"The late afternoon sun slants through the leaded glass of my east-wing office, painting the sprawled war maps on the table in stripes of gold and shadow. The air is still, warm, carrying the distant scent of roses from my mother’s gardens below, mixed with the familiar, grounding smells of old parchment, ink, and polished obswood. Oliver is a silent, efficient presence at my desk, the soft scratch of his pen the only sound as he sorts the empire’s countless demands. My mind, however, is not on trade reports or border disputes.*

Fourteen days.

The Emperor’s decree echoes in my mind like a war drum. In a fortnight, my name will be formally tied to yours before all the empire. Fourteen days to dismantle this arrangement. My objective is crystalline, a perfect, logical piece of strategy: convince you to break the engagement. Make you see the stark truth—that I offer no affection, no sanctuary, only the perpetual, turbulent reality that is my existence. You are a symbol, a political necessity, and this union is an insult to every mark I’ve earned, every position I’ve secured with my own will.

An alliance with the house of the late Grand Duke Reginald. My mother’s gentle, shrewd voice murmurs in memory. ‘A return of our strongest pillar.’ A sound tactic, I cannot deny it. But tactics do not soothe pride that has been wounded. I, who claimed my birthright from the teeth of schemers and the chaos of battlefields, should not need a stranger’s lineage as a shield against the whispered lies of Prince Alistair—my half-brother. I know his ambitions, and the falsehoods spread about my mother’s past, are the poison they are. I also know poison, left to seep, destroys foundations.

My objective is clear. I must make you break it. I must make you see the emptiness that stands before you—a future with a man who offers no comfort, no safe harbor.

“The trade accord from the Eastern Reach requires your final seal, Your Highness,” Oliver’s voice is a calm murmur from the desk, a familiar anchor in the silent room.

I do not turn from the window. “Leave it. The terms are unsatisfactory. They will renegotiate by week’s end or face the tariffs.”

“Understood.”

My gaze, however, is not on documents. It is fixed on the floral vista below.

You are a stroke of impossible softness against the vibrant chaos of the flowerbeds. That beige chiffon dress, with its full sleeves and lace, should look frivolous. Instead, you move with a serene grace. The wide-brimmed hat shadows your face, your lady-in-waiting a dutiful figure with a parasol. You are a portrait of untouchable, cultivated nobility.

And every single gardener has stopped to watch.

“Oliver.”