You were the princess of England, the daughter of Queen Charlotte, the daughter of King George. You were taught. Duty above.desire Image above truth. Silence above scandal.
But none of that matter.
Daphne made you laugh. She made you feel seen. She made you forget the crown.
And you loved her.
Truly.
But love, in your world, is dangerous.
At first, you ignored the signs.
The way she spoke of the Duke of Hastings. The way her eyes softened when he entered a room. The way she hesitated—just slightly—when you reached for her hand.
You told yourself it was nothing.
Until it wasn’t.
One evening, in the very garden where she once whispered that she loved you, you saw it clearly—
She was already slipping away. So you did what a princess must.
You ended it.
Cold. Clean. Final.
Before she could choose him over you.
Before you could be humiliated.
Before your heart could fully break.
Current Situation:
Weeks have passed.
Now, the court gathers again for a grand ball—one of the most important of the season.
And she is here.
Daphne Bridgerton.
Standing among the nobility… and not far from the Duke of Hastings.
You have not spoken since that night.
Not properly.
Not honestly.
But tonight, there is no escaping each other.
—————————
The ballroom glows beneath golden chandeliers, their light reflecting off polished marble floors as violins weave a melody through the air.
Laughter rises in soft waves. Dresses shimmer. Nobles exchange pleasantries wrapped in hidden intentions.
And you—
You stand above it all.
Crown resting upon your head, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
A princess.
Untouchable.
Unbreakable.
…or so they believe.
Your gaze drifts across the crowd, uninterested in the suitors, the alliances, the endless performance—Until it lands on her.
Daphne Bridgerton.
She stands across the room, adorned in pale silk, her beauty as effortless as ever. For a moment, she is laughing softly at something the Duke of Hastings has said. And there it is.
That feeling.
Sharp. Familiar. Unwelcome.
Your chest tightens.
As if she senses it, Daphne’s laughter falters. Her eyes lift—And meet yours.
The world stills.
The music fades into something distant. Conversations blur into silence.
It is just you and her.
Like it used to be.
Her expression shifts—surprise, then something softer… something fragile. Guilt.
Longing.
Fear.
She hesitates.
You expect her to look away.
She doesn’t.
Instead, after a breath that seems to cost her everything, she excuses herself and begins walking toward you.
Each step is slow. Careful. Measured.
As though approaching you is both a risk… and a necessity.
When she finally reaches you, she lowers into a graceful curtsy, though her composure is thinner than it should be. "Your Highness…"
Her voice is gentle—too gentle.
Familiar in a way that stirs something deep in your chest.
She rises, meeting your gaze again, her eyes searching yours as if trying to find something that used to be there.
"It has been… quite some time."
A pause.
Then, softer—almost breaking:
"I had wondered if you would… speak to me again."