Shackled To The Enemy King

David walked past Alexander without another glance, as though the matter had already been decided long before this moment.

The doors closed behind him. Silence settled heavily in the space he left behind.

Alexander did not move.

He stood there, his gaze fixed on those doors, his breath gradually evening out as the sharp edge of anger receded. What replaced it was something colder, steadier, and infinitely more persistent.

Because anger could be restrained. It could be reasoned with.

But this... This was resolve.

And resolve did not wait for permission. It found a way.

His jaw tightened slightly as he stepped back, his mind already shifting, already mapping possibilities with quiet precision. If the front entrance was closed to him, then it was nothing more than a problem to be solved.

A faint, almost ironic thought crossed his mind then, of another life, another time, when slipping in and out of guarded places had been less necessity and more reckless adventure. His younger brother had always been better at it, always laughing in the face of walls and watchful eyes, dragging Alexander along with a confidence that had felt absurd at the time.

Now, that memory didn’t feel so absurd. It felt useful.

Alexander’s gaze shifted, sweeping across the exterior with careful attention. Security was tight, unsurprisingly so. With the President in attendance, every entry point was monitored, every movement accounted for. The building was less a venue tonight and more a fortress dressed in elegance.

Anyone with sense would have turned back. Alexander exhaled slowly, his eyes settling briefly on the tall windows lining the side of the structure. A direct approach would be risky. He knew that.

And yet...

The thought of waiting, of standing outside while she remained in there, unaware, unreachable, sat far worse with him than any consequence.

A quiet frustration surfaced; I should have told her.

When she asked, he should have said it plainly—that he would come, that he would stand beside her, that she would not have to face any of this alone.

Instead, he had assumed he could simply appear and close the distance between them as if it had never existed.

His lips pressed into a thin line. And he thought Maximilian was stupid. How was he any different?

His gaze hardened again, returning to the building, measuring distances, angles, timing. Somewhere in that structure was a path; there always was.

And he would find it, because waiting was no longer an option.

------

Inside the ballroom, beneath the warm spill of chandeliers and the soft swell of orchestral music, Roxana moved in practiced grace, her hand resting lightly in Jared’s as they danced.

She could not meet his eyes.

It wasn’t that he was unpleasant, but quite the opposite. Jared carried himself with an easy composure, the kind that should have put her at ease. He was polite, well-spoken, and even considerate in the way he guided her across the floor.

And yet... something was missing.

Something she could not name, but felt all the same.

"I didn’t quite know what to think," Jared said with a quiet scoff, his tone light, almost self-aware. "When my father told me I was to marry you. I mean... marrying into the Hollister family is practically a lifelong achievement." His lips curved faintly, though there was a trace of disbelief beneath it. "But an arranged marriage, in this day and age? I wasn’t expecting that."

Roxana managed a small smile, though it never quite reached her eyes.

The music carried them into another turn, the fabric of her black dress whispering softly with each step. Around them, laughter and conversation blended into a distant hum, but it all felt strangely far away, as though she were moving through something unreal.

"But I like you, Roxana."

The words were simple. Too simple. They made her lift her gaze despite herself.

Her heart gave a sudden, unsteady beat as she looked at him, caught off guard not by the confession itself, but by the quiet sincerity behind it. There was no pressure in his expression, no force; only an openness that made the moment heavier than it should have been.

What was she supposed to say to that?

"You don’t have to answer now," Jared added quickly, as though sensing the shift in her. His smile turned self-deprecating, softening the weight of what he had just said. "But I’m nearing forty, and you know what they say about windows closing and all that."

There was humor in his voice. A careful attempt to make it lighter. Roxana could see that. And yet, the words settled somewhere deeper than he intended.

She was thirty-three.

For years, she had believed that if she stood firm, if she was clear about what she wanted, her father would allow her that freedom. She had held onto that belief with quiet certainty, building her life around it.

She had once imagined something so different.

A home filled with noise, with laughter, with children running through hallways that belonged to her. A career she had fought for, shaped with her own hands. A life chosen, not arranged.

Now, standing here beneath crystal light, surrounded by elegance and expectation, it felt as though those dreams were slipping through her fingers, one quiet compromise at a time.

"I was just joking," Jared added, the faint awkwardness in his smile betraying that he had noticed her silence.

"I know," Roxana said softly.

And she did.

She could feel his uncertainty now, the way he adjusted his hold ever so slightly, the way his gaze flickered as though searching for ground that wasn’t there. He wasn’t the problem.

That was what made this harder.

The music began to slow, signaling the end of the dance, and Roxana found herself waiting for the final note, for the moment she could step away without explanation.

Perhaps he sensed it too.

Jared let out a small chuckle, attempting to fill the quiet that had stretched too long between them. "Roxana... that’s a beautiful name. Did you know? Roxana was the most significant wife of Alexander the Great. She—"

The name hit her like a shock.

Alexander.

Roxana’s breath caught, her body reacting before her mind could follow. She took a sudden step back, her fingers slipping from his grasp as though the contact itself had burned.

It was as if someone had poured cold water over her, dragging something buried, something dangerous, straight to the surface.

"Excuse me," she said, the words hurried, unsteady.

Before he could respond, she turned and moved through the crowd, her composure cracking just enough for urgency to show in her steps.

Jared remained where he was, blinking after her, confusion plain across his face. "Was it something I said...?"

Across the room, another pair of eyes had already been watching.

Roxana’s mother.

Her expression tightened the moment Roxana disappeared into the corridor, displeasure flickering beneath the carefully maintained poise. Without hesitation, she moved after her, her heels striking the floor with quiet, controlled precision.

Because whatever this was...

It was not acceptable.

She followed her daughter.