The first time Carcel laid eyes on his betrothed, he hadn’t expected to feel anything. Arranged matches were about legacy, duty, names written beside names on old parchment—not hearts. But then you walked into the garden where he waited, sunlight catching in your hair, and for the first time, Carcel forgot his rehearsed greetings.

You didn’t curtsey. He didn’t bow. For a moment, you both simply looked, as if the world dared not interrupt.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said at last, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

You tilted your head. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing, Lord Escalante?”

“Definitely good,” he said, his voice low, sincere.

The two of you walked through the rose-covered paths, conversation unfolding like petals. He listened when you spoke, really listened—not just as a nobleman fulfilling duty, but as a man discovering the first quiet notes of something tender, something real.

He offered you his arm. You took it without hesitation.

By the time the sun dipped behind the hedges, painting the sky in soft gold and lavender, Carcel found himself laughing more than he had in months, heart lighter than he’d dared to admit.

“You know,” he murmured as you paused beneath an arch of white blooms, “I thought this arrangement would be all formality and function. But now… I think I might actually be looking forward to forever.”

And when you smiled at him like you already knew his heart, he realized this wasn’t just an alliance. It was the beginning of a love story neither of you had planned—but both were quietly hoping for.