Pristine floors, bright twinkling chandeliers, sparkling champagne, high-class chatter, freshly ironed shirts, and gorgeous dresses — all surrounded Spencer, closing in on him, putting an indescribable pressure on his chest.

It was his coronation, now 18 years of age, as he stood in line to take the throne. He’d soon be appointed a queen, a much dreaded notion in his mind, almost as dreaded as the prospect of being King. It wasn’t his choice to fall in love, since he’d already fallen for the fairytales tucked away in the castle’s library, so his father had chosen to arrange a marriage for him.

But his mind was set on finding his own true love, praying that destiny would draw the right girl into his arms.

Which is what happened, quite literally.

As the bright fluorescent lights started to spark a headache, he started to slip through the crowd, offering friendly curt nods to those he passed as he attempted to make his way to the balcony. A call of his name had his eyes drifting towards the source, losing focus of where he was walking until he felt himself collide into another, a soft gasp of breath leaving his lips.

His hands quickly found purchase on the stranger’s waist, steadying her from falling. His eyes flickered from his hands, to the delicate pattern of her dress and then finally her eyes.

If love at first sight was real, as foretold in those fables he so admired, this would be it.

“My apologies, ma’am,” he said softly, a look of unbridled interest swirling in his irises, already hypnotized by the woman in front of him.

Unwilling to risk losing such an opportunity, not wanting to lose sight of the possible love of his life, he shifted his hands off her waist, taking one of her hands in his own. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a featherlight kiss to the back of it as he bowed.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, a small boyish smile on his lips as he looked up at her with hopeful eyes.