CROWN OF FORBIDDEN HEARTS
Chapter 32: TAKE OFF YOUR DRESS

Chapter 32: 32: TAKE OFF YOUR DRESS

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Zara stood in the middle of the chamber, wrapped in silence.

The air was heavy with the scent of crushed roses, the perfume thick and suffocating. A steaming bath had been prepared—rose milk swirling in the water, petals floating atop the surface like tiny fragments of a life that no longer belonged to her.

Her limbs felt foreign as she moved forward, guided by unseen hands. The maidens, clad in soft pastels, said nothing as they approached, their gazes carefully averted. She stepped into the water, shivering as the heat licked at her skin.

There was no joy in this moment.

No excitement. No anticipation.

A bride should have been beaming. A queen should have been radiant. But Zara was neither.

She was mourning.

Mourning the man she loved. Mourning the kingdom she had sworn to protect. Mourning Mirenna, who had died defending her.

Every breath was a weight on her chest, and when her mind drifted to Erythian, to the warmth of his touch, the depth of his gaze, the pain tore through her.

A sharp, merciless agony.

Zara gasped, her body convulsing. The water rippled violently around her as the unbearable pain dragged her down.

Her knees hit the bottom of the tub, a strangled cry slipping past her lips.

She clenched her teeth. Don’t think of him. Don’t think of him.

But how could she not?

Erythian’s smile. His kiss. His whispered promises beneath the moonlight. The way he had looked at her, as if she were his entire world.

And now he was gone.

Ripped from her. Slaughtered on the battlefield while she had been dragged away in chains.

Her fingers curled against the porcelain edge of the tub, her nails digging into the surface. It should have been me.

A tear slid down her cheek, vanishing into the bathwater.

The maidens worked quickly, scrubbing her skin, washing her hair, but she barely felt it. She barely felt anything.

When she emerged from the bath, her body was wrapped in fine silks, her damp hair twisted into an elaborate cascade of braids. Gold pins gleamed between the strands, delicate and intricate, as if she were still the revered queen she had once been.

But she wasn’t.

She was a prisoner.

A puppet with golden chains.

As the final touches were placed upon her, the heavy doors to her chambers creaked open.

Zara did not lift her gaze.

She already knew who had come to claim her.

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The weight of her wedding regalia pressed down on her like a burial shroud.

The doors to her chambers stood open now, a reminder that she had no place to hide.

Two soldiers stepped inside, their armor glinting under the morning light. They did not speak. They didn’t need to.

She was to be escorted.

Like a prisoner marching to her own execution.

With slow, deliberate steps, Zara moved forward, her expression blank. She would not cry. She would not break.

Not yet.

The halls of Calithea were eerily silent. There were no joyful celebrations, no festive music, just the dull echo of her footsteps against the marble floors. The kingdom that had once thrived under her rule was lifeless. The walls felt smaller, colder.

As if they no longer belonged to her.

They didn’t.

She was no longer the ruler of Calithea.

She was simply the woman Alaric had won.

As she was led through the towering double doors of the council chamber, a hundred familiar eyes turned to her.

The councilmen.

Men who had once sworn their allegiance to her. Men who had once kneeled in respect.

Now, they did not bow.

They simply watched.

Their expressions unreadable.

Zara’s gaze flickered over them, searching for something, anything that resembled defiance. Guilt. Remorse. But there was none.

They had accepted this.

They had accepted him.

And then, the heavy doors at the other end of the chamber swung open.

A wave of tension rippled through the room.

Alaric had arrived.

His presence filled the space before his footsteps even landed. The air grew thick, suffocating, as he strode forward, clad in ceremonial black and gold.

Every inch of him exuded power. Authority.

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Zara’s nails dug into her palms.

She wanted to kill him. She wanted to burn him with every ounce of rage she had left. But the spell was coiled around her like a leash, keeping her still, keeping her helpless.

Her body did not tremble. Her lips did not part to scream in fury.

She simply stood there.

Her heart roared inside her chest, but outwardly, she was composed. Bound.

Alaric smirked as he approached, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "You look breathtaking, my queen."

His queen.

Zara forced herself to stare straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him.

He leaned in, his voice dipping into something softer, something only she could hear.

