Zevki Sultan | 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐘

~ Chapter 1 ~

Madrid, España, 1521

"¿Dondé está mi hija?" My mom yelled as I bit my lip. Where is my daughter? she had asked, in our native tongue of Spanish of course. I could hear footsteps getting ever closer in the hallway as I tensed up in my hiding place.

My hiding place was...The closet. The only place I could get away within our palace, the Alcázar of Madrid. I sighed as I knew I was going to be caught soon. I was never given a break and this time, it was a desperate attempt to escape my inevitable fate as a princess: marriage.

"Princesa Francesca Fortuna, come out right now!" My mother barked as I solemnly walked treaded out of the closet and to the hall where my mother was standing, with her arms crossed over her chest. And of course, my brat of a twin sister, Isabella, was with her. I bowed.

"Lo siento, madre," I murmured, my voice trembling slightly. I did have a hint of sarcasm in there though, because to be honest, I was sick of playing hide and go seek with her at every one of our palaces whenever she wanted something from me. 

My mother, Queen Isabella, looked down at me with a mixture of exasperation and concern, her emerald eyes piercing through the dim light of the hallway. She was a beautiful woman, and it made sense why my father fell in love with her. Besides her being a noblewoman too of course.

"Francesca, this is not a game. You know how important this meeting is," she said, her tone softening slightly. "The Duke of Aragon is waiting in the grand hall. You cannot keep him waiting any longer."

Isabella smirked beside her, clearly enjoying my discomfort. She was always the obedient one, the perfect princess, while I struggled with the constraints of our royal duties. I was the elder twin, and yet everyone always treated me as though it was the other way around. Convenient for Isabella, not so much for me.

"Yes, Madre," I replied, straightening up and smoothing down my dress. The heavy, velvet gown felt suffocating, its intricate embroidery a reminder of the weight of my responsibilities. 

Spanish clothes these days were suffocating, especially for us woman. I yearn for a day where we can wear more...open clothes, without constraint. Still modest things, as we are devout Catholics, but just something a little more comfy out and about.

As we walked down the grand staircase, my heart pounded in my chest. The thought of marriage, of being tied to someone I barely knew, filled me with dread. 

I'm hardly 20. I knew some people might say I'm practically a spinster, but it was still considerably young. I am in no position to get married yet anyways.

I had heard stories of other princesses, trapped in loveless marriages for the sake of alliances and power. I didn't want that fate. Some princesses were even condemned to marry ugly noblemen. Ew.

The grand hall was filled with courtiers and nobles, all eyes turning towards me as I entered. At the far end, near the throne, stood the Duke of Aragon. He was tall and imposing, with a stern face and piercing blue eyes. He bowed slightly as I approached, and I curtsied in return. He was, from what I heard, about a decade older than I, about 30-ish. Ew. Old. That's all I could think of that.

"Your Grace," I said, forcing a smile.

"Princess Francesca Fortuna, it is an honor," he replied, his voice deep and formal. He reached out to take my hand, and I had to fight the urge to pull away. Disgusting, honestly. His grip was firm and unyielding.

"Shall we take a walk in the gardens?" he suggested, and I nodded, unable to find my voice.

As we strolled through the palace gardens, the scent of blooming roses filling the air, I struggled to make conversation. The Duke seemed content with silence, occasionally glancing at me with an inscrutable expression.