It was their first reunion in three years.

Having survived hundreds of close calls, what awaited her was the sight of Arnaud kissing another woman.

The world, it seemed, could be so cruel.

The woman who had been clinging to Arnaud’s face finally noticed that his eyes were fixed elsewhere and turned around.

And when she did, the sight was even more outrageous.

It was hard to tell if she was dressed at all. Her br*asts were halfway out of her corset.

“Oh my, we have an audience.”

Yet she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed – just tilted her head slightly and smiled brightly.

“Oh dear… how embarrassing. Arnaud, if you knew someone was watching, you shouldn’t have undressed me.”

Then, looking back and forth between Arnaud and Isabelle, the woman finally covered her nearly n*ked br*ast.

Although she giggled to herself, she hardly seemed embarrassed.

“……”

But Arnaud neither helped her cover up nor kissed her again.

He just stood there in silence, his eyes fixed on Isabelle.

Those eyes, like the famous Phoebe Coast of Imaronia, captured in a single look.

And with the faint trace of a familiar scent in the air, it was unmistakably Arnaud.

Unlike Isabelle, he didn’t look like someone recalling a distant memory, or someone who had completely forgotten.

His expression held an ambiguity that couldn’t be pinned down – neither recognition nor indifference, but something in between.

The world might have called that look indifferent, but the Arnaud Isabelle remembered was never someone such a word could truly describe.

As the heavy silence lingered between them, the woman, now loosely covered, slipped her arm around Arnaud’s shoulder and pulled him close.

“Arnaud, I’m leaving now. You haven’t forgotten the promise to at least match our words at the ceremony, have you?” 

“Of course not, Camille. How could I forget?”

At her playful tone, Arnaud bowed his head without hesitation.

His face, as he looked into the woman’s eyes, was filled with a tenderness so gentle it made Isabelle’s heart ache. 

The same tenderness that had been hers alone three years ago. 

Though the woman had said she was leaving, their lips met again in another long, intimate kiss. 

And as Isabelle watched, frozen in place, a distant memory surfaced. 

A quiet rumor had whispered in the prayer room: that the long years of captivity had aged him, that his once beautiful blond hair had turned stark white.

She had clung to the rumor. 

She had prayed it was true. 

Because if the man standing before her wasn’t really Arnaud… 

If he was someone else entirely… 

Then maybe, just maybe, she could bear it.

After several more kisses, the woman pulled away, reluctantly, but smiling. 

Arnaud waved at her gently, as if he couldn’t help himself, until she disappeared down the corridor.

Then he turned back to Isabelle. 

The warmth was gone from his face. 

All that remained was a mask – cold, unreadable.

Golden curls, soft and radiant like brushstrokes on an oil painting. 

Lashes so thick they seemed heavy against his lids. 

And beneath them, the same elegantly sculpted nose. 

There was no room for doubt. 

“It really is you, Arnaud.” 

Isabelle’s voice trembled, a whisper, hollow. 

The white ceremonial robe he wore, so similar to her own, only made the truth harder to ignore. 

‘At least ask who I am… At least pretend you don’t remember me…’ 

Her eyes searched his face, pleading, aching for even the slightest flicker of uncertainty.

But the answer Arnaud gave her… was something else entirely.

“Isabelle.”

‘Isabelle?’

That wasn’t a name he should be saying.
She shook her head slowly as she stepped closer.

“It’s Elisabeth. Eli. You don’t have to call me that…”

“Ah, then you must be the Marchioness of Châtour.”

Arnaud replied, stepping back at the same time—a clear message: Don’t come any closer.

‘Châtour…?’

It was the one title Isabelle had prayed Arnaud would never utter. 

That terrible name – burned into her like a scar by Henri – 

And now Arnaud was using it. Right to her face. 

“It’s not Châtour,” she said, her voice tight with pain. “It’s Elisabeth. Grand Duchess of Imaronia…” 

Arnaud scoffed. “You mean that puppet house that serves the king?” 

His words were like blades, sharp and deliberate, each one cutting deeper. 

Then came a laugh – bitter, empty, full of regret. 

“I led a mission there once, and without question it was the worst mistake of my life.”

“……”

“I once met the Grand Duchess Elisabeth, heir to that land, we were promised in marriage. But she died.”

He had gone so far as to declare her dead, while she stood there, very much alive.

And yet his voice remained eerily devoid of emotion.

“I… I am Elisabeth, I may not be allowed to use that name now, but if I could just explain-if you would just listen-“

But he cut her off, sharp and unrelenting. 

“The Lady Elisabeth I knew would never trade her purity for a title, nor would she have become the king’s courtesan.”

