Reborn to Rewrite the Throne

I looked at Ethan’s face and remembered another lifetime—the day he ordered my people slaughtered for Ava Miller, the day he signed the decree condemning me to death. The memory was so sharp that even now I refused to linger on it.

This time, I would protect those I loved. I would not allow history to repeat itself.

Without the political alliance my marriage would have secured—without the armies, influence, and northern loyalty that stood behind my name—did Ethan truly believe he could inherit the Southern throne so easily?

Did he imagine a crown would simply descend upon his head because he desired it?

Ava Miller was soon formally styled Princess of Wales, and overnight she became the most discussed woman in the capital. The daughter of a junior royal archivist had ascended to the highest bridal rank in the realm, and the daughters of the great houses could scarcely conceal their outrage.

Whispers followed me through drawing rooms and gallery corridors.

“Your Highness, the Prince has gone too far. A clerk’s daughter as his lawful bride?”

“You were raised together from childhood. To cast aside years of affection so easily—how could he?”

“I hear Lady Ava was never kind within her own household, particularly to her father’s other children. What could His Highness possibly see in her?”

What did he see?

He once told me, with earnest conviction, “Ava is untouched by court ambition. She is simple, unspoiled. She does not scheme or compete the way the rest of you do.”

“I love her precisely because she is not dazzled by rank or jewels.”

I smiled faintly at the memory.

Very well.

Let us see whether such purity survives a crown.

Because I was to marry Alexander, the Queen was radiant with satisfaction. She summoned me to her private treasury and insisted I choose whatever I wished for my marriage settlements.

When I left the palace that afternoon, my attendants carried caskets of jewels, lengths of velvet and brocade, and heirloom pieces from the Queen’s own collection.

Near the courtyard steps, I encountered Ava on her way to pay her respects to the Queen. Her eyes were red, as though she had been weeping.

When she saw the procession behind me, something dark flickered in her expression before she lowered her gaze.

“Your Highness,” she said softly. “You are most fortunate. Her Majesty has been exceedingly generous.”

I studied her for a moment, then reached into the nearest velvet-lined case and lifted out a delicate emerald necklace.

“Ava,” I said lightly, “this would suit you. Consider it my congratulations on becoming Princess of Wales.”

Before she could respond, Ethan’s voice cut through the courtyard.

“There is no need for such gestures.”

He crossed the distance swiftly, his expression tightening as he took in the array of attendants and jewel cases.

“Ava does not value these gaudy displays,” he said coolly. “Keep your necklace.”

He turned to her immediately, concern softening his tone.

“Why have you been crying?”

Then his gaze returned to me, darker now.

“You know my mother has not yet warmed to her. Must you parade her generosity in front of Ava? What are you trying to prove?”

“She is my lawful bride,” he continued sharply. “With or without a grand marriage portion, she will be the most envied woman in the kingdom.”

I nearly laughed.

The most envied woman in the kingdom?

Ava’s stepmother had prepared only a modest bridal portion—no more than a few trunks of linens and silver. Her father’s income as a minor court official could not sustain the kind of display expected of a future queen.

There would be no glittering procession of estates and endowments, no alliances sealed through vast settlements.

Only Ethan’s defiance.

And pride alone has never been enough to sustain a crown.