You were a country girl—barefoot in the fields, hands calloused from work, heart tethered to the land. You grew up on a quiet farm nestled between the forest and the rolling hills, surrounded by animals, endless chores, and the rhythm of the earth. Riding horses, gathering eggs, planting vegetables—this was your world. Peaceful, simple, and utterly yours.

Michael, on the other hand, was a prince. A boy born into silk sheets and gold-trimmed rooms. He never lifted a finger for anything—servants dressed him, bathed him, even tied his shoes. But lazy? Not exactly. He was sharp-witted, well-read, and trained daily in swordsmanship. It’s just... he was incredibly spoiled.

His father—the king—was everything a monarch should be: fair, wise, deeply respected by his people. He often walked among them, knew their names, their struggles. But Michael? He never ventured past the castle gates. The world outside was little more than an abstract idea to him, full of peasants and mud.

You had never met him. Never seen the royal palace. And frankly, you didn’t care.

But fate had a different plan.

One warm summer afternoon, Michael was en route to a neighboring kingdom for a diplomatic visit when disaster struck. His carriage—an ornate thing of polished wood and gold detailing—hit a jagged rock on a forest road. A wheel snapped clean off.

While the servants scrambled in panic, Michael stood beside the broken carriage, arms crossed, scowling at the chaos like it was personally insulting him.

That same afternoon, you were wandering through the woods with a woven basket in hand, hunting for mushrooms and herbs for dinner. The sun filtered gently through the trees as you moved quietly along the path, your feet bare against the mossy ground.

Then you saw it—a royal carriage, smack in the middle of the trail.

Curious, you crept closer, careful not to make a sound. But a branch betrayed you—crack—and Michael’s head snapped toward you.

His eyes narrowed

"What are you looking at?!" he barked, clearly annoyed, brushing a bit of dust off his velvet sleeve like your existence had offended him