Shackled To The Enemy King

Maximilian stepped back immediately. "I’ll prepare breakfast," he said, his tone returning to something composed, as though the moment before had never happened.

Catherine nodded, though her pulse hadn’t quite settled, and turned toward the hallway.

On her way out, however, she paused just long enough to reach back, and gave his butt a quick, unapologetic squeeze.

Purely out of principle.

And, if she were being honest... a little revenge.

After all, he had used her boobs as a stress ball far too many times to walk away unpunished.

The reaction was immediate.

Maximilian let out a short, startled yelp, quickly disguising it with a cough, his expression twisting into something that tried very hard to look unaffected... and failed.

Catherine didn’t turn back, but the small, satisfied curve of her lips gave her away.

Ah.

So it did have therapeutic value.

By the time she stepped out of the kitchen, Joanne was already waiting in the hallway, her small hand reaching out without hesitation. She caught Catherine’s fingers and began tugging her along with quiet urgency, her steps quick and certain.

Catherine allowed herself to be led, though the sensation felt... strange.

Being guided by someone so small.

And yet, there was something about Joanne in that moment, something oddly composed, almost deliberate, that made it feel as though she were the older one between them.

"I have something to tell you, Gigi," Joanne said, her voice lowered as though the walls themselves might be listening.

Catherine knelt down in front of her, bringing herself to the child’s level, her expression softening instinctively. "What is it?" she asked in a matching whisper.

Joanne leaned closer.

"Last night... someone was peeking into our bedroom," she said quietly. "I saw shadows under the door."

Catherine’s brows drew together.

A flicker of unease passed through her—but logic followed quickly, steady, and grounding.

"That doesn’t make sense," she said gently. "Who would get in? There were only the three of us here..."

Joanne tilted her head, her expression turning thoughtful in a way that felt... misplaced on a child.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Only one was outside."

Catherine stilled.

"And when I went to the bathroom..." Joanne’s voice grew smaller, her fingers tightening around Catherine’s hand. "He followed me in..."

A sharp tension coiled in Catherine’s chest.

"Who?" she asked, her voice low but controlled. "Him?"

She gestured toward the kitchen...toward Maximilian.

Joanne’s eyes immediately filled with tears, her shoulders curling inward as if trying to make herself smaller. "I was so scared, Gigi..." she whispered. "I told you I don’t like him... He’s... no good."

For a moment, everything about her aligned perfectly with her age—the trembling voice, the fragile posture, the way she clung to Catherine like a frightened child.

But the implication...

It landed too heavily.

Too precisely.

No.

Something wasn’t right.

Catherine rose slowly, her grip tightening just slightly as a quiet, creeping unease settled deep in her chest.

Without another word, she turned and led Joanne back toward the kitchen.

Maximilian was standing by the refrigerator, half-bent inside it as though he were searching for something of great importance—like the answer to life itself.

"Catherine! Where is the milk?" he called out.

Catherine walked over, her expression flattening slightly as her eyes landed on the bottle sitting directly in front of him.

She reached in, took it, and held it up without a word. For a moment, she truly had no idea how he had managed to miss it.

But that wasn’t what mattered.

"We’re going out for breakfast," she said.

Maximilian straightened, blinking at her in surprise, clearly caught off guard by the sudden declaration.

Joanne mirrored the reaction, her eyes widening. "But I—"

"Get ready."

Catherine’s voice was firm now—calm, composed, and leaving no space for argument.

The shift was subtle, but unmistakable. And this time, there was no room for negotiation.

She turned slightly, her hand still holding Joanne’s, her grip gentle but unyielding.

"You’re coming with me," Catherine added, her tone softer for the child, but no less certain.

She wasn’t going to leave her alone. Not now.

In five minutes, all three of them were ready. Catherine walked to the garage, her steps quick and purposeful.

"You drive," she said, tossing the keys to Maximilian, before adding, almost as an afterthought, "Do you drive?"

