“I feared as much,” he said quietly. His fingers traced the edge of the folder but didn't open it. “Marcel's reach was always longer than his conscience.”
The admission landed like a stone in still water.
“You knew?” My voice came out sharper than I meant. “You fucking knew?”
“Sebastian—”
“How long?” I stepped forward, hands fisting at my sides. “How long have you suspected your closest advisor was trying to kill me?”
My father's eyes lifted. Met mine. Held them with the kind of exhaustion that said he was done fighting. Done pretending.
“I suspected,” he said carefully. “But suspicion without proof is just treason with better manners.”
“That's bullshit and you know it.”
“It's politics.” His voice hardened. Just slightly. King instead of father. “Marcel has been my friend for thirty years. Has stood by this family through every crisis. I couldn't accuse him based on instinct alone.”
“Even when that instinct said he wanted me dead?”
“Especially then.” He opened the folder finally. Started flipping through pages. Financial records. Encrypted messages. All the evidence Viktor and I had bled for. “Because if I was wrong, I'd destroy a good man's reputation. And if I was right...”
He trailed off. Looked at me with eyes that carried too much.
“If you were right, you'd have to admit you trusted a monster,” I finished.
“Yes.”
The word hung there. Simple. Devastating.
Viktor's hand found my wrist. Gentle pressure. Grounding. I took a breath. Another. Forced myself to think instead of just feel.
“When did you start suspecting?” I asked.
My father closed the folder. Leaned back in his chair like the weight of it was too much to carry sitting straight.
“After your mother died.”
Ice slid down my spine.
“What?”
“Marcel was... too helpful. Too eager to take control while I grieved. Too quick with solutions that consolidated his power.” My father's voice went distant. Remembering. “He kept me standing when I wanted to fall apart. Kept the kingdom running. Made himself indispensable.”
“So he could control you.”
“So he could control everything.” My father's hand moved to a drawer. Pulled out a bottle of scotch I'd seen him reach for too many times. “I suspected. But I was weak. Broken. And he was there.”
Viktor stepped forward. “Your Majesty, what exactly did you suspect about the Queen's death?”
The question stopped my father mid-pour.
I looked at Viktor. Found him watching my father with eyes that saw everything. Tactical. Assessing. Reading the room like he read threats.
“Viktor?” I asked. “What are you asking?”
He didn't look at me. Kept his focus on my father. “Sir?”
My father set the bottle down without pouring. His hands shook. Just slightly. Enough to notice.
