Chapter 353: A Better King... A Queen
Theresa lowered herself gracefully into the chair across from him, folding her hands neatly in her lap, though her sleeves still hung loose and her hair was a mess. She changed tactics.
She wanted him to see her as vulnerable, as though they shared the same wounds.
"I know who you are," she said softly, watching his reaction carefully. His shoulders stiffened, his fingers curling into the fabric of his robe. She smiled faintly, reassuring. "Don't worry. I'm not here to accuse you of anything. I just… I needed to see you with my own eyes."
Riven wondered what the King told her. Maybe a different story, a different set of lies.
Riven looked down, his voice quiet. "If you came to see the person who ruined your marriage, here I am." That was what he was now, a filthy mistress. "I miss when I was just a whore..." He whispered to himself.
The bitterness in his words wasn't directed at her. That unsettled Theresa. She tilted her head, trying to read him. "Then why stay?" she pressed gently. "Why endure it all, if it hurts you so much?"
Riven hesitated. For a moment, Theresa thought he would shut down. But then, with a trembling exhale, he said, "Because when he looks at me… I forget. I forget that I'm no one. That I have no family, no title, no power. With him, I feel like I exist." His voice cracked on the last word.
"No family? I am sorry..." Theresa said. Perhaps genuine for once.
"Don't be. Truth is. I have a father, he was not a good man. I ran away, and I am sure he did not look for me. The only time I made him happy was probably when I left home for good." Words came out faster than he could think. He told her his past, his secret.
She had planned to coax details out of him, perhaps even find leverage against the King. Yet here he was, laying bare his wounds so honestly that it cut through her carefully woven strategy.
Still, she pushed, though her tone softened despite herself. "And if one day he stops looking at you like that? What will you be then?"
Riven's green eyes lifted to hers, shimmering. He smiled, faint and broken. "Then I'll be nothing again."
Theresa's breath caught. She should have felt triumphant—he was fragile, easy to manipulate, a perfect weakness in the King's armour. Instead...
Against her will, her lips curved in something almost genuine. "You're not nothing," she murmured before she could stop herself. "Not to me."
Riven blinked, startled, as if her words had been too kind, too generous. He looked at her with raw confusion, like he didn't know how to accept it.
"I- I mean, I felt like I had found a friend. It is quite lonely in this palace."
Riven knew that too well. He nodded, "Indeed it is."
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The King was preoccupied, locked in a battle of words and pride with the Black Panther clan's representatives. Their emissary, Sahira, a woman with sharp features and an even sharper tongue, clearly held no regard for the King.
Every concession was met with a counter-demand, every smile with a smirk. The air in the council chamber was thick with tension. Courtiers whispered that the clan had come not to negotiate, but to test the King's patience, perhaps to measure the cracks in his rule.
Theresa, standing beside the King, played her part flawlessly. Draped in royal elegance, she smiled when she had to, bowed at the right moments, and kept her eyes attentive. Her presence softened the harshness of the King's clipped words.
More than once, she noticed the emissary's eyes flicker toward her, as if they had an understanding. She should be the one leading the negotiations and the kingdom. A female ruler, the rightful one.
While the King sparred in politics, Riven was left alone. It had been several days since His Majesty last visited him, his 'pity' remark still hurt the King.
Loneliness weighed on him like an anchor. Even Theresa had no time to visit, duty chained her to the King's side, day and night.
So when a gentle knock sounded at his door in the dead of night, Riven thought for a moment that he was imagining it. He opened the door to find Theresa standing there, her hair loose, her hands cradling a small cloth bundle. Without hesitation, she slipped inside, setting the bundle down as if she belonged there.
"I don't know what His Highness has been feeding you," she said lightly, her voice carrying a warmth that surprised him. "So I brought this. I remembered you liked these pickles."
She untied the cloth, revealing neatly arranged dishes: rice, stew, and the promised pickles, their scent rich and familiar. Riven's throat tightened. He hadn't realised how empty food tasted when eaten in solitude. Sharing it now, with her seated across from him, made every bite feel whole.
As he ate, Theresa leaned closer, her eyes scanning his face. "You really are… Very pretty," she murmured, almost as if to herself.
Riven froze mid-bite, his cheeks heating under her gaze. "Pretty?" he repeated, unsure whether to laugh or hide.
"Yes," she said with a mischievous grin, and before he could retreat, her fingers pinched his cheek gently. "Delicate. Like porcelain. Almost unfair."
The blush deepened, and Riven ducked his head. "You are a beautiful woman, too," he said in order to repay the compliment.
Something in Theresa shifted at those words. Her eyes gleamed, catching the faint candlelight. What began as a calculated move—to earn his trust, to get closer for information—was becoming something else.
She had come here thinking of strategy, of how this fragile boy could be her key to power, to usurping a throne she believed should have never been handed to the King.
She will be better than the King, she will be the rightful Queen. And unlike him, she would give Riven a proper position by her side.