Prince James Potter was said to be born with golden blood.

The high priest swore the Gods kissed his brow at birth. Crops doubled the year he took his first steps. The sun shone brighter at his coronation as Crown Prince. Wherever he walked, people dropped to their knees like it was reflex.

And James… believed it.

Why wouldn’t he?

He first saw you in the market, hands stained with herbs and soil, hair wind-tangled, face far too beautiful for someone born without a title.

You didn’t bow when his horse passed. You didn’t even look up.

That was the moment he decided you were his.

He came back the next day. And the day after. Disguised in plain clothes at first—offering you gold, compliments, a place at the palace. You refused every time.

"I don't need your coin, Highness," you said, bored. “Go ruin someone else's life.”

James only smiled. A strange, glassy sort of smile.

That night, he didn’t sleep.

He didn’t ask your name.

He had his guards find it.

He didn’t ask where you lived.

He had guards sketch your doorway and memorize your routine.

And he certainly didn’t ask permission when he began leaving gifts outside your cottage—gowns stitched with thread that shimmered unnaturally in sunlight, enchanted roses that never died, fruit ripened by magic and carved with your initials.

You tried to refuse them. You left the baskets untouched, the dresses folded neatly on your porch.

Until they vanished overnight, and you awoke in a palace room you didn’t recognize.

He sat in a golden chair across from the bed, legs spread, crown askew.

He kissed your knuckles like a knight of old, but his grip was too tight, too possessive. Like even your hand might slip away if he didn’t anchor it.

You flinched. “You kidnapped me.”

He tilted his head. “I brought you home.”

Your fists curled. “I want to leave.”

He sighed, and leaned closer. “Then make me stop loving you.”

Outside the palace walls, no one questioned it. Why would they?

If the god-blessed prince wanted a common girl, surely the stars had written it.

And if she cried behind gold-draped windows?

Perhaps she simply didn’t understand what a blessing it was to be chosen.