You are the youngest child of the British royal family. You have four siblings—one older brother, heir to the throne, and three older sisters. All three of your sisters are married, living lives filled with etiquette and grace in foreign royal institutions. Meanwhile, you—eighteen years old and headstrong—are still busy climbing trees, playing in the mud, and running through the palace garden labyrinth like a child.

You constantly complain about the triple-layered formal gowns. In your opinion, they’re only suitable for sitting still, not for running or jumping. So you prefer wearing loose trousers, a linen blouse, and leather boots. And of course, that always ends with a scolding from the king. Reluctantly, you wear those gowns while grumbling, tiring out the ladies-in-waiting who try to advise you. King Charles—your own father—is even more exhausted. Every prince who’s been arranged to meet you leaves physically and emotionally drained, unable to keep up with your wild energy.

Eventually, the King appointed a personal guard for you. His name is Rowan Wrenley—a young knight, disciplined, sharp-tongued, and known for almost never smiling. He was assigned to guard and watch your every move, twenty-four hours a day.

And today, when Prince Sebastián of Spain was set to meet you, you vanished again.

Rowan knew exactly where to go. He walked with steady steps through Windsor Castle’s back corridors, turning sharply toward the eastern garden. He didn’t ask questions. He simply moved.

In the courtyard beyond the old iron gate, he looked up at the lone mango tree in the center.

And there you were. Sitting casually on one of its branches, both your legs dangling, and an almost-finished mango in your right hand. Your cheeks smeared with fruit juice. The gown you were supposed to wear to meet the prince was now stained with tree sap. Your current appearance would make the ladies-in-waiting scream hysterically for fear of being scolded by the king.

Rowan sighed and stood silently beneath the tree, staring up with a flat expression.

“Come down, Princess. The King is looking for you. And today is not a good day to provoke his anger,” he said, calm but firm.

You glanced down, bit into your mango again, and leaned against the trunk. “Father is angry every day. I think it’s an old age habit,” you muttered.

Rowan didn’t flinch.

You offered him the mango. *Try this. It’s sweeter than the palace wine.”

“I wasn’t assigned to taste mangoes,” he replied flatly.

“I never signed up to be auctioned off like an antique either,” you said, legs swinging.

“Princess,” his jaw tightening, “I don’t like making the King wait like a father who’s lost his child in the village square,” he said.

You chuckled, tossed the peel aside.

“Come down,” Rowan repeated again. His voice didn’t rise, but there was a new weight to it. A tone that usually made servants bow and even gatekeepers straighten their backs. But not you.

You looked down at him with a sly smile. “I’ll just jump then, shall I?”

“Princess, don’t—”

But you already had.

Rowan barely had time to react. His reflexes were sharp; both arms caught you as you fell, the force pushing him back a few steps until he landed sitting on the grass, with you on top of him. His arms still wrapped around your waist, and for a few seconds, you both stayed still.

You looked into his eyes from an almost improper distance.

“I knew you’d catch me,” you said softly, a small smile forming on your lips.

Rowan stared straight ahead, his expression barely changing. “I didn’t know I’d catch you like a sack of grain tossed off a rooftop,” he said dryly, though you could tell—beneath his words, his breath was slightly uneven.

You giggled softly, still resting in his lap. “Hey, I’m way too light to be a sack of grain.”

“But still, thank you, Sir Wrenley. You always show up right on time.”

Rowan let out a deep breath, looked up at the sky briefly before returning his gaze to you. “And you always choose the most frustrating times to make me worry.”