As he slammed the door behind him, Joe instantly regretted it. He had handled that badly…in the worst possible way. She had needed his support, his comfort, not his anger. But why did she have to be so damn blind? Rupert was dying, the man was practically a vegetable…and she was making herself sick with this twisted mixture of grief and dutiful devotion. It would not bring him back, it would just make her worse. How could she not see that she was doing this out of guilt? For the first time in all the years he had known her, Joe just couldn't understand her, couldn't see how she could deceive herself this way. The woman he knew was smart and level-headed, she dealt well with difficult situations, she…she listened to him. This Clarisse was irrational and misguided and, he now realised, dangerously vulnerable.

For a moment he wondered whether he should go back in and start to pick up the pieces. But he couldn't bring himself to turn back, not yet. He didn't trust himself not to start arguing with her again, to try and make her see sense. And so he walked glumly along the dark corridors to the security room, where he could at least distract himself with work. Anything but think about the implications of what might just have happened.

Clarisse lay on the couch for a long time, trying to think it all through, and trying not to think at all. She felt cold all over, and thoroughly exhausted. Never before had she asked him to leave. She'd never had to. And she knew that he wouldn't come back now, not until she asked him. But did she want to? Her hands were still shaking as she raised herself up. Crossing over to the bathroom, she filled the basin and plunged them in. Looking up at the mirror she was struck by how old she looked. Her eyes were drawn and tired, her mouth slack. So very old. Splashing the hot water on her face she closed her eyes, desperately trying to warm herself. But, as she well knew, the room was not cold, the fire was roaring. It was she that had grown cold.

Slowly, she washed and changed, almost on automatic pilot. She stepped back into the sitting room and poured herself a cup of tea. As she held the delicate china cup to her lips, it slipped and she dropped it, watching it smash on the table. Her eyes flicked across to the other cup, presumably set out for Joseph. A single tear ran down her cheek as she grasped the seemingly innocent piece of china and hurled it across the room, smashing it against the wall. Pausing for a moment, she stared blankly at the broken shards decorating the carpet. She swallowed, blinking away the tears that filled her eyes. Automatically she moved to collect up the pieces. Once they were all placed in the bin she left the room, and returned to her vigil.

She sat at his side throughout the night, stroking his hand gently, never taking her eyes from his face. To apologise seemed pathetic, cowardly even. There were no words to excuse what she had done, what she had felt. He seemed so innocent lying there, his breathing shallow and laboured. She wished he would open his eyes for a moment, so she could tell him everything, but, as she brushed the tears from her cheeks, that would only be to soothe her own conscience. Even now she was thinking of her own selfish needs.

But he did not stir, and, at ten past five in the morning, the doctor who had been roused by the insistent bleep of the monitor, pronounced the King to be dead. Not looking at the Queen he had carefully unplugged and detached the drip and monitoring cables, uttered a respectful 'rest in peace' and left the room. For a long time she just sat there, silent, hardly moving. The palace was still and the sun was beginning to rise outside. The only sound came from the birds in the orchard. Eventually she stood and, stroking her hand down his cheek, kissed him chastely on the forehead.

"I'm sorry I wasn't a better wife…"

Whether she had whispered the words to his deaf ears or to her own wasn't clear, but in that pronouncement she decided that, for the sake of her country she must at least be the perfect Queen. Whatever that might mean.

In the darkened security control room he watched her in silence.

Two days later he received a message that she wished to see him. At five. In her office. She had never been that precise before, and it worried him. He had deliberately given her space after their argument, knowing full well that, in the cool light of day she would realise his concerns and the intention in which he'd meant them. Philippe had flown back from Brussels the day of his father's death, and she had spent the past couple of days with him, grieving out of the media spotlight, deciding what they would have to organise. And so Joe had done what he was best at, hid in the shadows, bowed out and waited. And now she wanted to see him.

At four-thirty, Clarisse finished the last paper of the papers she had to sign. She and Philippe had decided to share out royal duties between them, with her acting as reigning monarch until he was able to reduce his foreign commitments and return to Genovia for good. Of course, all this had been pre-planned by Rupert but, nonetheless, they had to finalise all the arrangements and sign all the documents for parliament to approve. Setting down her pen she sighed, rubbing her temples.

