"You dared to plot me—and you do not dare the consequences," Prince York barked, fingers tightening against my throat.
"Plot you?" I croaked, breath snagging. "Prince York, you mistake a hangover for treason."
Two attendants froze by the dressing screen. One inhaled sharply. The other stepped forward and then stopped, eyes darting between us.
York's grip tightened until my vision brightened at the edges. He said nothing for a beat, just held me there like a question he refused to answer.
"Answer me!" he snapped. "Who gave you the petition? Who asked the Harbor Guild to speak against the crown? Who—"
"I asked no one," I managed. My voice scraped. "I woke up in my bed and found you choking me."
York's laugh cut like a blade. "That will not stand. You were on the balcony with Sir Alden until midnight. Witnesses. You left the bridal chamber in the dark."
"I was here," I said. "I didn't leave. I—" I blinked. Memory slotted back in one hot, impossible line: modern hospital corridors, fluorescent light, policy memos, boardroom chairs. That memory did not belong in a bride's amber mirror.
"Stop this." York's jaw worked. "Attendant, secure the chamber. If you plotted against me, Coraline Mitchell, you will answer for it."
"I am not Coraline Mitchell," I said, and the room inhaled. "At least, not the one you remember."
York's hand pinched my throat as if he meant to squeeze the words out of me
