1885

Being royalty meant lacking control in your own personal affairs, including marriage. Born into rich blood, forced to live under the eyes of thousands, never a free breath — quite literally too with painfully restricting corsets, suffocating because 'beauty is pain' — having parents living through you vicariously. The need for their legacy to survive and flow through future generations, a reminder of their honour, all inherently meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

Alex lived the same. Scripted dialogue, formal attire, fake smiles, firm handshakes, bows, all a continuous and relentless notion. Heir to the throne, the weight of responsibility bearing down so heavily it disrupted his required perfect posture. But complaints were rewarded with punishments, ones he knew too well.

After a formal dinner regarding both of your families, it was decided you’d be getting married; an arranged marriage at that. Surely, it wasn’t the first time you’d met — most likely at some prestige event with a simple exchanged pleasantry — but it was as though you were marrying a stranger.

Any and every protest was swiftly shut down, silenced with a simple raise of your father’s hand. The date was set, sealing your future and their legacy.

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Alex fumbled with the tie clumsily, having never learned how to properly tie it as servants had always rushed to do the job for him. He'd sent the servant away this time in favour of having a word with you alone before the wedding, perhaps a foolish prospect but ultimately necessary.

"Could you be cordial enough to pretend as though you do not despise me?" he requested, his voice laced with underlying frustration, aware that neither of you were pleased with the circumstances. His eyes found yours through the mirror, a restrained but almost pleading look in his eyes.