She was nervous and dreading Joseph's arrival. She had to be strong, she knew that…but she was afraid of how her body might betray her. If he touched her, pulled her to him, she knew she would be lost. He could tear her heart out and serve it to her on a plate and she would still love him more than life itself. But she couldn't. And the only way to make sure of this was to remember what he had done, the lies he had told, and to stay angry. To hold onto that pain and not to question why it was that his deception cut so deeply into her. To admit that was too dangerous.

He arrived at five on the dot, and knocked gently on the door.

"Come in"

Her voice was cool and without emotion. As he pushed the door open, he saw she was standing behind her desk, looking out over the garden. She was dressed all in black.

"Clarisse?"

She turned then, and the look in her eyes told him everything. Vacant.

"Did you ever plan on telling me?"

The question was a simple one, but he was unable to answer. He looked at her, desperately searching for some kind of connection. He ran a hand over his head nervously. He decided to tell her the truth.

"Yes, I did. The day I found out…but, but…I couldn't. I knew you would collapse under the knowledge, so I didn't tell you. It was easier…" He broke off, not knowing how to explain what had seemed so clear at the time. She turned away from him to look outside again.

"Did you really think that it would be as simple as that?"

He didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the back of her head as she scanned the lawns. Her hands were clenched tightly, he noticed, on the back of the chair behind her.

She took a breath to steady herself. She would be hurt later…now she could only be angry. He must not see her cry, not over this. This was not about tears.

"Do you realise what you have let me do? How you have humiliated me?"

She heard him shuffle a little, not leaving, but uncomfortable at staying. When he finally spoke his voice was flat, devoid of its usual resonance.

"I thought it was for the best"

She spun round, anger surging up in her again, this time too strong for her to repress,

"For who, for God's sake!?" She was nearly shouting now, her eyes filling with tears despite her best efforts, "For me? For him? First you speak about me as if I'm some kind of object, to be passed around discreetly, so long as I don't know…and then you let me lie to my husband, betray his trust in the worst possible way…and all the time, both of you knew! Can you even comprehend how that makes me feel?"

She steadied herself against the seat, desperately trying to recompose herself, brushing the treacherous teardrops away with her hand.

Joseph had been silent throughout. He felt sick to the core…this was all his fault, and he knew it. Never before had she spoken to him like that. God, he doubted if she'd ever spoken to anyone like that before. And he had deserved it. Damnit, if it made her feel better she could scream at him until she ran out of voice.

But he would not apologise. For all he had done, he had done it for her, for both of them. He had tried to protect her. One day she would realise that. If she couldn't realise that, then there was no hope.

She moved towards the couch, deliberately avoiding his reach, and sat down carefully, dropping her aching forehead into her hands. Without looking up, she continued, her voice thin and drained,

"You can leave now Joseph, I have nothing more to say to you."

He looked at her, broken by the events of the past few weeks and sighed. Cautiously he reached out a hand and laid it tenderly on her shoulder. She flinched a little at the unexpected touch, but did not shrug him off. Again her body betrayed her. But she didn't look up.

"Please, Joseph, just go"

He removed his hand and casting a regretful glance back, moved towards the study door. He paused, his fingers tracing the handle,

"I did it for us, Clarisse…because I love you. Nothing more."

And then he left. Once she had heard his footsteps disappear down the corridor, Clarisse stood and walked to the door herself. Closing it quietly she turned the key in the lock. Then, with a dignity that masked her shattered inner composure, she moved to the cabinet in the corner and retrieved a bottle of single malt. She poured herself a large glass and returned to the couch. Taking an uncharacteristically long gulp she grimaced as the strong liquor burnt her throat. She set the glass down on the table and, curling up in a ball, for the first time in her adult life, Clarisse Renaldi wept like a child.

A/N This one actually had me wondering if it was too depressing… ;o) Not that I'm having a bad week, or anything, honest!

OK, well this is the worst chapter over with, I promise. From this point, apart from a little blip over the whole proposal thing, nice things will start to happen again. Promise! Let me know what you think…