She didn’t know why she was acting so shocked like this wasn’t inevitable.
Of course she had to wife up the heroines to survive. That was just basic villainess math.
Still, she didn’t like that. She was a one-person only type of woman.
She was getting used to being Verena, sure. She had the hair flips, the eyebrow raises, the dominating HR energy down.
But deep inside, she was still her. Soone who believed in mutual consent, proper communication, and not accidentally creating a jealous harem that might implode.
Besides... what if the heroines turned on each other? Did her insurance plan cover murder-suicide love triangles?
"Do you think it’s possible to love... multiple people?" Verena asked, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly.
"Why do you ask? The Emperor has five wives and a rotating roster of concubines."
Oh right. This world still ran on historical nonsense where polyamory was fine, as long as you were rich, powerful, or wore a cape.
So this was her fate? To beco one of those n? A sleazy playboy king with a harem of emotionally unstable lovers?
Technically, she was kind of like the first Empress of China. The legendary concubine-turned-ruler who clawed her way to the top and ended up with her own harem of pretty boys.
A ruthless queen with a fan club of emotionally confused n?
Iconic. Terrifying. And relatable (totally not out of bias).
"What? So I was right?" Raphael smirked. "Tired of chasing and now sprinting into the arms of soone else?"
"Yeah," Verena replied without missing a beat. No hesitation. No rcy. She wasn’t about to let him get a power-up to his already overinflated ego. "But it just feels wrong... No, it is wrong."
It would always be wrong for her.
Even if the stars said otherwise. Even if fate handed her a glittery, polyamorous permission slip.
...
...
***
It was as clear as the bruised sky outside.
Little Petra clutched her worn-out teddy bear, its fur matted from years of being held too tightly.
Across the room, her mother sobbed. Loud, raw, and unraveling like grief had finally found its voice.
"You have no rights, you slut! You’re just a mistress. Nothing else, nothing more!" her grandmother scread into the phone, fury crackling through every syllable.
That day didn’t break the family. It just peeled back the illusion.
Because the truth was, it had always been broken.
Her mother was stupid. She was foolish in love, had married a man she’d only known for a week. Swept up in a fairytale no one else believed in.
Her father was a moron. He was weak and wandering, had long since drowned himself in liquor and lies. He was easily tempted, coping with the touch of other won.
But back then, she didn’t understand any of it.
"Papa! Don’t leave !" Petra’s voice cracked as she scread, her tiny feet chasing after him with all the strength her little body could muster.
She clung to his pant leg, tears streaking down her cheeks. She didn’t know what divorce ant. She didn’t know about betrayal or broken vows. She only knew that her father was walking away.
"I’m sorry, Petra..." he whispered, kneeling down to ruffle her hair with trembling hands. He was crying too, though she didn’t understand why. Not yet.
She just knew she felt abandoned.
And as the door closed behind him, sothing inside her shut too.
Why make promises if you couldn’t keep them?
Why say forever if your heart already knew it was temporary?
Why cheat, why lie, why stay when love had long since curdled into resentnt?
Why not just... leave, before it shattered everything?
That day, Petra didn’t just lose her father.
She lost her faith in love.
From then on, she vowed: she would never let herself feel like that again.
She would never love. Not like that. Not ever.
...
...
"I wish you had died in my stomach!" her mother scread.
She probably didn’t an it. Maybe it was just anger.
But Petra had carried those words in her chest ever since like glass splinters she couldn’t pull out.
Her father was long gone, a ghost who’d vanished from their lives without looking back. And her mother, was there physically. But never really present. A shadow of soone who used to care.
That was when love started to taste like ash. Bitter, heavy, and hard to swallow.
"I’m sorry, Petra, I didn’t a—" her mother reached for her, but Petra flinched. Sothing in her recoiled. Without thinking, she slapped the hand away.
She didn’t want it. Not the apology. Not the affection that ca too late.
She had promised herself she’d never beco like them.
Never so broken, so cruel, so full of regret.
She swore she’d build sothing real, sothing that lasted.
But the heart is like a flower.
And the more she ran from love, the thirstier it beca.
"You can touch ."
It was said so casually, like offering a piece of candy. A close friend. Kind eyes. Gentle smile.
And Petra, curious and starved for sothing she didn’t quite understand, had said yes.
She wanted to try it, this thing called intimacy.
Everyone made it sound like magic. Like holding soone could sohow stitch up the holes inside her.
But afterwards, she felt hollow. Not full, not healed, just... used. Like she’d borrowed soone else’s dream and found it didn’t fit.
"Why are you so cold?! Won’t you pay attention to ?"
"Petra, you’re my only one! Please accept my feelings!"
They said love was the great cure-all. A miracle drug for the soul. But to her, it felt more like a con.
Everyone kept confusing desire for love.
And she was confused as to why she couldn’t feel it either.
People didn’t make sense. But then again, neither did she.
Her love was never loud or obvious. It didn’t bloom like fireworks.
It was quiet, distant, unreachable like trying to touch the moon through a mirror.
"Petra, I love you!"
And yet, when that one person said it, just that once, sothing flickered. A spark. Small, but undeniable.
For the first ti, she felt it.
The madness everyone talked about.
The ache. The longing.
And suddenly, she understood why love drove people insane.
***
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