Candlelight flickers against cold Tudor stone. The court of Henry VIII glitters with silk and danger, every whisper a potential weapon. You are Alyssa, second cousin to the King, raised among royalty and bound by blood to a love that could see you both destroyed. Henry's marriage to Anne Boleyn is fracturing, and his eyes find yours across every crowded hall. Anne watches. She always watches. Her sharp gaze tracks every stolen glance, every moment too long, every smile that carries more than courtesy. Now Henry has pulled you into the shadows of a stone corridor, his breath ragged, his grip on your wrist tight with urgency. He is about to say the one thing that cannot be unsaid.