“No-that’s not true,” she gasped, shaking her head. “It’s not like that. I didn’t… I never did anything like that. I-Elisabeth- I’m here, like this, still alive… just to see you… to find you…”

“Elisabeth is dead, Madame de Châtour.” 

His voice was like stone, unyielding, final. 

And the way he looked at her then… 

If she dared to claim to be alive again, it seemed as if he would strike her down himself.

It wasn’t that Arnaud didn’t recognize her. 

No, he did. Completely. 

He knew exactly who Isabelle was.

“She was never that fluent in Shatbien, you know. Unlike you, Madame – who seems to have become one of them.” 

“Arnaud… if this is your idea of a joke, it’s far too cruel…”

“Jokes are meant to be shared with people – not strangers.”

It felt as if the stairs she had been climbing for years had never been real. 

As if she had just been standing still, on flat ground, all the time.

She couldn’t understand it. 

Why was Arnaud doing this? 

His eyes didn’t look at her as if she were a stranger. They couldn’t. 

And yet… in the end, her strength gave out. 

Her legs buckled beneath her and she collapsed.

The fall was so sudden, so complete, that the panier under her skirt snapped with a harsh crack. 

Its wire frame didn’t break cleanly – instead it twisted, cruel and sharp, driving deep into her leg. 

Pain tore through her, but it was nothing compared to what was breaking inside.

The pain was sharp, searing – but Isabelle didn’t even have a chance to reach for her injured leg. 

“I’ll see you at the cathedral.”

Arnaud said quietly, turning away without once meeting her eyes. 

And at that moment a terrible certainty seized her. 

If she let him go now, she might never see him again. 

“No-wait!” she cried, her voice cracking with desperation. 

Unaware that blood was already trickling down the hem of her dress, 

Isabelle dragged herself forward, shaking, and clutched the cuff of his trousers.

Arnaud stopped – for a moment. 

But then, without a word, without a look, he stepped forward.

And walked away as if nothing had ever been there.

With every cruel step Arnaud took, Isabelle’s elbow scraped the floor, leaving it raw and bleeding. 

Her ceremonial dress was already soaked in blood – but the more it hurt, the tighter she clung to his ankle. 

Tears she hadn’t even noticed were now streaming freely down her face. 

How far had they come? 

How many painful steps had she been dragged?

And then, suddenly, Arnaud stopped. 

Above her, she saw his fist clenched so tightly that it trembled, as if he could barely hold himself together. 

Choking back sobs, Isabelle cried out, her voice breaking. 

“I held on… all this time… just to see you… You, Arnaud… how could you…?”

“I never asked you to wait.”

“But you said you’d come for me… you promised…”

There was so much she wanted to say, so many words that had waited years to be spoken. 

But all that came out of her lips was guilt.

Her voice, cracked and ragged, barely sounded human as she cried out.

Arnaud still hadn’t looked at her. 

He kept his gaze fixed on the empty space in front of him.

His jaw clenched as he bit down hard on his lip. 

Then, without warning, he kicked his foot forward and kicked her away as if she meant nothing to him.

The force of the kick sent Isabelle sprawling to the floor like water from an overturned glass.

“The maids will be here soon.”

“Your trusted servants from Imaronia will probably arrive as well. You can tell them I did this.”

“Hh… ngh… hic…” she gasped through broken sobs.

“Then I’ll go.” 

And with that he turned to leave.

Her tangled hair fell untidily over her eyes, blurring the world around her – everything but the sharp, decisive turn of Arnaud’s shoes as he walked away without a second thought.

Still crumpled on the cold floor, Isabelle could do nothing but cry, her sobs softening as his figure grew smaller… and smaller… until he was gone.

***

The maids and Alathea found Isabelle soon after. 

Just as Arnaud had said. 

Her condition was so bad that even the doctor, who arrived moments later, couldn’t hide his shock. 

His brow remained furrowed as he took in the sight: the blood-soaked gown, the deep wound in her thigh. 

“The king must be truly heartless,” someone muttered. “What did he expect, bringing that brute into the capital?”

Everyone seemed to be worried about Isabelle.  But if you listened closely, her suffering was little more than an excuse – a convenient reason to direct long-held resentments and anger at Arnaud.

The only one who was genuinely concerned – who cared for Isabelle herself – was her maid, Thea.

“I’ll speak to them right now!” she shouted, her voice quivering with anger. 

“The Princess never shared a bed with the King – you all know that!”

But her protest was drowned out. 

Swallowed by the noise, by the politics, by the false concern masquerading as sympathy, no one really heard her.

Although Isabelle had said nothing, it was clear that Thea had understood everything. 

Her sharp voice echoed through the now empty powder room, filled with anger and heartbreak. 

But Isabelle just shook her head, quietly, wordlessly. 

