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The Emperor's Forbidden Bride

The Emperor's Forbidden Bride

UntitledRose

5.0
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5
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She was discarded like dust by one man-only to be crowned a queen by another. In a kingdom ruled by bloodlines and brutal tradition, Elira, the most beautiful commoner in the empire, thought she'd defied fate when Duke Alistair of Ravencourt chose her-loved her, married her-despite the jeering of nobles and whispers of scandal. She gave him everything: her heart, her pride, her silence in the face of his family's cruelty. But love can rot. What once was a fairy tale crumbles into a cold nightmare. Alistair grows distant, cruel, repulsed. When Elira becomes pregnant, instead of joy, he delivers betrayal-taking a noble bride and casting Elira into the shadows as a mere secondary wife. Just as her world threatens to swallow her whole, the Crown Prince-soon to be Emperor-sets eyes on her. A single glance. A single heartbeat. And he knows. Elira is his. It doesn't matter that she's been broken. That she belongs, by law, to another. He will rewrite the rules of the realm if he must. Because once an Emperor claims his Empress-nothing can stand in his way. Not a husband. Not a kingdom. Not fate

Chapter 1 Broken Vows

The room was colder than usual.

Elira stood by the hearth, a fragile figure wrapped in cream silk that did little to warm her. She had braided her golden hair with trembling hands, hoping maybe-just maybe-he would notice. That tonight, after weeks of silence, he might remember he once loved her.

The heavy oak door creaked open.

Duke Alistair strode in, the scent of ale and perfume trailing after him like a second skin. His crimson cloak billowed, an unspoken warning that the storm hadn't passed-it had only just begun.

He didn't look at her. Not once.

"I've taken a wife," he said flatly, brushing off his gloves and tossing them onto the table.

Elira's breath caught.

"What?" Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

"A proper one," he continued, eyes on the decanter as he poured himself a drink. "Of noble blood. Lady Virelle of House Dernwick. The engagement was finalized last week. The ceremony is in a fortnight."

Elira staggered back like she'd been slapped.

"But-I'm your wife," she said, her voice a broken tremble. "I carried your child. I-"

He turned, gaze as sharp as winter frost.

"You were convenient," he said coolly. "You gave me a son, but even that couldn't cleanse the stain of your blood. You're nothing more than a kept woman now. Accept it."

Her lips parted. No words came. Just the sound of her heart tearing down the middle.

Soft footsteps pattered across the hall. A small voice called out, bright and innocent.

"Mama?"

Their four-year-old son, Leor, ran in with a wooden horse clutched in one chubby hand. His curls were wild from sleep, and his eyes, so like hers, sparkled with excitement.

"Papa! Look what I made today!" he said cheerfully, holding up his toy.

But the joy didn't last.

Alistair's lip curled in disgust. "Take him away," he snapped. "I've no interest in bastard brats."

Leor froze.

Elira dropped to her knees, gathering him in her arms protectively. "Don't say that! Don't you dare call him-"

"He is not my heir," Alistair barked, eyes flashing. "He's a reminder of a mistake I'm finally correcting. And you-" he jabbed a finger at her, "will learn your place."

The boy whimpered, clutching Elira's dress as her body trembled against the cold marble floor. She shook her head, tears streaming freely now.

"Please," she whispered, barely able to form the words. "Please don't do this to us. Don't cast us out. I love you, Alistair. I have always loved you."

He turned without another glance, drink in hand, walking away as if he hadn't just torn a soul in half.

Elira collapsed fully onto the floor, sobs wracking her slender frame as Leor cried into her chest.

"Mama," he hiccupped, tiny hands brushing her tear-streaked face, "did I do something wrong?"

"No, my love," she whispered, rocking him gently as her world crumbled around her. "You are the only thing I've ever done right."

______________

The Grand Hall of Ravencourt Palace was ablaze with light and splendor. Crystal chandeliers sparkled like constellations overhead, casting golden hues upon velvet drapes, polished marble, and an ocean of silk gowns and jeweled nobility.

It was the Duke's engagement celebration-an affair worthy of royalty.

The musicians played a waltz. Courtiers toasted with fine wine. And at the center of it all, perched on the dais like a queen on her throne, sat Lady Virelle of House Dernwick, tall and cruelly beautiful in blood-red satin, her raven hair adorned with rubies, her lips curved in a cold smile that never touched her eyes.

Elira stood near the columns, far from the candlelight's warmth. She hadn't been invited-but she'd been ordered to attend. As a show of obedience. As a warning. Her dress was plain and pale, and her eyes were rimmed with quiet devastation.

She held Leor's hand tightly, not for his protection, but for her own.

The nobles whispered behind gloved hands. "That's her..."

"The commoner-turned-wife, now a glorified maid..."

"I heard he took away her jewels... gave them to Lady Virelle..."

Elira kept her chin high.

Until Lady Virelle stood.

A hush fell over the crowd as she lifted her glass. "To my beloved Duke Alistair," she said, voice lilting with sweet venom. "And to everyone who supported this union of equals."

The crowd laughed politely, catching the double edge of the toast.

Virelle stepped down the dais. Slowly. Gracefully. Purposefully-toward Elira.

The music stuttered. The silence was sharper than any blade.

"Oh my," Virelle drawled as she stood before her. "You poor thing. Were you lost? This celebration is for nobility. You must've mistaken it for a servant's gathering."

Soft laughter rippled through the crowd.

Elira didn't flinch.

Virelle leaned in, her voice sharp and sugary. "Tell me, darling, how does it feel? To have been the placeholder before a real duchess came along?"

Alistair stood nearby. Watching. Holding a crystal glass.

Silent.

Not a word.

Not a defense.

Not even a flicker of remorse.

Virelle took another step, eyes glittering. "I do hope you're being treated well in the servant quarters. Oh! And how's your... bastard son doing?" She looked down at Leor, who stared up at her with confused, wide eyes.

Elira opened her mouth, but her voice cracked. Her heart pounded in her ears. She could feel the heat of shame curling up her neck.

"Enough," she whispered. "Please..."

Virelle turned to the crowd theatrically. "Oh, how tragic. She still thinks she belongs."

The nobles chuckled cruelly.

Leor let go of Elira's hand.

And stepped forward.

The boy stood in front of his mother with trembling fists and fire in his little chest.

"You're a mean lady," he shouted, voice cracking. "My mama is kind and pretty and she doesn't lie like you!"

The crowd gasped.

Leor turned to Alistair, tears brimming in his large blue eyes. "And you... you're not my papa anymore!"

Elira's knees gave out.

She collapsed as tears spilled down her cheeks-but not from shame this time. From him. From Leor.

The only soul in the world who saw her.

Who chose her.

Virelle scoffed and turned away, insulted. "Children should be taught their place," she hissed as she retreated.

Alistair said nothing.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even when Elira sobbed openly on the floor, arms wrapped around her son like he was all she had left-which, in truth, he was.

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