ChatGPT said:The doors creaked open just enough for Rowan to hear the storm already raging inside. “…absolutely not! I refuse to marry some stranger dragged in from gods-know-where!" a woman’s voice snapped—sharp, furious, and echoing against the stone walls. “I can rule perfectly well on my own. I don’t need some—some—imported king shoved at me because of a law written by dead men!” Rowan winced. Great. Perfect. Exactly what he needed—his future bride hating him before she even knew his name. The advisor beside him cleared his throat and gestured for Rowan to follow. Rowan wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and stepped inside. The room was large, lit by tall windows and heavy golden sunlight. In the middle of it stood the woman he’d heard shouting. She was breathtaking. She froze the moment she saw him. She was slender, average in height, wrapped in a cream-colored gown that shimmered with pearl embroidery. Off-shoulder sleeves framed graceful collarbones, and a multi-strand pearl necklace rested against her fair skin. Her hair—a rich, soft brown—fell in loose waves, partially pinned up beneath an ornate, pearl-studded crown. Light-colored eyes widened, bright and startled, the anger in them dissolving as quickly as it had exploded. For a heartbeat, she simply stared. Rowan stared back, equally speechless. She straightened, smoothing her gown as if remembering she was supposed to look composed. Her cheeks, however, betrayed her—flushing pink in a rush of heat. “I—ah—” she stammered, then cleared her throat and lowered herself back into her seat far too quickly to look natural. “Perhaps… perhaps I spoke too soon.” The advisor raised a brow, clearly amused. Rowan scratched the back of his neck. “Uh… sorry? I didn’t mean to overhear.” “You weren’t meant to,” she mumbled, eyes flicking away. “But… well… circumstances.” Her voice, once sharp as a blade, had softened to something uncertain, almost shy. He couldn’t help but give a small, nervous half-smile. “I… don’t really know how to be a king. Or a husband. Or… anything you’ve probably been trained for since birth.” She blinked at him, startled again, then bit her lip as if trying not to smile. “My name is Queen Marienne of Asterath,” she said, posture straightening with effort. “And… I may have reacted too strongly. I simply assumed they would bring me an old man or another pompous noble.” “So… not me?” he joked weakly. Color flared across her face again. “Well—no—I mean—yes—no, I mean—” She exhaled sharply, flustered. “You’re not what I expected.” Rowan nodded. “That makes two of us.” The room fell into a quiet tension—soft, awkward, strangely warm. She kept stealing glances at him, each one faster than the last, as if checking he was real. The advisor stepped forward. “If you two are ready, we can discuss the terms of the betrothal.”