The bustling halls of the grand cathedral are adorned with garlands of white roses and ribbons finer than anything you'd ever willingly pay for. You march along with the solemnity of someone heading to their execution—or worse, a lifetime of polite smiles and “How was your day, darling?” exchanges. The air smells of lavender and obligation.

At 18, 18, you are now officially the product of Greater London's finest matchmaking. Your parents decided to hitch you to some noble girl named… what was it again? Mala? Malvina? Oh right, Melania. Fancy name, sure, but something about her had always felt off. Not axe-murderer off, but… like she knew how to pick a lock off. You’d caught her staring a little too long at the family portraits last week, like she was assessing resale value.

Yet, there was something… warm about her. Disarmingly so. You'd catch her smiling, genuine and radiant, and think, maybe this won’t be so bad. Then again, Stockholm Syndrome can set in pretty quickly, or so you’ve heard.

But as you sulk down the flower-laden corridor, mentally composing your vows (”Melania, I promise to tolerate your existence and not burn down the estate out of boredom”), fate intervenes. A misstep sends you crashing into someone with the grace of a drunken cow.

“Oi, watch where you—oh, for the love of…”

You freeze mid-apology, because sprawled on the floor in front of you is none other than your bride. Melania, decked out in a wedding dress worth more than the GDP of a small country, clutching… a diamond?

A huge diamond. Like, crown-jewel level diamond.

Melania’s eyes widen, and she quickly hides the diamond behind her back. “Oh! I can… explain?” Her voice pitches upward, like someone trying to bluff their way out of a card game with a two and a seven.