She couldn’t bring herself to believe it – not quite. 

Maybe it was foolish, maybe it was too soon to think that way… but the thought of him seeing her as an enemy again – she couldn’t bear it. 

And so the ceremony went ahead. 

They could have postponed it. 

But just as she had feared, no one gave a thought to her condition. Not even for a moment. 

She considered using the blood-stained ceremonial gown as a reason to delay things, 

But the maids, without hesitation, brought out another gown. 

One that had once belonged to the former Crown Princess. 

Even that, it seemed, had already been prepared.

“Why does the cloth look so worn? Did they not even bother to make her a new ceremonial gown?” 

“Nothing would suit such a gloomy face anyway. She looks like a statue made of plaster!” 

“Looks like things got rough with His Majesty last night. She can hardly walk…” 

“Oh dear, be quiet – someone might hear you!” 

As Isabelle limped across the waiting room, her veil drawn low to hide her face, the mocking whispers came from every direction. 

She was a joke to them. A spectacle. Something to point at and laugh at.

But none of that mattered – 

Not compared to Arnaud, standing at the Archbishop’s side, looking down at her with the same icy indifference.

That hurt more than any insult ever could.

And then came the vows. 

The holy oil. 

The holy rite that should have meant something.

When they signed the marriage contract, and even when they were about to share their first kiss, Arnaud was completely indifferent, as if none of it meant anything.

When he kissed her, he didn’t even part his lips. 

It was mechanical, cold, like a duty he couldn’t wait to be done with.

Like petals floating gently through the cathedral air.

Isabelle fought with everything she had to keep her tears from falling.

She thought this was the end. 

The last wound.

“Still no word?” someone asked quietly.

She had waited – her husband was now more than two hours late. 

She could bear to be ignored at the banquet, but this silence… this empty, deliberate silence… 

it was unbearable.

So at last she rose to her feet. 

And decided to speak.

“I’m sorry… it’s just that Monsieur has disappeared without a trace…!” 

At her words, the three maids – who had been exchanging uneasy glances – lowered their heads and replied in cautious voices. 

The ceremony may have ended hours ago, but it wasn’t really over until the marriage was consummated. 

Arnaud knew that. He had to know. 

Which made his absence all the more painful. 

Perhaps that was why he hadn’t come.

A small, bitter laugh escaped her lips. 

The hope – that she would tell him everything, if only they could be alone – shattered in the silence left by his absence. 

That he wouldn’t come at all… 

Still staring out the window, Isabelle spoke again, her voice distant. 

“I wonder… has this happened often?” 

“Pardon…?” 

The startled voices of the maids broke the silence, one of them fumbling for an answer with awkward hesitation. 

“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Isabelle murmured. 

“I’ve been away from the palace for three years, after all.” 

“Y-yes… our apologies, Your Highness.” 

“You may go,” she said quietly. “I’m sure he’ll come… eventually.” 

Though even she wasn’t sure she believed that anymore.

She pressed one hand gently to her forehead,

with the other, a silent gesture of dismissal. 

As expected, the atmosphere had become too heavy to bear and the maids, clearly eager to escape, hurried from the room. 

Their voices, unfiltered and sharp, carried clearly through the door. 

“Just looking at her is depressing.” 

“And yet she managed to marry him. What kind of sweet talk did she use on His Majesty?” 

“I knew the moment she gave in without a fight – she’s got nerves of steel, I’ll give her that.”

Isabelle had noticed the moment she returned – how easily sound travelled in the royal palace of Moerne. 

Was this another of Henri’s tricks?

The layout of the palace, its echoing halls and thin walls, made it all too easy to imagine that more than a dozen heads had once rolled beneath the moon.

“Moerne Palace is a terrifying place, Eli.” 

“What’s so terrible about it?” 

“Sometimes they even serve the heads of traitors on the dinner table, you know.”

The conversation with Arnaud came flooding back – so sharp, so vivid, that Isabelle could remember every word. 

She bowed her head, the weight of the memory weighing heavily on her. 

And just as he’d once said – if she really wasn’t Elisabeth, she would never have remembered such a thing. 

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, rising before she could stop them. 

But this was the Royal Palace. 

Even crying had to be done in silence. 

So she pressed her fingers tightly to her eyes, fighting to hold it all in.

Even then, as she hastily wiped away the tears that had trickled down her face.

She heard the soft creak of a door opening behind her.

It was Arnaud, dressed simply in a white shirt and trousers.

Author’s Note:

1. Courtesan – In historical Europe, a high-class pr*stitute or mistress who catered to royalty and nobility.
2. Panier – Literally meaning “basket” in French; in fashion, it refers to the framework worn at the waist to extend the width of a skirt.