The Pharaoh’s Favorite novel Chapter 42

The moment the envoy spoke, I understood.

This was not merely an offer—this was a message. A carefully disguised strike against Amen’s rule. They wanted to stain his name, to add fuel to the whispers already circulating in the shadows.

I had heard them before.

The murmurs of unease, the hushed voices of servants and courtiers—claims that the Pharaoh was becoming unstable, cruel. That concubines and slaves alike had vanished in the night, their bodies discovered near or inside his chambers, drained of life in ways no one could explain.

To the outsiders, it was not a curse binding him to the remnants of Osiris’s soul—it was something far more insidious. A bloodthirst. A growing hunger.

I had dismissed those rumors before. But now? This was deliberate. A calculated attempt to cast doubt upon his rule.

Amen did not react—not in anger, not in outrage. He remained composed, his expression cool, unreadable.

But I knew him too well now.

Beneath his unshaken mask, he was furious. Not because they dared to insult him, but because they sought to use the suffering of others—of women offered like cattle—as a means to manipulate him.

His response came measured, precise. His voice, though polite, was sharpened like a blade.

“I am not in the habit of accepting gifts wrapped in chains.”

One of the envoys let out a short, nervous laugh. “Ah, but my Pharaoh, such matters are common—”

“No.” The word rings with finality. With fury barely contained. “Egypt does not need more slaves. If these women wish to serve in the temples, they may do so by choice. If not, they will be given means to return home.”

Pride blooms in my chest, fierce and bright. This is my Amen – the man behind the crown, the one who sees people where others see possessions.

But the diplomat isn’t finished. “Your Majesty, forgive me, but your advisors have expressed concern about… succession. A ruler of your divine status must consider his legacy. These women could-”

“My legacy,” Amen cuts him off, voice like thunder, “will not be built on broken bodies and stolen lives.”

The man stammered, scrambling for a response, but Amen did not give him the chance.

“If you wish to present me with a gift, let it be something of value.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Not human lives.”

A heavy silence followed.

For the first time since I had started listening, I exhaled.

Silence filled the chamber.

The envoy hesitated, searching for a response, but Amen had already turned his attention elsewhere. It was done. The insult had been returned, subtle yet undeniable, a message of its own.

And then—his gaze flickered.

Straight to me.

I froze behind the column, my heart stammering in my chest as our eyes met.

He had known.

How long had he known I was there? Had he sensed my presence from the beginning?

The answer came in the form of a slow, knowing smirk. My breath caught, heat curling low in my stomach.