Reborn From Ashes: The King's Ruthless Queen

The heat wasn't just around her; it was inside her, a living thing devouring the air in her lungs. She looked down at the bundle in her arms. Emily. Her beautiful, five-year-old Emily. She was heavy, dead weight against her chest, her skin already cooling even as the room turned into an inferno. The smoke stung her eyes, blinding her, but she didn't need to see to know Emily was gone. A beam crashed down, sending a shower of sparks onto the rug. Through the haze of orange and black, she saw him. Kenney. He was crawling toward the door, a wet handkerchief pressed to his face. He hadn't looked back. Not once. He hadn't checked the crib. He hadn't called her name. "Kenney!" she screamed, but the sound was just a rasp of ash. She lunged forward. Her legs were burning, her nightgown catching fire, but she didn't feel the pain. She only felt the rage. It was colder than death. She grabbed his ankle. He kicked back, wild panic in his eyes as he turned. When he saw her-saw the fire eating her hair, saw the dead child in her arms-he didn't reach for her. He recoiled. "Let go!" he shrieked. She clawed her way up his leg, ignoring the flames licking at her back. She reached for his throat. She wanted to take him with her. If she was going to hell, he was driving the carriage. "See you there," she whispered, her voice cracking. "See you in hell, my love." The ceiling groaned. A massive timber, wreathed in fire, snapped free directly above them. Pain. Absolute, white-hot, shattering pain. And then, silence. The burning stopped. Instantly. It was replaced by a cold so sharp it made her teeth ache. She gasped, her body jerking upright. Her hands flailed in the air, grasping for a throat that wasn't there. Her chest heaved, sucking in greedy gulps of air that tasted of lavender and stale dust, not smoke. "Emily!" The name tore out of her throat, raw and terrified. She wasn't in the fire. She was sitting on her bed. The velvet duvet was cool under her sweating palms. The curtains were intact, heavy and blue, blocking out the winter morning light. The door creaked open. Sophie, her maid, stood there, a basin of water in her hands. Sophie's eyes went wide. "Madam?" Sophie took a step back, water sloshing over the rim of the basin. "You look... are you ill?" She didn't answer. She threw the covers off and scrambled out of bed. Her bare feet hit the cold floorboards, and the sensation was so grounding, so real, she almost sobbed. She grabbed Sophie by the shoulders. Her grip was bruising. "Where is she? Where is Emily?" "Miss Emily?" Sophie stammered, flinching at her intensity. "She's in the nursery. Asleep. It's barely seven, Madam." She shoved past her. She didn't run; she stumbled, her legs feeling like jelly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She burst into the nursery. The room was quiet. The rocking horse stood still in the corner. And there, in the crib, was a mound under a pink blanket. She fell to her knees beside the crib. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely control them. She reached out, terrified that her touch would turn to ash, and placed a finger under Emily's nose. Warmth. A tiny, rhythmic puff of air. Emily shifted in her sleep, her little hand curling into a fist. A sound escaped her-a broken, animal whimper. She clamped her hand over her mouth, biting down on her knuckles until she tasted copper. Emily was alive. She was warm. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Heavy. Confident. She froze. She knew those footsteps. She had heard them walk away from her while she burned. Kenney Lloyd appeared in the doorway. He was already dressed in his morning suit, looking crisp and respectable. His face wore a mask of concern that she once would have called love. "My dear?" He stepped into the room. "Sophie said you were screaming. A nightmare?" She whipped her head around. For a second, she couldn't hide it. The pure, unadulterated hatred must have flashed in her eyes, because Kenney paused. He blinked, looking confused, as if he'd seen a ghost. "Imogene?" He took a step closer, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Her body reacted before her brain could. She flinched, shrinking away from his hand as if it were a branding iron. Bile rose in her throat. "Don't," she croaked. Kenney frowned, his hand hovering in the air. "You're trembling. You're soaked in sweat." She lowered her head, staring at the floorboards, forcing her lungs to expand and contract slowly. She had to hide it. If he knew what she knew, she lost her advantage. "Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling. "A nightmare. A terrible one. I... I dreamt of fire." Kenney's face relaxed. The concern returned, smooth and practiced. "Oh, my poor darling." He moved to the nightstand and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. "Here. Drink." He handed her the glass. His fingers brushed against hers. It took every ounce of willpower not to throw the water in his face. She took the glass, gripping it so tightly she thought the crystal might shatter. The water was cool, washing away the phantom taste of smoke. "You need to calm down," Kenney said, his voice dropping to that soothing, patronizing tone he used when he wanted something. "We have a big night ahead of us. The Winter Masquerade." Her head snapped up. The Winter Masquerade. The date crashed into her mind. It was two years ago. The night it all began. The night he finalized the deal that would lead to their ruin. "Tonight?" she asked, her voice hollow. "Yes, tonight." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It's crucial for my promotion, Imogene. I need you to be perfect. I need you to charm them." She looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw the ambition rotting him from the inside out. She saw the man who would leave his wife and child to burn if it meant saving his own skin. "I will be," she said softly. Kenney patted her shoulder, satisfied. "Good girl. Sophie is preparing your dress. Try to rest." He turned and walked out, already thinking about his career, about the people he would impress. She stayed on the floor for a long time. She watched Emily sleep. The terror of the fire was fading, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. She stood up and walked to the mirror on the nursery wall. The woman staring back at her was young. Her skin was unblemished. Her eyes were wide and haunted. But underneath the fear, there was something else. Something sharp. She wasn't the victim anymore. She was the one who knew the ending of the story. She practiced a smile. It was stiff at first, a grimace. But she adjusted it. She softened the eyes. She relaxed the jaw. "Perfect," she whispered to her reflection. Tonight, she wouldn't just attend the masquerade. She would turn it into a hunting ground.