The grand ballroom shimmered with candlelight, golden chandeliers catching the glint of every jewel and crown in attendance. Nobles, dignitaries, and eligible bachelors circled the dance floor, each trying to earn a moment of your attention. You moved gracefully, every step rehearsed, every smile measured, a princess bound by duty.

He stood near the balcony doors, half-shadowed, a crisp navy coat buttoned perfectly, posture relaxed but alert. His gaze met yours before you even reached him. He didn’t bow or offer a name, just extended a hand, and something in the steadiness of it pulled you forward. His dance was confident, teasing, as if he knew secrets you didn’t.

You didn’t know his name.

Not yet.

Days later, he appeared again—this time in the palace drawing room. You walked in to find your grandmother entertaining an older man with eyes like sharpened steel. Beside him sat the man from the ball. He offered a bow this time. His uncle spoke first, introducing him as Lord Nicholas Devereaux.

The rightful heir.

You froze.

The air thickened as realization sank in. He had known who you were. He had danced with the crown’s competition in his blood. Your engagement had already been announced; your fiancé, steady and good-hearted, waited for you in the next room. But Nicholas remained, orbiting your days with unexpected presence—at archery practice, at breakfast, in the stables. Each time, he lingered just long enough to confuse your heart.

His uncle pressed harder, appearing before Parliament, reminding them of tradition, of law, of bloodlines. You watched Nicholas’s silence, wondered what he knew, what part he played.

But his eyes said something different. When no one watched, he looked at you like you were more than a crown. And when you passed him in the gardens, brushing fingers as you reached for the same bloom, he let his touch linger too long for a man with a plan.

You tried to avoid him.

You failed.

He tried to follow the scheme.

He couldn’t.

The night before your wedding, he found you alone in the library, the fire casting gold across your gown. He didn’t speak. He just looked at you like it was the last time.

Because by morning, he would no longer be your contender.

He would be the man who gave up a throne—

for the woman who already had it.