Maximilian caught them, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but he didn’t question her. He simply followed. Something was off, that much was clear, but Catherine was not someone who acted erratically. If she was like this, then there had to be a reason.

He stayed silent as he drove, his attention drifting between the road and Catherine, who sat beside him with her lips pressed into a thin line, her posture stiff. At the same time, he couldn’t help but notice the structure of her "compound." It wasn’t just a large estate, it was layered, with another compound inside that enclosed the residential area of the Prestons. A nine-foot electric fence surrounded it, and stationed along the perimeter were men who, if his instincts were right, were armed like border patrol agents.

No wonder Catherine thought she didn’t need to lock her front door.

But still...

As they left the Preston family compound and entered the nearby town, Maximilian became more aware of Catherine’s stillness. It wasn’t just silence; she was too controlled, too rigid. He could feel it now.

She was angry.

But at what?

"Catherine..." he began, attempting to break the silence, but the moment she turned and glared at him, he stopped immediately.

"Were you peeking into our room last night?" she asked.

Her lips were pressed tight, her eyes sharp and unwavering.

Maximilian furrowed his brows, caught completely off guard.

"Gigi..." Joanne’s soft voice rang from behind them. "Gigi... I’m scared..."

Maximilian’s frown deepened. "What’s going on?" he asked, glancing between them.

"Did you follow her to the bathroom last night?" Catherine continued, her tone tightening. "To help her, perhaps... or—"

*SLAM*

Maximilian hit the brakes, the car jerking to a halt in the middle of the road.

"What is this about?" he demanded, turning to her fully now. "Catherine, what is going on?"

Behind them, Joanne had started to whimper, her voice trembling. "I want to go home... Gigi... I’m scared..."

"Shut up!" Catherine snapped, turning sharply toward her. "Tell me the truth. You said you felt uncomfortable around him and that he acted like this. Why are you crying now? If you’re telling the truth... I won’t let him walk away."

Joanne’s expression shifted.

For a brief moment, her eyes sharpened, the tears stopping as her lips stilled. There was a pause, just a flicker, so small it could have been missed, but it was there.

Something deliberate. Something off.

Maximilian, confused and faintly disoriented, did not miss that tiny shift. His gaze lingered on Joanne for a moment longer before it moved to Catherine, and what he saw there steadied something in him. She looked exactly the same as she had at the Winthorp dinner, when she had interrogated those men without hesitation.

He let out a slow breath, his focus sharpening as he forced himself to think past the initial shock. His fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel, a faint tremor betraying the weight of what had just been implied, of what Catherine was now openly confronting.

He simply watched.

Joanne resumed crying, louder this time. "I want to go home! I want to go back to my Mommy! I don’t want to be near this bad man."

"What is going on?" Maximilian asked again, more quietly now, unease settling into his voice.

"That’s enough pretending," Catherine said, her tone dropping, turning colder, heavier. "You’re my mother, aren’t you?"

The words sounded strange, impossible, even, but nothing about her life had ever been ordinary. She carried memories of a past life, wore a bracelet that restricted her in ways she still didn’t fully understand, and now...

Her grand-niece could be her mother.

"Speak," Catherine said, her voice deepening, commanding in a way that no child should have been able to ignore.

Joanne’s crying stopped almost immediately.

The tears dried, her sobs vanishing as though they had never existed. She wiped her face slowly, and when she looked up again, there was no trace of fear in her eyes.

Catherine’s lips curved slightly as she saw the change in her expression.

Beside her, Maximilian stared at both of them, his eyes wide, trying to make sense of what he was witnessing.

"Catherine...?" he said slowly. "Is it... is she...?"

"What if I am, Katerina?" Joanne asked.

Her lips curved, slowly and deliberately, and the expression that settled over her face twisted into something no child should ever possess. The softness vanished, replaced by a knowing, almost mocking composure, her gaze steady in a way that felt far too old, far too aware.

It was not a child looking at them.

Not anymore.