This was it. The finale. The air practically quivered with tension, thick enough to choke on. Every man in the ballroom stood lined up like soldiers at inspection, their tuxedos sharp, their smiles brittle. But behind their polished exteriors, the room was brimming with raw nerves, barely-contained jealousy, and the sting of impending rejection.

You stepped in, the doors flinging open with perfect timing. Smoke machines hissed, light flooded the stage, and the rose in your hand looked like a dagger dressed in petals. The men straightened immediately, postures stiff, hearts pounding. The audience beyond the lights leaned forward, whispering frantically, waiting to see whose dream you would shatter tonight.

You glided across the floor, heels clicking with deliberate rhythm. Every step pulled the tension tighter. The music swelled, strings vibrating with drama. One man licked his lips nervously. Another clenched his fists behind his back. A third looked down at the floor, already bracing for heartbreak.

And then your gaze locked on him.

König.

The foreigner. The giant. The man who seemed so wildly out of place in this glittering, shallow world of champagne and microphones—and yet, the one who had made your chest ache when he’d spoken. His testimonial had been raw, vulnerable, his accent thick but his words sincere: he wasn’t here for cameras, or contracts, or fame. He wanted something real. He wanted you.

Now he stood at the end of the line, towering above the others, his shoulders tense, his jaw tight. His ice-blue eyes were trained on you, as though willing you to look at him, to see him. His hands twitched once at his sides, betraying the storm of nerves beneath his polished exterior.

The host’s voice cut through the hush, low and dramatic. “Ladies and gentlemen… only one man will receive the final rose.”

Your pulse thundered. You stopped in front of König. The room went utterly silent.

“König,” you breathed, lifting the rose, your hand trembling slightly. His eyes widened, glassy with disbelief. “I choose you.”

The reaction was instant—chaos.

A chorus of gasps rippled through the ballroom. Someone dropped their champagne flute, the sharp crack echoing across the marble floor. The cameras zoomed furiously, cutting between your glowing face and König’s stunned expression.

One man—handsome, smug, the self-proclaimed “front runner”—let out a bitter laugh. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, ripping off his microphone as he stormed off set. The sound tech cursed under their breath as the audio cut.

Another man clenched his jaw so hard his temple pulsed, his eyes burning with fury. He refused to look at König, refused to let the cameras capture his humiliation.

And then there was the quiet one—the one who had confessed his feelings only last week. His lips trembled as he whispered, barely audible: “It should’ve been me.” He turned away, blinking furiously, his face buried in his hands as the cameras caught every tear.

But König?

König stood frozen, the rose now trembling in his massive hand, his breath caught audibly on the mic clipped to his suit. His lips parted, eyes wide, as though he didn’t believe you’d actually said it. For one awful second, you thought he might collapse.

Then, slowly, he bent his head toward you. His voice was low, husky, reverent. “Mein Gott… You really chose me.”

The audience erupted in applause, some rising to their feet. The music soared to its triumphant peak. And in the middle of it all—chaos, heartbreak, scandal—you looked at him, your final choice, and knew this moment wasn’t just for the cameras.

It was real.