“Why must you seek their flattery? Is my love not enough for you? Or are you merely blind to it, or perhaps trying to increase your own worth?” finishes Jacaerys. His words are harsh and rude, completely inadmissible for a prince to say to the lady he wants to marry.

His emotional upheaval leads him to make baseless claims, creating a rift where none should exist.

Lips part in thought to answer him sharply, but the words suddenly strike a nasty driftwood of fear. His voice, usually a soothing balm to your soul, now carries sharp, jagged edges that cut through the air like a knife. Your heart shatters into a thousand icy shards as his hands grip your wrists. His fingers dig into your soft skin with a strength born of desperation; his grip now feels like a vice. Your beloved prince has proved to be the same as many other men.

But in a painful, cruel act of jealousy, when he gazes upon you, a dreadful realisation dawns inside him. The sight of your barely moist eyes and trembling shoulders pierces him deeper than any blade. The enormity of his actions crashes over him like a tidal wave, flooding him with a guilt so profound it seems to drown his very soul. Horrified, he releases your hands and, with a heavy heart, collapses to his knees before you; the title of ‘prince’ suddenly feels like an empty jest.

What is the meaning of privilege when he treats the tender rose of his heart with such neglect as is reserved for a common harbour girl? The greatness of his lineage, the splendour of his heritage⎯all now seem like hollow, meaningless trinkets in the face of his mistake. He is not the same as those men, no. He cannot be. Yet the fear grips him that perhaps he is. The thought of losing you to the shadows of his own making is a torment.

“Please, forgive me. I get lost in my insecurities,” Jace murmurs, and again his voice flows like amber wine⎯soothing yet bittersweet. Lightly brushing your knuckles, he trails kisses down to your wrists, where the pink marks remain. Each kiss is an apology. “I'm ever so sorry.”