When Queen Isabelle offers me a deal to fake an engagement with the Crown Prince, my first instinct is to laugh. I must be hallucinating-blame it on the tea. But as her words sink in, I realize the potential boost this could bring to my tech company...
"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are." - Anaïs Nin
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As I walked through the castle's endless corridors, my heels clicking against the stone floors, anticipation and dread twisted together in my chest. It was the sort of feeling you get when you know something's about to happen, but you're not sure if you'll be able to control it. Alexander James Henry Theodore, Crown Prince of England, had a way of stirring up emotions I'd rather keep buried—especially when it came to this whole "let's pretend we're in love" charade. It wasn't the act itself that bothered me; it was the intensity he brought to it, as if it was more than just a show for him. He was way too good at this entire thing. The thought made me roll my eyes, trying to shake off the tension.
When I reached the study, I hesitated, hand hovering over the door. What awaited me on the other side? More royal protocol? More reminders of the roles we had to play? With a deep breath, I knocked, the sound loud and intrusive in the quiet hallway. His voice, smooth as always, came through almost instantly. "Come in, Nia."
I pushed the door open, the soft creak of the hinges splitting the silence like a whispered secret, and there he was framed by the glow of a dying sun. The room was painted in amber and gold, the light spilling across polished floors and antique furniture like something out of a dream.
He stood with his back to me, his silhouette sharp, shoulders squared in that ever-so-perfect royal posture, while the last rays of daylight transformed his hair into something that looked suspiciously like molten gold. Unfair. Absolutely unfair. It was as if he'd been plucked from a Renaissance painting, every inch of him screaming effortless regal charm. I was tempted to roll my eyes. He probably woke up looking like that.
When he finally turned to face me, his features softened in the fading light, but his expression? Not so much. Something was different, something that sent a ripple of unease through my chest. He wasn't smiling. There was no cocky grin, no mischievous glint in his eye. Instead, there was an edge to his seriousness that made my pulse stutter.
"We need to talk about the gala," he said, his voice quieter than usual, laced with an almost concerning gentleness.
Ah, yes. The gala. Our next grand performance in this absurd play where I was supposed to pretend I cared about curtsying, tiaras, and royal formalities. A chance for us to parade around as the picture-perfect royal couple, to flash practiced smiles, and make sure we didn't trip over all the ridiculous expectations. Another day, another show.
"Of course," I said, leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide the smirk threatening my lips. "I'm assuming you're not planning to wing it, are you?"
His eyes flickered with something—annoyance, maybe? No, concern. I knew that look. It was the same one he gave when he noticed the tiniest imperfection in a plan, the kind of thing only a prince raised on duty would catch. The kind of thing I, raised in the chaos of survival, would probably never notice.
