????????? - ???? ??????? ?? [???]

       The gardens were quiet, bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon. A gentle breeze rustled through the hedges, carrying the scent of fresh blooms. Baldwin walked at an unhurried pace, his thoughts far from the present—until a familiar voice, honeyed with self-assurance, interrupted his solitude.

      “Your Grace,” Ismelda’s voice coiled around him like silk, but there was steel beneath it.

      Baldwin did not stop immediately. He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, before finally turning.

      She stood beneath the archway of the garden path, dressed in a gown of deep emerald that made her eyes gleam like polished jade. Her golden hair caught the sunlight, an ethereal halo framing a face sculpted with confidence. She was beautiful, tall, and striking—everything a queen should be. And yet, Baldwin felt nothing.

       She smiled, stepping closer. “Do you often leave a lady waiting, Your Grace?”

       Baldwin tilted his head slightly. “A lady?” his voice was smooth, deliberate. “I see none here.”

       A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but she masked it with a soft chuckle. “Still as sharp as ever,” she mused. Then, tilting her head, she let her fingers trail along the marble railing beside her. “I must say, it still baffles me, Your Grace.”

       Baldwin said nothing.

       Ismelda took that as an invitation to continue. “We were so close, were we not? Our betrothal was nearly sealed. Our union—” she paused, eyes searching his face, “—would have been a grand one.”

       Baldwin’s gaze remained unreadable. “And yet, it was not.”

       She inhaled sharply through her nose, stepping closer. “Tell me, Your Grace, was I truly so undesirable?”

       Baldwin’s lips twitched—though it was not a smile. “You mistake me, Lady Ismelda. This was never a matter of desire.”

       She scoffed, folding her arms. “Then what was it? Political alliances were made on far less. I would have given you strength, wealth, heirs.” her voice dipped lower, more intimate. “You could have had me.”

       Baldwin studied her, his expression carved from marble. “And you, Jerusalem.”

       Silence.

       Ismelda’s fingers curled slightly at her sides, her breath hitching—not out of embarrassment, but frustration. She had played this game before, weaving men around her fingers like silk threads. But Baldwin of Jerusalem was different. Untouchable.

       And, worst of all, uninterested.

       She exhaled, tilting her head with an almost amused smirk. “So, tell me then … was it because of her?”

       Baldwin’s expression did not change. “Who?”

       Ismelda let out a quiet laugh, stepping even closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Hyacintha.”

       That was the first time Baldwin’s gaze sharpened. Not in flustered denial, nor in irritation—but in something far colder.

       Ismelda had spent years perfecting the art of reading men, and in that single flicker of reaction, she knew.

       “Oh, my.” her smirk grew. “I see now.”

       Baldwin did not humor her further. He simply turned. “This conversation is over.”