Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 46: Solving Problems

Maximilian smirked. His hand moved before he quite realized it... His fingers drifted toward her hair and stopped at the very tips. He pressed a fingertip there, cautiously, gently, as though testing whether he had the right to touch her at all.

"I’ve already told you who she is," he said quietly. "The only person I’d ever bring into my home. You should have known, Mother. And yet... you still insulted her. And her family."

"Max...?"

His mother’s voice wavered, incredulous. This was the son she had raised: the obedient one who had given up meat simply because she asked, who had stepped into the role of man of the house after his father’s death without complaint.

Always respectful. Always gentle. Always responsible.

And now... this tone.

Maximilian exhaled slowly, the edge in his expression softening. "Mom," he said, slipping into that faintly playful cadence he used only with her. "I’ve sent her an invitation to the Winthorp. I’m just giving you a heads-up." His gaze lingered on Catherine, still asleep. "She’s the one I’ve chosen. She has her struggles and I need you to stand by her. The way I stood by you."

Silence followed. It stretched, heavy and deliberate.

"I don’t think I’ll attend this year," his mother finally said.

Maximilian smiled. He recognized it for what it was—a small, futile rebellion. One she wouldn’t be able to sustain.

"Hm."

He ended the call, his finger still resting lightly against Catherine’s hair. Whatever thoughts crossed his mind, no one knew. But one thing was sure. She was his future.

Catherine woke to silence.

The lecture hall was empty; rows of seats abandoned, the air stale with the ghost of murmured debates and chalk dust. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, warm against her lashes. She straightened slowly, realizing she had fallen asleep in a room full of students.

She should have been mortified.

Oddly, she wasn’t.

"Is it over?" she asked.

Maximilian sat beside her, calm and composed, red pen in hand as he graded papers as if nothing unusual had occurred. He slid a few sheets toward her.

Catherine stared at them, then at him. "I’m not actually your TA," she said flatly. "You do know that, don’t you?"

Before he could respond, movement caught her eye.

A small group of students hovered by the door. At Maximilian’s casual wave, they entered—some hesitant, some bold—each clutching a file like a weapon.

"Professor," said the girl in front, her blonde curls immaculately styled as she flicked her hair back with practiced indignation, "it is blatant misogyny that you’re refusing to let female students into the History Book Club."

Catherine blinked.

"They’re not letting you in?" she cut in.

She had avoided drama in this life with almost religious discipline. But her past life: one of courts, crowns, and whispered conspiracies, had been nothing but drama. And if this involved Maximilian and an accusation of misogyny?

Well.

It was for the greater good.

The greater good of her mental health.

Maximilian exhaled slowly. "There already exists a club for female students—the History Club. It predates the History Book Club by nearly a decade and is led by Professor Naomi Monroe."

Catherine’s shoulders sagged.

So the boys had formed their own club after the girls. They hadn’t demanded entry into the girls’ space. They had simply... made one of their own.

That was fine. Perfectly fine.

"But we want to join the boys’ club," another girl insisted.

Catherine rubbed her temple.

"If there’s already a girls’ club, why do you want the boys’ one?" she asked, exasperation slipping through. "What do you think they do there anyway? Sniff each other’s socks?" She scoffed. "The ladies’ club is far more sophisticated. Why would you want to sit with stinky boys?"

Problem solved. Or so she thought.

"What do you know?" the blonde snapped. "This is about exclusion. About misogyny. We’ll post everything online and expose the History Department of this university. My father is—"

Catherine tuned out the rest. Fathers. Uncles. Influence. Follower counts.

She pressed her fingers to her forehead.

"Misogyny?" she repeated, breathing in deeply. "You truly believe this is misogyny?"

"Then what else is it?" another girl demanded. Phones were raised now, red lights blinking. "We’re oppressed. Silenced. Excluded."

"That’s true," Catherine said quietly. "Misogyny exists. I’ve felt it myself."

That gave them pause.

"But this," she continued, eyes sharpening, "is not one of those cases."

Voices rose. Accusations flew. Someone called her a fake TA who slept through class and now wanted to lecture them about internalized misogyny. Flashes turned on in their phones as a handful of them started recording.

Maximilian stiffened.

This was spiraling. One viral clip could end careers. This was the kind of situation that demanded caution, diplomacy, avoidance, even.

Catherine, however, showed no sign of retreat.

At times, Maximilian genuinely wondered whether she understood how fragile this world was—how easily reputations shattered. His protective instinct flared, but he composed himself, letting her do her thing. It was hard, but that was the right thing to do.

"Tell me," Catherine said suddenly, her voice cutting through the noise. "You all know Athens, yes? The cradle of democracy."

The girls answered eagerly, rattling off dates, councils, philosophies; how Athens shaped equality and governance.

She listened patiently.

"And do you know how Athens treated its women?"

Silence.

"Have you heard of exposure?"

They had. They were history students.

"When a child was born," Catherine said evenly, "the mother had no say. The infant was placed at the father’s feet. If he wished to keep the child, he lifted it. If not—"

She gestured vaguely downward.

"Sons were valuable. They carried names. Worked fields. Girls were burdens. So they were left outside. Exposed. To the cold. To animals. To death. Not every child died, but the fact that survival depended on chance tells you enough." Her gaze hardened. "It wasn’t called murder. They spoke of it as casually as the weather."

The room was utterly silent now.

"Athens," Catherine continued, "those so-called bastions of democracy, did this. It was common in other societies, too, at that time. And you... standing here in the most progressive era in history... are crying misogyny because you weren’t admitted to a club?"

Some faces wavered. Others hardened, unpleased.

"You have agency," she said. "A voice. Power. And you’re using it for this... when you could demand something far greater."

Chaos erupted again.

Maximilian didn’t intervene. He only watched her. Intrigued to see what she would do.

"Enough." Catherine slammed her palm against the desk.

The sound echoed.

Maximilian observed her. She didn’t look older than them, if anything, younger. But her eyes held something else entirely. Experience. Authority. A terrifying lack of fear.

"Let’s settle this properly."

She handed each girl a sheet of paper and a pen. "Sit. Write why you truly want to join the boys’ club in addition to your own."

There was resistance. Complaints. But Catherine stood her ground. Eventually, after she promised fairness, they complied.

"How did you do that?" Maximilian murmured once they dispersed.

She shrugged. Noblewomen had been far worse.

Within minutes, the papers returned. Catherine skimmed them, lips twitching.

"Ah..." she murmured. "Spelling errors. Writing really is a dying art."

"There’s no autocorrect," one girl said cheerfully.

Catherine laughed softly. "That’s true."

Ink and parchment had once been luxuries. Scribes were executed for spelling errors. This world, despite its noise, was still kinder.

As she read, a pattern emerged.

One name.

Professor Whitmore.

She sighed and looked at Maximilian. "What if you stayed in the girls’ club," she said to them, "and Professor Whitmore attended your meetings occasionally? Would that satisfy you?"

Whispers. Glances. Calculations.

"If it’s twice a month," they said.

Catherine stared at Maximilian, momentarily horrified.

All this... for him?

Maximilian remained impassive.

"Get permission from Professor Monroe," he said calmly. "I’ll attend once a month. On one condition—you delete every recording you took today."

After a brief, frantic discussion, they agreed. Phones were cleared. The girls left, victorious and laughing.

Maximilian turned to Catherine.

Catherine found his gaze unsettling.

What is he even thinking? And what do those girls see in him? He’s not even that handsome...

She clutched the bracelet unconsciously.