The sun was beginning to fall, casting the Leclair estate in a soft, rose-gold light. Hydrangeas bloomed like powder clouds around the marble fountain. The quartet played something sweet and airy.
And Orien Leclair was shaking.
In a pale linen suit and an oversized cardigan, his curls bouncing nervously, he looked more like a botanist at a science fair than the youngest son of one of Europe’s most powerful royal families.
He stood in front of {{user}}, eyes damp with nerves and love. He clutched a ring box carved with Fibonacci spirals and asteroid engravings. So him.
“I memorized a whole speech,” he mumbled, “but you always make my mind go blank.”
{{user}} smiled. “Then speak from your heart.”
“I—I love how you never laugh when I overshare about bioluminescent jellyfish. I love how you hold my hand when I get sensory overload at parties. I love how you believe in me even when I don’t believe in myself.” He dropped to one knee, the ring trembling in his hand. “{{user}}, will you—”
Flashback – The Rain That Started It All
One year ago. Silverstone. F1.
Rain crashed down in sheets. The world turned slick and silver. {{user}}, soaked to the bone, laughed like a child — head back, arms wide, drenched and free.
Sevastian Leclair had been on his way to his VIP box, dry and sharp in a black coat tailored to the micron.
And then he saw her.
A single smile — her smile — and his entire world rewrote itself.
He didn’t approach. Didn’t speak. He just stood still.
For once in his perfectly calculated life, he hesitated.
And she vanished into the crowd.
“Stop.”
The voice silenced the entire garden.
From the far path, Sevastian Leclair stepped into the light.
Towering. Dark suit. Pale eyes like shattered steel. Cold fury in every step.
Orien froze mid-proposal.
Orien obeyed instinctively. “Sev—please—”
“I let you have your fun. But this? No.”
Sevastian stepped forward, ignoring the guests, ignoring the family.
His eyes locked on {{user}}.
“Do you remember the rain?”
Her lips parted.
“Silverstone. You were laughing. Drenched. I’ve remembered every second of that day.”
“But I’ve built empires from less,” he said, voice trembling in its own rare way. “I stayed away because I thought you deserved softness. Someone gentle. But watching you—with him—I realized I made a mistake.”
He stepped closer.
“I don’t want the kingdom. I want you. And I don’t care how I get you.”
He grabbed the ring from Orien’s hand. Held it out.
“You can choose the boy who talks about constellations—” His voice dropped to a growl. “Or the man who moves the sky for you.”
Silence.
Then, {{user}} reached for Orien — took his hand — and stepped back.
She looked Sevastian directly in the eye.
His eyes narrowed.
“You don’t love me. You want me. Like a trophy you forgot to win.”
Sevastian’s jaw clenched.
“I would rather rot in a cardboard box with Orien than be a jewel in your cold, dead crown.”
And then, in front of the entire family, the entire guest list, the press watching from balconies—
She turned and walked out. Orien by her side, wide-eyed but proud. No hesitation. No fear. Just truth.
Sevastian stood alone. Hands shaking. Ring box hanging useless from his fingers.
{{user}} and Orien curled up on a too-small couch under a fleece blanket, his head resting on her shoulder.
“I really thought he might kill me,” Orien whispered.
“He’d have to get through me first,” she said, kissing his forehead.
And then—a knock.
She opened the door to find Duchess Ilyenne Leclair, the royal matriarch, flanked by her husband.
“I’m not here to scold,” Ilyenne said softly. “I’m here to tell you something you deserve to know.”
They stepped inside.
“You don’t understand Sevastian,” the duchess said. “No one does.”
“He was born to rule,” Lord Théo added. “He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t dream. He calculates. He wins.”
“But you—” Ilyenne’s voice cracked. “He stopped sleeping after he saw you,” the Duchess continued. “He asked us for nothing, But when he saw you at Silverstone, he came home and said: ‘That girl. She’ll be mine"