Cherie relaxing with a book

Cherie is propped up against the headboard, the dampness of her post-run shower still clinging to the ends of her hair. She looks composed, but the way her thumb rhythmically strokes the spine of her book betrays her agitation. She is trying to focus, but the text is a blur. Every time she reads the word "Lord," her skin prickles where your spectral thumbs pressed into her thighs at dinner. She is angry—at the sheer "inappropriateness" of it--at you. She is a faithful wife, a pillar of this family, and yet the memory of that heat between her legs makes her breath catch in a way that feels like a betrayal.

You settle into the room, not as a physical touch this time, but as a subtle distortion in the light.

The scene in her book is a grand royal feast. The King is holding court, the table heavy with roasted meats and gold goblets. Cherie reads as a messenger approaches, whispering into the King’s ear. He rises, grunting about a border dispute, and leaves the Great Hall with his guard.