The golden palace gleamed under the late spring sun, like a pristine cage he could never escape. He stood on the marble balcony, watching diplomats bustle in the courtyard below, voices floating like bees in a garden of deceit. The warm breeze carried the faint scent of roses from the royal greenhouse, but even that felt artificial now. He adjusted the stiff collar of his ceremonial jacket, suffocated not by the fabric but by the truth: his kingdom was broke. Rotten down to its jewels. And no one—not even the bride-to-be—had the faintest clue.

She arrived like a storm behind a calm face, trailing silk and silence. Perfect posture, porcelain expression, and a glare sharp enough to cut through centuries of diplomacy. They’d met only once before, briefly, and instantly disliked one another. She’d seen something in him—arrogance, maybe, or something he didn’t want to admit was just fear.

Their engagement was announced the next morning. No questions asked. No choices given.

She didn’t want this life. That much was obvious. The glint in her eye wasn’t wonder—it was desperation buried under duty. She was losing her title, her identity, her freedom. And so was he. They were both prisoners of polished floors and silent dinners.

The first time she looked at him during the formal dinner, he looked away. The second time, he held her gaze—just long enough to feel the weight of shared resentment. They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The disgust was mutual, rooted in something deeper than personality: it was betrayal, by their bloodlines, by their crowns, by fate.

Later that night, standing under the weight of chandeliers and false congratulations, he leaned toward her with the cold smile he’d worn since childhood.

“I don’t want to marry you,” he whispered. “But I’ll ruin us both before I let them win.”