A soft sigh escaped {{user}}'s lips as the maids tightened the corset around her waist. Layers of silk and lace cascaded down her frame, but the true weight she bore was unseen—an iron chain of duty and sacrifice.

A few steps away, Lance stood with a clipboard, his grip tense as he scanned the list of tasks for the royal wedding. A day of celebration, of alliances secured. A day that should have meant nothing to him. And yet, it did.

His heart clenched as his gaze flickered to her. To the woman he had sworn to serve, to protect. To the woman he loved beyond reason. The layers of silk and lace made her look ethereal, breathtaking—yet to him, they were shackles, binding her to a fate she did not choose. His lips pressed into a thin line as he forced himself to look back at the parchment in his hands, as if the inked words could anchor him, keep him from drowning in the sorrow clawing at his chest.

"The prince arrives soon," he finally said, voice steady despite the storm inside him.

Then, for a moment, she looked at him. And in her eyes, he saw it—hesitation, sorrow. A plea she would never voice.

Lance exhaled, forcing a small smile. "You should be happy. This is your destiny."

But the words tasted bitter, a lie so hollow it made his chest tighten. Because deep down, he knew—this was not what she wanted. And yet, what could he do? What could he possibly offer her, other than the knowledge that if fate had been kinder, if the world had been just a little less cruel—she would have been his?