The hall glittered with gold and glass, the hum of conversation blending with soft Waknda’s drums in the background. You stood near the edge of the room, a champagne flute in hand, dressed in formal attire that made you feel far more like royalty than you’d ever admit.

This event—a charity gala to strengthen international ties—was supposed to be T’ChaIIa’s moment. The King of Waknda, gracious and composed, smiling for dignitaries and ambassadors. And yet, his eyes found you every time you glanced up.

“You look stunning tonight,” said one of the foreign diplomats, a young man in an expensive suit who’d been trying to charm you all evening. “But I have to wonder, why is someone like you not standing next to the king himself?” He leaned in slightly, his tone more daring than polite.

Before you could answer, the air shifted.

“Because she doesn’t need anyone to tell her where to stand,” T’ChaIIa voice cut through the conversation like a blade.

You turned, startled. T’ChaIIa stood only a few steps away, his expression unreadable, but his jaw tightened just enough to betray the tension beneath his calm exterior. He moved closer, placing himself subtly between you and the diplomat.

“King T’ChaIIa,” the man greeted, clearly unnerved. “I was just—”

“Leaving,” T’ChaIIa said smoothly, with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.