Louis XIV
Versailles
Words: 1.214
*Trigger warning* infidelity, power imbalance, court intrigue, public scrutiny, emotional distress, jealousy, sexual situations (Non-Exlicit)
It begins at supper.
A small, glittering supper in the King’s private dining room — just a handful of chosen company: the Queen, Madame de Montespan (her smile polished into near sainthood), the Duke of Orléans, and you.
You had not expected to be invited. The summons came with the morning courier — the King’s crest, nothing else. You’d thought perhaps it was an error. It was not.
When you enter the chamber, Philippe d’Orléans rises from his chair, his gaze flicking between you and his brother with amused calculation. He is, as always, immaculate — velvet coat, jeweled cuffs, and that habitual air of dangerous wit. The King gestures for you to sit near him, and Philippe’s brows lift almost imperceptibly.
Ah. So it’s true, his look says.
The meal is light, conversation careful. Montespan performs charm with the precision of a courtesan trained for war. The Queen speaks little but watches much, her serenity the only thing keeping the atmosphere from dissolving into claws. And you? You sit at the King’s side, your every word measured, every glance weighed against the eyes that dissect your every move.
At one point, Philippe leans back in his chair, idly twirling a ring on his finger.
“Brother,” he says, tone smooth, “you seem… radiant of late. Shall I assume France is prospering, or is there another reason?”
The King does not look up from his plate. “France always prospers,” he says mildly. “And so, I should hope, does my family.”
Philippe smiles, sharp and knowing. “Ah yes. Family. That elusive blessing.” His gaze slides to you, lingering just a moment too long. “And friendship, of course. I see you have acquired both.”
The Queen coughs softly into her napkin. Montespan’s fan snaps open with a flourish.
You lower your eyes, fighting to keep your expression composed.
Louis, however, meets his brother’s gaze head-on. “You should know by now, Philippe,” he says evenly, “that I do not acquire people. They choose to stand beside me.”
“Indeed,” Philippe replies, the ghost of a grin curling his lips. “And how fortunate you are that they do.”
The tension melts, almost theatrically, and laughter resumes. But later, when the servants clear the plates and the company begins to disperse, Philippe lingers.
He waits until Montespan sweeps out in a swirl of silk, until the Queen retires with her attendants. Then it is only the brothers—and you, paused uncertainly near the doorway.
Philippe turns to Louis. “May I have a word?”
Louis nods once. “Stay,” he says to you quietly, before you can slip away.
When the doors close, Philippe folds his arms. “So. It’s true, then. The widow of Saint-Clair and the Sun himself.”
Louis says nothing, but there is the faintest glint of warning in his eyes.
Philippe raises his brows. “Don’t look at me like that, brother. I’m not here to lecture you. God knows I’ve done worse for far less.”
He begins to pace, his boots whispering against the marble. “I simply wonder if you understand the storm you’re courting. Montespan will not yield easily. And the court…” He gestures toward the ceiling, the tapestries, the invisible eyes hidden in every corner. “The court loves nothing more than a fall from grace.”
Louis glances toward you then—softly, deliberately. “Do you think I care for their love?”
Philippe smirks. “No. But you care for your image. And she—” He nods toward you. “She has become part of it now.”
You speak before you can stop yourself. “Your Grace, I did not seek—”
Philippe cuts you off, but not unkindly. “I know, ma chère. You needn’t explain. If my brother were half as immune to beauty as he pretends, this palace would have burned to ash long ago.”
Louis exhales through his nose, equal parts fond and exasperated. “You think me a fool?”
“I think you human,” Philippe says simply. “And for that, I’m oddly glad.”
He turns to you then, his expression gentling. “I cannot say I approve—Versailles has teeth—but I will say this: he has been… lighter, these past weeks. Less tempest, more sun. For that, Madame, you have my thanks.”
You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity. “You honor me, Your Grace.”
He waves a hand, dismissing the formality. “I’ll call it what it is: you make him bearable. And that, my dear, is no small miracle.”
Louis laughs—a rare, genuine sound. “You see, ma chère, even my brother admits you perform miracles.”
You glance between them, warmth rising in your chest despite the tension. “Then perhaps you should both pray I continue to do so.”
Philippe chuckles, bowing with exaggerated grace. “Touché. Just… be cautious. Montespan’s tongue cuts deeper than any blade.”
Louis’s voice sharpens. “She will learn her limits.”
Philippe meets his gaze evenly. “So will you.” Then, softer, to you: “Take care of him. He forgets how.”
And with that, he turns and leaves, his perfume of lavender and mischief trailing in his wake.
That night, the King seems quieter. You find him in his chambers, standing at the open window, watching the gardens glitter with candlelight.
“He’s right, you know,” you say softly as you step beside him. “About the court. About Montespan.”
“I’ve survived worse than gossip.”
“But not for my sake.”
He turns to you, something fierce and tender stirring behind his eyes. “Do you regret this?”
“No,” you say. “I fear it. But I do not regret it.”
He smiles, small and honest. “Then neither do I.”
He draws you close, and when his lips find yours, it is neither hunger nor rebellion—it is gratitude. The kind a king rarely allows himself to feel.
In the following days, Philippe becomes an unlikely ally. He deflects questions with biting wit, redirects gossip with outrageous humor. When Montespan makes veiled comments about “new favorites,” Philippe interrupts with deliberate scandal about his own adventures, drawing laughter until her words lose their sting.
At court functions, he is often at your side, teasing but protective, like a cat pretending not to guard what it adores. “You see, ma chère,” he murmurs one evening, “when they’re laughing at me, they forget to whisper about you.”
The King notices, of course. Sometimes his gaze flickers—possessive, amused, grateful—but he says nothing. He trusts his brother in this, perhaps more than he admits.
Even the Queen, seeing the delicate dance unfolding between the three of you, seems oddly at peace. She begins to call on you more often, to ask for counsel—not just about fashion or correspondence, but about the King himself. How to temper his impatience. How to soothe his worries over war. How to speak to him when he listens to no one else.
It becomes your quiet duty, your unseen service to both crown and man: to keep the sun burning steady, not scorching.
And so, the days continue. The King, softened by love; his brother, watchful but amused; the Queen, quietly wise; and you—caught between light and shadow, between the world’s judgment and a heart you can no longer deny.
At Versailles, affection is a dangerous luxury.
But somehow, you have turned it into a kingdom of your own—
small, secret, and shining in the space between the stars and the sun.
