Return of the General's Daughter

The sound of the slap rang out like a thunderclap.

Reuben’s palm struck Mira’s cheek with such force that her head whipped sideways, her body collapsing onto the mattress like a broken doll. She lay there, unmoving for a moment—exposed, stunned, and breathless—her dignity torn as thoroughly as her dress.

"Get out, all of you, Out!" Reuben roared.

The crowd gathered near the door shrank back instantly, murmurs swallowed in silence as they scattered. The heavy door slammed shut behind them.

Reuben turned his back on Mira and began dressing with slow, deliberate movements, his silence more cutting than any words. Mira scrambled upright, clutching the shredded fabric around her. Her dress gaped open, revealing too much—shoulders, chest, part of her thighs—an image of disgrace she couldn’t cover fast enough.

Reuben did not even spare her a glance when he spoke. "Was this your idea of bringing her into my bed? Or this was your idea of seduction?" His voice was cold, mocking. "Clever, Mira. I underestimated you. Is this what you’ve wanted all along? Dreaming of being Crown Princess?"

Mira’s lips trembled. The weight of his contempt hit harder than the slap. "No, Your Highness," she stammered, her voice frantic and raw. "I swear—I didn’t plan this. I didn’t even know what was in the tea. Princess Ceres can vouch for me. She... she laced the teacup."

Her words tumbled out, desperate and breathless, as if she could outrun his judgment by speaking fast enough.

Reuben finally looked at her—eyes narrowed, filled with disdain. Mira was beautiful, yes, but not in a way that held him. Not like Amielle. And even Amielle paled in comparison to Lara.

Silence fell like a curtain.

Then—the echo of boots down the corridor. Sharp. Purposeful.