Chapter 5
It had taken nearly a month for the electricians to bring light back to the old castle. Wires were sorted, circuits restored, but Henriette hadn’t stood still while they worked. Her hands stayed busy, scrubbing soot from forgotten walls, sanding cracked cupboards, repainting what once was dulled by age. The kitchen gleamed with new life, the main bedroom looked almost regal, and the adjoining bathroom shone like a hidden gem.
She’d barely paused to breathe.
Her fingers had blistered, knees ached, but still she pressed on, because resting meant remembering, and remembering meant thinking about him.
She sighed and dunked her whole head underwater. She held her breath and imagined staying down there, letting the water press the pain out of her chest. She wished it could take her away, somewhere else. Anywhere.
When she finally came up for air, it was... different. The newly renovated bathroom was different; everything was back to before her revamp, just neat.
Women moved around her like she was someone important. One washed her hair, another dabbed something that smelled like flowers.
Henriette just stared. Her brain couldn’t catch up. Maybe she’d fallen asleep.
By the time she found her voice, someone was already lacing her into a gown.
A long aisle stretched out ahead of her. A man, waiting at the end.
And before she could ask a single question, she realized she was about to be married.
A sharp knock broke her trance.
She blinked, sitting upright on a soft, unfamiliar bed. A priest stood in the doorway, robes brushing the stone floor.
“This isn’t a dream,” she whispered, breath catching.
“I need a bath,” she announced, swinging her legs off the bed.
“All in good time,” the priest replied calmly, settling into the nearest chair like he belonged there.
“No. Now.” Her tone left no room for patience.
He studied her, then slowly stood. “Very well. Follow me.”
Henriette let out a sigh of relief, her thoughts racing. If this isn’t a dream, then how the hell is there a portal? Where am I? When am I? The paintings on the wall offered no clues, no dates, no signatures. Just stoic faces in heavy frames.
The priest halted near a corridor. “Wait here. I’ll send your ladies to start the fire.”
“No,” Henriette snapped. “I want my bathroom.”
He blinked. “Your bathroom?”
“Yes. The one I bathed in... on my wedding day.”
“That’s in the king’s quarters,” he said, frowning.
“I don’t care. I’m not a servant. I’ll bathe in the royal tub,” she said, her voice clipped and certain.
“The royal tub?” he echoed again, mildly amused.
“Call it whatever you want. That’s where I’m bathing.”
The priest muttered something under his breath and turned. “I’ll check if the king’s in. If not, your ladies will prepare it for you. The royal bath.”
After what felt like hours, he returned with two ladies trailing behind him. Without a word, they led her down winding corridors and into the king’s quarters.
“The water should be ready,” one said, gently closing the door.
Henriette stepped inside, eyes scanning the room. Her chest tightened.
“This isn’t the right tub.”
“What do you mean, Your Highness?” one lady asked, already unlacing her gown.
“Where’s the tub I used on my wedding day?”
“The king had it removed,” the other answered softly, guiding her toward the water. “Everything that reminded him of his late mistress… gone.”
Henriette’s breath hitched. “Gone?”
“Broken, most likely. Repurposed. It’s what they do,” she said, easing Henriette into the bath.
The moment her body hit the water, something inside cracked. Tears spilled silently at first, then came harder. She couldn’t go home. Not really. That time, that place, lost.
One of the women touched her arm. “Your Highness? Are you alright?”
Henriette didn’t respond. Her limbs floated like they didn’t belong to her, her stare fixed on nothing. The women washed her like a porcelain doll, and she let them.
She didn’t even notice the door open.
“Everyone out,” a deep voice barked.
The women scattered, leaving steam and silence behind.
Henriette blinked. Her arms, wet and pale, hung loose at her sides. She hadn’t held the cloth; it fell in a damp heap at her feet.
King Arin stood in the doorway, his presence filling the room.
She hesitated, unsure if she should cover herself. Slowly, she bent to retrieve the cloth.
“Leave it,” he said, voice thick with desire.
She stood again, chin lifting.
In one stride, he crossed the room. His hand rose, cupping her breast with bold entitlement. His gaze flicked, chest, lips, eyes, then lips again. He leaned in.
She pulled away.
“You kill my lover, and now you want to deny me?”
“Find another woman.” she said, voice shaking.
His hand stayed firm. “So you can murder her, too?” His other hand slid around her waist, yanking her flush against him. She arched involuntarily.
He kissed her, rough, claiming, unforgiving.
When he pulled back, her tears were still falling.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, lowering his head to trace her tear with his tongue, tasting the salt as he moved to her cheekbone.
“You killed my mother,” she whispered, her words trembling with fury.
His eyes didn’t flinch. “So if she were alive, I could have you? You’d willingly share my bed? No sharp objects to my throat this time?”
She didn’t answer. Their eyes locked. Her stare, full of defiance. His, full of possession.
His grip didn’t loosen.