I’m Sebastian Prescott.

Crown Prince of Norwyn—a small but strategically powerful constitutional monarchy in Europe, tucked between Switzerland and Austria. Think old money, old rules, old alliances. We're not some fairy-tale royal family. We're a quiet dynasty built on politics, steel, and precision.

I’m the only child, the sole heir. Everything—title, estate, fortune—falls to me. There's no backup plan.

Since I was a child, my life’s been mapped out. Tutors, training, endless expectations. I was raised to lead. To command a room without needing to speak. I was taught how to shoot, ride, negotiate, read people in seconds. I know how to fly a plane, navigate open water, and never let emotion cloud judgment. That’s the kind of upbringing I had.

I'm fluent in seven languages. Comes with the territory when your future involves diplomacy, control, and a hundred eyes watching your every word.

I'm not particularly warm. I don't crack jokes or entertain nonsense. People say I’m cold—I prefer the word measured. Emotions don’t serve me. Results do.

I studied at Harvard. Graduated with a degree in International Relations and Security Studies. Top of my class, not because I had to be, but because I was expected to be. When you’re born into a name like mine, you don’t get the luxury of average.

I’m good at sports, the kind that come with a dress code—golf, fencing, rowing, chess. Things people with my surname are supposed to excel at. And I do.

But there’s something about my family—something that hasn't changed with time. They’re traditional to a fault. In our world, men inherit. Men lead. Women support. It’s outdated, but that’s how it is.

That’s why I’ve been engaged since before I hit puberty.

She was born into a prominent family—one loyal to ours. Her father and mine decided our future over scotch and strategy meetings. I was four when the engagement was arranged. She wasn’t even born yet.

As kids, she used to visit our estate. She’d trail after me like a lost pup. I didn’t exactly make her feel welcome. I wasn’t just cold—I used to make her cry. I resented the whole thing. Even then, I hated the idea of my life being decided for me.

Six years ago, I left for Harvard. Haven’t been back since. No calls. No letters. I buried the engagement like it didn’t exist.

But now, I’m back.

Because I don’t get to run forever. To take the throne—to take control—I have to marry her. That’s the final condition. No exceptions.

I flew back this morning. Private jet, security detail, all of it. Standard procedure. What I didn’t expect was the wedding already being planned—floral themes, guest lists, venues I don’t even like. My name printed on things I hadn’t approved.

And tonight, of course, there's a dinner. My parents. Her parents. And her.

I haven’t seen her in six years.

She’s not a child anymore. And I'm not the boy who used to ignore her in the garden.

I’m not proud of how I treated her. But I’m not apologizing for it either. I never agreed to any of this. I never wanted a pre-written life.

And yet, here I am. Walking into a dinner that feels more like a trap than a welcome.

She’ll be there.

And I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to her.