"I know you want to kill me," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I can see it in your eyes."

His fingers ghosted over her jaw, and a shiver crawled down her spine.

"But tell me, Lysandra," he whispered, tilting his head. "If you hate me so much... why does your body still crave me?"

The spell pulsed.

A cruel reminder.

Zara’s stomach twisted.

She wanted to tear herself apart, to rip this unnatural pull from her very bones. But no matter how much she willed it, the desire was there. It was not hers, but it existed.

And Alaric knew it.

His smirk deepened as he straightened, turning his attention to the council.

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"The time has come," Alaric announced. "Today, we unite two great kingdoms. Today, we forge an unbreakable bond."

Zara’s stomach twisted in disgust.

The council nodded in approval, eager for the power he had promised. The hall was filled with nobles who had once stood by her side, now silent, watching.

As she approached the dais, her fingers trembled, not with fear, but with the weight of knowing no one would stop this. No one would save her.

The high priest waited at the altar, but before the ceremony began, a councilman stood. "Lord Alaric wishes to address the Queen in private."

Zara’s nails dug into her palms.

Alaric turned to her, bent over to her ears and whispered with his voice smooth and triumphant. "Let us not pretend this union was ever meant to be born of love."

He took a step closer. "I am a man who simply takes what I want." He bent toward her, whispering, "I saw you that night, Lysandra."

Her blood ran cold.

"That night you gave you shared a moment with Erythian."

Zara’s breath stilled.

Alaric leaned in, his voice almost gentle. "I didn’t leave in anger. I stayed."

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

"I saw what you did," he continued. "I watched as you laid your hands upon him. As you healed him."

She had been so careful. So certain no one had seen.

But Alaric had.

He smirked. "At first, I let it be. But then I heard the whispers, that Calithea’s queen possessed power so great, And then I heard of your marriage."

His expression darkened.

"And I knew you had to be stopped."

Zara’s throat tightened.

"This war wasn’t vengeance," he murmured. "It was necessity to be with the woman I love".

Her body froze.

Everything, the war, the destruction, the deaths, had been orchestrated. Not for power. Not for politics.

But for her.

She wanted to scream, to kill him, but the spell held her still.

Alaric lifted her hand with deliberate slowness. "Now, let us complete what was always meant to be."

The high priest nodded, and the ceremony began.

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The words blurred as the priest spoke. The world tilted beneath her.

He had planned this from the start.

He had killed Erythian. He had burned Calithea. He had destroyed everything, just to have her.

The vows.

Alaric turned to her, his dark eyes gleaming with triumph.

"I, Alaric Jaman, vow to stand beside you, in war and in peace, in power and in ruin. To cherish and protect you, to rule beside you as your king, until my last breath."

He spoke with certainty. Because he knew she had no choice.

The priest turned to her. "Your vows, my queen."

Silence.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

Pain erupted in her chest.

She gasped, her body jolting forward, searing agony clawing through her ribs.

The spell was punishing her.

The priest repeated the words.

She clenched her teeth. She wouldn’t say it.

The pain sharpened, unbearable.

Erythian.

She thought of him, his hands, his lips, his love.

The agony intensified.

Tears slipped from her eyes but alas, she had no choice but to say it.

"I, Lysandra Osborne, vow to stand beside you, in war and in peace, in power and in ruin. To cherish and serve you, to rule beside you as Queen, until my last breath."

And just like that, The Queen had been wedded with Alaric.

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The doors to the royal chamber shut behind them with a resounding thud.

She didn’t move.

Alaric stood beside her, watching her with unreadable eyes.

"You did well," he murmured, his voice softer than before.

She didn’t respond.

She couldn’t.

Her hands hung at her sides, her body still adorned in the wedding regalia, the heavy crown still weighing down her head.

Alaric took a slow step toward her.

Then another.

He reached for the golden crown and carefully removed it, placing it on the table beside them.

His fingers brushed against her cheek.

"You are mine now, Lysandra."

Still, she said nothing.

His grip on her chin tightened.

"Look at me."

She didn’t.

His hand moved lower, trailing down her arm, over the delicate embroidery of her gown.

Then, in a voice that sent a chill down her spine, he commanded—

"Take off your dress."

And with numb fingers, she obeyed.