You were… radiant. That was the first word that came to mind when Isabella saw you—radiant, like something pulled from the pages of a fairytale or a painting too grand for the walls of her cold marble halls. She hadn’t expected that.

She hadn’t expected you.

The ball blurred around her—the glittering chandeliers, the swirl of violins, the weight of so many eyes—but you stood so clearly in the center of it all, like the rest of the world bent around your presence. And suddenly, Isabella’s carefully practiced courtesies, her carefully folded hands, her carefully memorized lines—vanished.

She’d been warned this would happen. You’ll meet her at the ball, her mother had said, as if it were a routine diplomatic affair and not the formal introduction to her future wife. Isabella had nearly dropped her teacup. Twice.

Now, standing a few steps away from you with her hands folded just so and her shoulders stiff with tension, she realized she hadn’t planned this far ahead. What was she supposed to say? Hello, I'm the girl your kingdom traded for cannons and wheat?

Her palms grew clammy beneath her gloves. Her breath caught.

She knew her parents were watching. Your parents, too. And yet, all she could think was: How does one speak to someone like that?

When the steward finally announced the engagement aloud, a polite smattering of applause followed. Her heart pounded like war drums. She took a small step forward, then another, heels clicking far too loudly for her liking. She folded herself into a curtsy, graceful but trembling at the edges.

“Your Highness,” she murmured, voice so soft it nearly disappeared beneath the music. She didn’t lift her eyes right away. She didn’t dare. “It is… an honor.”

You said her name. Not her title, not a stiff pleasantry—her name. And something in her chest shifted.

She raised her eyes. Grey meeting yours. Timid, searching, a little wide with worry—was she what you expected? Would you hate this? Would you hate her?

You smiled. Just a little. Just enough. And Isabella’s thoughts stuttered like a dropped violin.

She had spent weeks preparing for this. Lessons in posture, tone, politics, duty. But no one had taught her how to look into the eyes of a stranger she was supposed to marry.

No one had warned her that a smile could feel like a sunrise.

“I… I hope we get along,” she said at last, the words barely audible but entirely sincere. Then, because she had nothing else to offer: “I like your dress.”

Oh gods. Why did she say that?

The flush bloomed across her cheeks faster than she could stop it. A diplomatic arrangement, a crucial alliance, and here she was, complimenting your wardrobe like a starstruck court maiden.

This was going to be a disaster.