his jaw.

Even seated, he carried the air of command and authority. He was, every inch the crown prince admired by many. Seeing him this up close…despite the weight in her chest, Ilaria’s heart still fluttered. He was her husband after all, and she had been missing him for months.

Ilaria’s gaze moved lower. He was still busy with the parchments in his hands, and she wondered what that was. Financial records? Military reports? Perhaps letters from neighboring Lords? Her thoughts began to spiral. What if they were complaints about her conduct? Or maybe documents declaring her unfit as his wife…

It could not be a divorce certificate, right?

Thump.

Wait, what?!

“Why are you being so quiet?”

“Huh?” Ilaria snapped out of her thoughts. Only then did she notice the tightness in her grip. She looked down, and the delicate macaron in her hand had been reduced to crumbs, crushed without her realizing.

He finally lifted his gaze from the parchments, eyes briefly sweeping over her. “You asked to see me. I assumed it was for something important.”

She blinked five times. “I— I did? When did I—”

Ah…

Realization dawned on her. Melvin must have told him earlier in the day. Had he also mentioned how she had been pining for him? How she had carried herself like a forsaken wife yearning for her absent husband? Heat rushed to Ilaria’s face, and she quickly looked away, mortified.

How embarrassing!

Ilaria coughed, slowly composing herself as she turned back to her husband sheepishly. “Well, I might have…forgotten what I wanted to say.”

Her fingers tightened around the hem of her gown. Please dismiss me. Please, before I melt into the floor.

Levan did not even blink. His pen scratched once more against the parchment before he set it down, finally lifting his eyes to her.

“You came all this way to tell me you forgot?” His tone was flat, utterly deadpan.

Her lips parted, then closed again. “…Yes?”

A brief silence fell upon the two royals, heavy and mortifying.

Levan leaned back into his seat, regarding her with the same calm he might have given a ledger. “Truly remarkable, princess. I did not realize memory loss was among your many talents.”

Her face flamed. “It is not! I just—”

“Mm,” His gaze slid back to his documents as if the matter was settled. “Then perhaps, in the future, you should remember before requesting an audience.”

Ilaria deflated instantly, cheeks puffing in quiet protest. She looked down at the crushed macarons in her hands, glaring at it as if the sweet had betrayed her dignity.

“Have you been well?” His voice was clipped and low, spoken more like a report than a greeting.

Ilaria wondered why the sudden change, but she only huffed. “No.”

That finally made him glance at her, though his golden eyes betrayed nothing. The word came out quicker than he thought.

She only looked at him briefly, as if he had offended her generation and now was forced to face it. “I couldn’t possibly be well when you’ve been gone all this time.”

“That wasn’t the question.” Levan turned a page, the parchment crackling in the silence and simply moved on. “Your finance remains untouched. Did you lack anything?”

“Yes,” she replied at once. “A husband.”

His pen scratched against the margin of the paper as if he had not heard her. Ilaria went on, still having that pout on her face. “Gold can’t keep me warm at night, Your Highness. You could have.”

He exhaled through his nose. Letting out the faintest, most imperceptible sigh and continued. “Were your chambers sufficient?”

“They’re far too large for one person, but one more body would make it just right.”

His hand stilled briefly before resuming its deliberate pace across the page. “Has your handmaiden served you properly?”

Ilaria nodded. “She has, but she talks about you far too much. I almost thought she missed you more than I did…almost.”

That earned her nothing more than a flick of his golden eyes, but Levan continue to flip to the next report anyway. “Were you treated with respect by the staff?”

“Yes,” she answered, “though I would have preferred respect from you.”

At last, Levan set the paper aside. His gaze rose fully to meet hers, steady as a blade, unflinching in its calm. He leaned back on the couch as if he was facing something that is not worth his time. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with me.”

“This is not a game, princess.”

Ilaria’s lips pursed stubbornly. “Neither is marriage. And yet here I am, playing it alone.”

For a heartbeat, the silence between them pulsed louder than any words. Ilaria looked at him, then away, then looked back at him again. She did not know what to expect, maybe a reaction? Ilaria shifted nervously. But Levan did not even bother to look elsewhere, as if he was silently judging her.

His gaze lingered on her longer than it should have. “You look well-fed, at least.”

Ilaria blinked. “…Did you just imply I got fat?”

Levan frowned disapprovingly, as if he could not comprehend the words that just came out of his wife’s mouth.

“You’ve been gone for half a year, husband. Don’t you have anything to say about your wife besides my weight?”

Levan’s frown deepened. “That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s all you noticed,” she murmured, her lips still curled into a pout that was starting to tremble at the edges.

He did not rise to her bait. Instead, he set the parchments aside with a snap of finality, his golden eyes cutting into her with all the mercy of a blade, as if he was done playing with her games. “If you came here with nothing more important to say, then leave.”

Ilaria froze at that, her pout disappeared, her eyes snapping up to him. “Leave?” The word scraped out like a plea.

Wait, no!

But Levan’s gaze did not waver. “I don’t have time for childish chatter.”

Her fingers tightened on the ruined macarons, crushing them further. She wanted to protest, to tell him she did have something important to tell him, about their marriage, about the ache she had carried for six months, about how she wished they could spend time together, but the words tangled in her throat.

“Wait, wait, I…” Her voice was small, defiant in its weakness. “I don’t want to. I do have important things to say, I just—”

“You weren’t asked what you wanted,” Levan continued, his voice cold and final. “You were dismissed.”

Levan’s eyes dropped briefly, taking in the crumbs spilling between her fingers. His expression remained unreadable, but his tone was sharp enough to cut. “And don’t make a mess in my chamber. Take that out with you.”

The words landed heavier than steel. Ilaria’s breath caught in her throat, her chest aching as though he had struck her outright. She looked down at the pitiful ruins in her hand. What was supposed to be a gift, is now dismissed as nothing more than dirt on his floor. Well, it was crushed, of course he would thought so.

Ilaria swallowed hard, her eyes stinging, but no words nor tears came. She simply stood up while clutching the broken sweets like a fool as she dejectedly left his chamber, but not before offering a deep curtsy. “Then I shall take my leave…rest well, husband.”

Once outside, she glanced back at the chamber as the door shut close, hoping that maybe he would glance at her. He did not, of course. Sighing, Ilaria looked down at the crushed macaroons wrapped with the silk wrap. Just in time, Roderic and Alaric fell in step at her sides.

Alaric’s eyes immediately flicked to her hands. “Princess,” he said lowly, noting the way she clutched the silk wrap, crumbs slipping out with each step. “What happened?”

Ilaria puffed her cheeks, still pouting, her gaze fixed stubbornly on the ruined sweets. “I…accidentally crushed them…now I can’t give it to him anymore,” she muttered, as though the tragedy of the macaron was the only thing worth mourning.

Roderic slowed, glancing between her downturned face and the crushed bundle in her hands. A crease formed on his brow, guilt tugging at his features as he was reminded of the once pink macaron. “Would you like to return to the kitchens? They can prepare more for you.”

She hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek, but then gave a small, sheepish nod. Roderic offered a reassuring incline of his head, already adjusting his stride to lead her back as Alaric followed suit.

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