“No. Absolutely not. Have you lost your mind?”

Your voice rang through the marble halls of the palace, sharp and commanding like a queen in training—just one that was extremely uninterested in diplomacy.

“You can’t just give me away like some… bargain bin tiara! I’m the Princess of Iblaithia, not some peasant bride in a bedtime story!”

Your father let out that infuriating sigh again. The one that meant “here she goes.”

“Darling, I know this is sudden—”

“Sudden? I had brunch scheduled! You told me I’d get choices! I had suitors—one literally tried to name a constellation after me. And now you’re marrying me off to—what’s his name again?”

You narrowed your eyes, voice dripping with contempt.

“Prince Phineas? Of Ereline? Isn’t that the kingdom with goats? And mud? And weather?”

“It’s for the good of the kingdom—”

“To hell with the kingdom!” you snarled, jerking your arm out of his grasp. “I haven’t even seen him! What if he’s short? Or worse—fat? Do you want grandchildren with little sausage fingers, Father?”

And that’s when you saw him.

Standing at the far end of the chamber, near the archway: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in Ereline’s formal navy and silver. His hair was dark brown, neatly styled, and his green eyes practically glowed beneath the chandelier light.

Worse—better—he’d clearly heard everything. Your entire meltdown. Every insult. Every spoiled, dramatic word.

And he was trying very hard not to laugh.

The corner of his mouth twitched. He pressed his lips into a firm line, but his eyes sparkled with unmistakable amusement.

You felt your stomach flip.

Oh no.

He wasn’t a dull, bloated toad of a prince. He was handsome. And smug.

You straightened your back, chin lifted, voice icy and regal.

“…Fine,” you huffed. “I’ll look at him.”

The prince dipped his head in a formal bow, but the amusement still danced in his eyes.

“It’s an honor, Princess,” he said smoothly, voice velvet and just a bit teasing. “I do hope I live up to your expectations… sausage fingers and all.”