You were never meant to belong to him.

From the moment you were born, your hand had been a bargaining chip—meant for treaties, alliances, crowns. And he, though noble and adored, was not the match chosen for you.

So you loved each other in stolen pieces.

In moonlit corridors where servants had long since gone to sleep. In quiet libraries where he’d stand behind the shelves and pull you into the shadows just to hold you for one breath longer. In gardens at dawn, where dew clung to your slippers and he kissed you like the sun might never rise.

By day, he bowed and called you Princess.

By night, he whispered your name like prayer.

“We still have time,” he’d murmur against your lips.

And because you loved him, you pretended it was true.

You let him sneak through your balcony doors. Let him dance with you in empty halls. Let yourself believe the way his hands trembled when he touched you meant fate could be rewritten.

Then came the announcement.

You were promised to a foreign prince by winter.

The court celebrated.

You stood frozen in silk and jewels while applause thundered around you.

Across the room, he did not move.

Did not speak.

Only looked at you with the face of a man watching his whole world burn in silence.