𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓞𝓯 𝓘𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮

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!

The sound of Henry Fitzroy's voice calling out my name in a velvet tone catches me off guard, drawing the attention of everyone present. I hadn't anticipated being thrust into the spotlight in this manner, especially not with Charles Brandon at my side, a relative by marriage. It is his bride, however, who has orchestrated this encounter, positioning me as the target of their triumph.

As I stand before him, a wave of fatigue and despondency washes over me, fueled by the knowledge that I am viewed as a pawn in their schemes. The sight of the fine leather boots adorning his feet fills me with a desire to destroy them, to crush them beneath the weight of the turmoil burning within me. I recognize the betrayal that lies beneath his facade of politeness, knowing that I am merely a Spanish daughter trapped in the house of my half-relatives, subjected to their mockery and derision.

When Charles Brandon steps forward to greet me with false cordiality, I am appalled by the charade playing out before me. It is all for show, a carefully orchestrated performance in which Charles Brandon plays the role of a serpent, concealing his true intentions beneath a veneer of amiability.

As he steps back, all eyes are on us, waiting to see how the interaction between brother and sister will unfold. I cannot bring myself to tolerate the thought of communicating with him, or with anyone for that matter. Yet, I know that God has a plan for me, a plan that involves enduring the harsh realities of life and learning from them.

As Henry Fitzroy addresses me, his words dripping with honeyed sweetness, I feel a surge of defiance rising within me. I refuse to bow to his authority or acknowledge him as the heir to the throne of England. In the sacred confines of God's house, I stand firm in my convictions, refusing to be swayed by the whispered temptations of the devil.

My outburst earns me nothing but laughter from Henry Fitzroy, a reaction that only serves to strengthen my resolve. I will not be cowed into submission, nor will I allow myself to be silenced. I may have signed my own death warrant with my words, but I will not back down.

With a heavy heart, I turn and leave the chapel behind me, unable to bear the weight of the judgmental gazes that follow me. Yet, as I walk through the corridors of Whitehall, I know that I have upheld my principles, refusing to compromise my beliefs for the sake of comfort or convenience.

And then, just when I think I am alone, I bump into an unexpected figure—the Countess of Wilshire—a reminder that God's tests of my patience are far from over.