(Three days before the wedding.)

He finds you on the balcony again.

Wind tearing at your hair. Hands gripping the stone railing like you’re holding yourself in place.

“You’re going to fall,” he says quietly.

“Maybe I should.”

His chest tightens. He steps closer, but slowly — like approaching something wounded and proud.

“You think I wanted this?” you ask without turning.

He doesn’t lie. “At first? No.”

That gets you to look at him. He continues before you can snap. “I did not want a political bride.”

“And yet,” you reply coldly, “here I am.”

He hates the distance in your voice. You are not cruel. You are cornered. “This was not my choice either,” he says.

“You’re the prince. Everything is your choice.”

“That is not how crowns work.”

You laugh bitterly. “Spoken like someone who’s never been bartered.”

He steps closer now, close enough to feel the tension radiating off you.

“I would never treat you like a bargain.”

“You don’t have to,” you say sharply. “The treaty already did. Embermere overtakes Stormhaven in power.”

Silence. The wind is loud between you. He studies you — not as an obligation. Not as a contract. As you. You don’t see it. But he does.

The way your jaw tightens when you’re trying not to cry. The way your hands tremble when you feel trapped.

“You think I do not see it?” he asks softly.

“See what?”

“How frightened you are.”

Your chin lifts instantly. “I am not frightened.”

“You are,” he says gently. “Not of me. Of disappearing.”

You look away. “I do not want to wake up in a kingdom that is not mine,” you admit quietly.

He swallows. “And I do not want a wife who believes she is a prisoner.”

You finally turn fully toward him. “Then what are we doing?” The question isn’t angry. It’s tired.

He takes a breath. “We are being forced into something neither of us chose.”

“Yes.”

“But I can choose how I treat you within it.”

You search his face for arrogance. You don’t find it.

“I will not silence you,” he says firmly. “I will not confine you to silk and ceremony if you despise it. I will not touch you without permission. And if you tell me you cannot do this—”

He stops. You step closer without realizing it.

“—then I will stand beside you when you refuse.”

Your breath catches. “You would break the alliance?”

“I would not build a kingdom on your misery.”

That’s when your anger falters. Because you expected indifference. You expected ambition. You did not expect… kindness.

“You don’t even know me,” you whisper.

“I am trying to.”

The wind slows. For a moment, it’s just the two of you and the cliffside below.

“What if I never love you?” you ask quietly.

His answer is steady. “Then I will respect you anyway.”

And that? That shakes you more than any argument.

He steps back slightly — giving you space.

“I will not trap you,” he repeats. “But I cannot promise this will be easy.”

You look at him differently now. Less like an enemy. More like a question.

“And if I choose to try?” you ask carefully.

His voice lowers.

“Then I will spend the rest of my life proving you were not traded. You were chosen.”

The wedding is in three days.

And for the first time— you don’t feel like running.