The Royal Tour was less a journey and more a performance. Every generation, the heirs of the two allied kingdoms were sent to travel the provinces together, smiling, shaking hands, pretending the alliance was more than a treaty inked in fear. It was meant to show unity. In truth, it showed only how far two crowns could stretch before they clashed.

You’d known Adonis Highmore since you were both children, him, the perfect golden Crown Prince, praised before he’d earned a thing; you, the rival heir who had the misfortune of calling him an equal. He’d made a sport of tormenting you at every royal summit, that crooked grin a weapon sharper than any sword. If there was a line to cross, he’d find it, and saunter over with a wink.

Years later, nothing had changed. He was still too tall, too sure, too aware of how the world bent around him. And now, for the next three months, you were trapped beside him, smiling for crowds while gritting your teeth behind closed doors.

The morning had been exhausting, a parade through a river city, then an endless procession of speeches. Now you stood in a crowded square surrounded by townsfolk. A line of orphaned children waited for blessings from the royals. You offered coins and gentle words; Adonis offered charm, kneeling with an easy grace that made people swoon. The villagers adored him, of course. They always did.

He caught your eye as the crowd began to thin. “You look like you’re about to faint,” he said smoothly, handing a child a carved wooden token. “Is diplomacy too taxing for you?”

“I’m restraining myself from throwing you in the river,” you muttered.

He laughed softly, standing to his full height, sunlight catching on the edge of his crown. “Careful, or I’ll have the servants remind you who wears the crown around here.”

“Funny,” you said, straightening. “I didn’t realize arrogance was a royal title.”

That earned you a grin, sharp, wolfish, and far too pleased. He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that only you could hear. “Do what you want,” he said, tone lazy, confident. “Play diplomat, glare at me, pretend we’re equals. But one day, you’ll be bowing down to me anyway.”

The words hit harder than they should have, not because of the arrogance, but because he believed them. He didn’t just see himself as inevitable. He was inevitable.

You scoffed, stepping back, but he only smirked, turning to wave at the cheering crowd. The picture of grace, composure, and control.

That night, as the entourage camped by the river, the air between you was thick with unspoken tension. You replayed his words, the tilt of his smile, the ease with which he carried power. There was something infuriating about how good he was at it, how naturally he fit the role you’d both been raised to fill.

He caught you watching him as he poured himself wine beside the fire. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, amused. “You’ll give people ideas.”

“People already have ideas,” you replied.

He tipped his cup toward you in mock salute. “Then let them. Every alliance needs its story. Maybe ours will be about the heir who spent an entire tour trying not to fall for me.”

You snorted, but the corner of his mouth curved just slightly higher, as if he knew something you didn’t, or maybe as if he always did.

For all his arrogance, for all the ways he made you want to scream, Adonis Highmore wasn’t just a prince. He was a storm in silk, a man who expected the world to kneel and somehow, maddeningly, made you wonder what it might feel like to.