My Enemy, My Love

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔈𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

Thyme [Sea]

The air outside the temple was suffocating. It wasn't just the heat; it was the phantom hands squeezing my neck, strangling me as I stood there, waiting. My waistcoat felt too tight, restricting my every movement, sticking to me like a second skin I desperately wanted to tear off. Sweat soaked through the linen shirt, and I resisted the urge to rip the stiff collar away from my throat. 

A combination of nerves and anger torturing me relentlessly. 

This was the last place I wanted to be. I didn't want this - I didn't want him. 

A marriage for the sake of duty. Not love, not even respect. 

A marriage to secure an alliance, to merge two powerful kingdoms together.

A move by two families desperate to keep peace and prosperity intact.

I shut my eyes, wishing for the millionth time that I could run. 

No crown, no obligations, no Luka.

The heavy doors to the temple loomed before me, silent and foreboding. Beyond them, the rest of my life waited, a life I didn't want. I shifted uncomfortably, tugging at my waistcoat as if that would help. It didn't. Nothing would.

"Thyme," came a familiar voice from behind me.

I turned to see my mother approaching, her expression calm but her eyes sharp, as if she could see right through me. Her silk gown glimmered in the sunlight, and her hands were folded neatly in front of her. She was every bit the queen, poised and composed, a stark contrast to the unstable mess standing before her.

"Mother," I said, my voice tight. I wasn't sure if I was angry with her, too, or just angry at the situation. Probably both.

She stepped closer, her gaze softening as she looked me over. "You look handsome," she said gently.

"I feel like I'm suffocating," I muttered, tugging at my collar again.

She sighed, reaching out to adjust it for me. "Thyme, I know this isn't what you wanted. But this is bigger than you, bigger than both of you. Do you understand that? You must put all your hatred aside now. You must."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it."

Her hands stilled, and she looked me in the eye. "No, you don't. But you have to endure it. That's what it means to be a prince. To put your people, your kingdom, above yourself."

I didn't reply. What was there to say? She wasn't wrong, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow.

"You're stronger than you think, Thyme," she said softly. "You'll get through this. And perhaps one day, you will come to love Luka."

I heavily doubted that, but I nodded anyway. She extended her arm to me, and for a moment, I hesitated. Then, with a deep breath, I took it. The nerves kicked in almost immediately, a cold rush of dread coursing through me as the final blow of realisation hit: there was no turning back.

The temple doors opened, and a wave of sound washed over me. The faint hum of murmured conversations, the rustle of fabric, the distant clinking of ornaments. My eyes were drawn to the far end of the aisle, where Luka stood by the altar, flanked by the Monk. He looked... calm. Cool and collected, as if this were just another day for him. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable. Even from this distance, I could see the glint of his ceremonial attire, tailored to perfection. He looked charming. Beautiful, even.

I hated it. I hated him.

My father and Luka's parents stood on the steps near the altar, their faces a mix of pride and expectation. The pews were filled with guests, their faces a blur of color and jewels as my gaze swept over them. My friends were near the front. Anurak caught my eye first, his reassuring smile doing little to reassure me. Meili was beside him, her expression softer but no less supportive. I wanted to smile back, to show them I was okay, but I couldn't. I wasn't.

As my mother and I began the walk down the aisle, the room seemed to close in around me. Each step felt heavier than the last, my heart pounding in my chest. Luka's eyes locked onto mine as I approached, and I couldn't look away. His face was unreadable, but his gaze was steady, unwavering. It infuriated me.

When we reached the altar, my mother let go of my arm and stepped aside. I turned to face Luka, and the Monk began the chants of the marital rites in Old Thai. The ancient words filled the air, reverent with tradition. I barely heard them. I didn't want to hear them.

"Join hands," the Monk instructed.

I hesitated. Luka extended his hands, steady and confident. Reluctantly, I placed mine in his. A strip of satin was draped over our hands; the Monk tied it firmly, creating a simple knot. Anxiety and dreaded anticipation crawled through my veins. 

"Repeat after me," the Monk said, and we did. Line by line, the vows of holy matrimony fell from my lips, each word feeling like a treacherous curse. It all felt so wrong. Forced. I bit my tongue so hard I could taste blood. 

 "Do you, Prince Thyme of Bangkok, accept this union with Luka, Prince of Chonburi."

My voice barely carried as I said, "Yes." I wanted to cry. Scream. 

Luka's response was stronger, clearer. "Yes." 

Of course, it was.

Then, with renewed energy, the Monk pronounced us married, his voice ringing out over the temple. The crowd erupted into applause, the sound deafening. I locked eyes with Mother, her smile comforting but lacking in sympathy. We did not kiss, or display any pretense of affection. Just the satin binding our hands, accompanied with the sinking feeling in my chest.

I was married to Luka. 

As the satin was removed and we turned to face the crowd, I stole a glance at Luka. He looked every bit the perfect prince, the perfect groom. And I hated him for it. I hated how he relished in the attention. The applause swelled, but all I could hear was the pounding of my heart and the silent scream in my head: This isn't what I want. This isn't who I want.

I wanted to die. 

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