Chapter 59: Chapter 58. Couldn’t Care Less
Liselotte stirred in the silken sheets, her body still aching from the night before. The dawn light crept through the tall windows of the imperial bedchamber, gilding her bare skin in soft gold. She was still naked, vulnerable in the aftermath of her marital night with the Emperor. Yet her vulnerability isn’t softened by love or comfort, only sharpened by the knowledge that her husband, Dietrich, cared little for her presence.
The heavy doors opened without warning. A young aide stepped into the chamber, an unmated alpha, still raw with youthful strength and untempered hunger. Liselotte froze. His eyes lingered, brazen and unashamed, sweeping over her as though she were a prize laid bare.
Her heart jolted, and she pulled the sheets to her chest, clutching them tightly to shield what her husband would not. Because Dietric did nothing to protect her, he didn’t even tell the aide to cover his eyes or tell him to get out. He remained seated at the edge of the bed, unconcerned, his face unreadable as if the humiliation of his bride meant nothing to him.
Then, at last, Dietrich’s voice broke it, sharp and commanding, his words directed not at Liselotte, but at the intruder. "What did you say?"
He rose in a swift motion, unbothered by his own nakedness, his towering frame casting the aide in shadow. The maids, trembling, rushed forward to drape a robe across his shoulders. Dietrich accepted it with an absent gesture, already moving toward the door.
Liselotte’s breath caught as she realized what was happening. He’s leaving. Leaving her alone with the lingering gaze of another alpha who should never have been permitted near her in such a state.
"Pardon my insolence, Your Highness," the aide murmured with a smile that’s far too bold, his eyes dragging one last time over Liselotte’s figure before he turned and slipped from the chamber.
The door closed behind him, but the echo of his stare remained, burning into her skin. Liselotte sank back against the pillows, clutching the sheets tighter, her heart pounding with shame. In that moment, she understood: her dignity is hers alone to defend. Not even her husband, the Emperor, would shield her.
Alone again in the emperor’s big bed, Liselotte pressed the sheets closer to her body as fragments of last night clawed their way back into her mind. There had been no tenderness. No whispered vows, no careful touch to ease her fear. Only duty and command.
Dietrich had taken her as one might seize a battlefield—quick, harsh, and relentless. His hands had not caressed; they had restrained. His lips had not kissed; they had consumed. Every movement spoke not of affection, but of a man fulfilling an obligation, using her body the way he might use a chalice at a feast—necessary, but without meaning.
Her throat tightened as she remembered the weight of him pressing her down, the way her cries had been swallowed by his strength. She had been told all her life that a marital night was sacred, the foundation of a bond between alpha and omega. But in the emperor’s embrace, there had been nothing sacred, only emptiness.
He had used her. Not as his bride. Not even as a woman. But as a vessel, a means to sate his lust and secure an heir. That’s how much he saw her as an omega, never as his equal; that’s what it means to be his empress consort.
She shuddered and bit down on her lip until she tasted iron. Her body bore the marks of him still, faint bruises along her wrists where his grip had been too tight, and the dull ache in her hips from the force of his thrusts. The palace maids would see them when they prepared her later. But at least, they’ll think that the emperor had taken her intimately.
Liselotte shut her eyes, but the shame remained, hot and searing. She had imagined, perhaps foolishly, that even if Dietrich didn’t love her, he might at least respect her and show her some kindness. Instead, she had been made to realize her place: an empress consort in name, a tool in truth.
And now, not even a day into her marriage, she’s left alone, exposed to the stares of another alpha while her husband abandoned her without care. Her heart clenched as a thought surfaced, bitter and unyielding: "Is this to be my life? To be treated like how my mother was? Ignored, humiliated, discarded, while another woman is worshiped as the true queen of his heart?"
A slow tear slipped down her cheek, but she wiped it away with shaking fingers. She would not let the court see her broken. "But at least that woman is mated." She whispered and started to pull the bell to call for the maids.
-
The news struck him without any preparation. The Grand Duke of Borgia and her wife were departing the capital that very morning. Dietrich’s breath stalled in his chest. He had thought he had more time to scheme, to maneuver, to pry Vivianne from Roxanne’s grasp. But now the window is closing, and with it, also the chance to grasp the omega who haunted him.
His mind churned with the bitter memory of failure. A whole year’s worth of the imperial palace’s treasury had been drained, funneled into the pockets of the most feared assassins on the continent. Men and women who killed kings and made it look like accidents, who could infiltrate locked fortresses and slip away like smoke. They had been the best. They had been his best hope.
And yet they had been slaughtered. Not only had the assassins failed, but they had also been wiped out as though they were nothing more than amateurs. The name of the guild Black Covenant, once whispered with terror across the land, had been reduced to silence in the space of a single night.
Roxanne and her powerful knights of Borgia had crushed them, erased them from the map. No wounds, no weakness, not even a scar to betray a hard-fought battle. She had emerged stronger, sharper, and, worst of all, aware.
Because ever since Roxanne had walked into the capital, she hadn’t been quiet about it. She had let her presence bleed into the air, an oppressive weight of alpha dominance that made even the Emperor’s blood chill. Every time she glanced his way, he could feel it, the reminder that she knew. She knew he had tried to have her killed, and she was daring him to deny it.
Dietrich clenched his jaw, fury and dread tangled in his chest. He could already imagine what would happen if she ever decided to cast off restraint. One flare of her dominance, one unshackled exertion of her will, and his knees would hit the marble floor. The thought of it is unbearable. The Emperor of Erengrad is forced to kneel to a mixed blood, to Roxanne de Borgia.
The truth was written in the eyes of every courtier, every noble who watched them growing up together: Roxanne was always the stronger alpha. No crown, no throne, no empire could disguise it. If it came to a clash, Dietrich knew the outcome. And that knowledge festered like poison.
"She can’t just go like that." Dietrich’s voice cracked with frustration, his hand slamming against the armrest of his throne. Still only wearing his robe.
The chancellor, weary from days of dealing with the emperor’s spiraling temper, bowed his head but didn’t yield. "She can, Your Highness. The official summons was for the imperial wedding only. Nothing more. By law, we cannot bind her here. She’s not just a duke or a grand duke bound by your decree; she’s sovereign in her own right. The ruler of a principality."
Dietrich shot to his feet, his robe sweeping the marble floor, eyes blazing. "Do something to stop her from leaving!"
The chancellor’s lips tightened. His fingers fidgeted with the chain of office at his neck, a nervous tic he had never shown before. "And what would you have us do, your highness? We’ve already drained nearly half the treasury this year chasing shadows. Gold thrown at blades that shattered against her strength. And the coffers are dry; it will be a full year before the next round of taxes fills them again."
"Then raise the tax!" Dietrich roared, his voice echoing through the hall. "Squeeze them harder. They should be grateful I’m their emperor. Grateful to live beneath my banner!"
The chancellor flinched, then straightened, daring at last to lift his gaze. His voice, though respectful, carried the sharp edge of desperation. "Your Highness, please—be wise. The people are restless already. Push them further, and it will not be gratitude they show you, but rebellion."
Dietrich’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, his fury uncontained. His hand curled into a fist, nails biting into flesh. "I don’t care. I will not stop until I have Vivianne. She is mine. Do you hear me?" His voice broke, half roar, half plea. "Stop talking. I want them stopped. I want them here. I want her!"
The chamber fell silent, the emperor’s ragged breaths filling the space. The chancellor bowed again, lower this time, hiding the dread etched into his face. He knew there was no reasoning left. His emperor is already consumed, not by duty, not by empire, but by obsession. And there’s no telling how much more the empire itself would be bled for it.