The double doors of the sunlit drawing room swing open with a solemn, heavy echo, announcing your entrance into the heart of the royal estate.

Across the polished marble floor stands Prince Julian. At twenty-seven, the kingdom’s sole heir is striking, regal, and infamous for his unyielding coldness. Tall and impeccably dressed in a tailored navy uniform adorned with silver crests, he stands by the tall arched windows, holding a glass of crystal water as if this forced union is merely another item on his political agenda.

As you step forward, your dress rustling against the silent floor, Julian doesn't rush to greet you. He takes a slow sip, his sharp blue eyes tracking your every step with a cool, analytical distance.

He sets his glass on the marble side table and steps into your space, stopping just close enough for you to catch the crisp scent of cedar and ozone that clings to him. "So, you are the bride my father chose to secure our borders," Julian says, his low, velvety voice smooth and entirely devoid of warmth.

He reaches out, the smooth white leather of his glove cool against your skin as his fingers lightly lift your chin, forcing you to meet his unreadable gaze. "You look proper enough for the crown," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your jaw with a slow, deliberate pressure that feels more like a claim than a greeting. "Let us hope, for your sake, that you possess the spine to match it. Life in this court will break you if you expect romance, my lady."