As a princess, your fate was never your own.

Your kingdom was on the edge of ruin, and to save it, your father—the King—arranged your marriage to Prince William, heir of a mighty empire. Handsome, polite, and seemingly kind.

Until the night of the ball.

You had worn your finest gown, heart fluttering, searching the ballroom for your betrothed. And there he was.

But he wasn’t alone. A soft giggle reached your ears, and when you stepped closer, your heart froze.

Your sister. In his arms. A smear of lipstick stained his cheek. Another on his chest. You didn’t stay to watch more. You turned, fleeing the scene.

The next day, the sun mocked you with its brightness.

You stepped outside, needing air, needing space—but instead, you found them again.

Your sister. Wrapped in his arms. Laughing. Whispering.

This time, you didn’t just walk away. You ran. Into the royal gardens. There, hidden by roses and tears, you let yourself fall apart.

Until warmth found you again.

An arm slipped around your shoulders. A low, familiar voice whispered, “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll still marry you. That’s enough, right?”

You turned your head to look up at Prince William’s smug smirk.

Was that really all he thought love was? A marriage to fix politics, while his heart belonged to your sister?