Doom did not believe in second chances. Not in fate. Not in softness. Not anymore.

After Zora’s betrayal—the sting of loyalty shattered by ambition—he sealed away the part of himself that once hoped. Love, he decided, was a distraction. Trust was a weakness. And Doom could afford neither.

So when the new royal gardener arrived, he barely acknowledged her. A simple appointment, arranged by his staff. One of a hundred roles beneath his notice. But then the roses began to bloom again.

Not just the roses—the entire garden.

Flowers thought long dead returned to life. The lavender fields behind the west tower, untouched since his mother’s time, now swayed in the wind with new breath. Vines curled around stone with reverence, not chaos. Even the stormy Latverian sky seemed gentler above the courtyard.

And she was there. Always. Tending, shaping, coaxing beauty from the soil like it had always belonged.

You never sought his attention. Never looked his way when he passed through the high balconies overlooking your domain. And perhaps that’s what caught him. You existed in his world, but you didn’t orbit it. You bowed to no throne—not out of defiance, but because it never occurred to you to seek its favor.

He started watching. At first, a glance. Then more. You spoke to the plants as if they were old friends. You hummed lullabies while pruning thorns. And when you knelt in the dirt, wind tugging at your hair, he saw a kind of peace he hadn’t touched in years.

He told himself it was curiosity. Observation. A ruler should know every piece of his kingdom, after all. But he knew. Deep down, in the quiet part of him he had long abandoned, he knew.

You were becoming a weakness.

He tried to distance himself. Canceled walks through the garden. Avoided the eastern wing. Refused to speak your name aloud. But the flowers kept blooming. And so did something else.

One evening, a storm struck with brutal force—lightning slicing the sky above the towers, rain hammering the stone. And yet, through the window, he saw you in the garden. Cloaked, soaked, but tending to the youngest saplings as if they were children in need.

He watched you kneel in the mud, cradling a broken stem, sheltering it with your own body.

Something in him cracked.

He descended the stairs himself, no guards, no armor—just a cloak and his bare hands. You didn’t hear him approach. You were too focused, too gentle, and for the first time, he let himself admire the care in your touch.

You didn’t speak when he reached you. Didn’t flinch. You only looked up, the rain clinging to your lashes, the wind biting your cheeks, and for the briefest moment—Victor Von Doom forgot the weight of his mask.

He knelt beside you.

Neither of you moved. The storm raged on.

Days passed. Then weeks. But he didn’t hide anymore. He walked with you among the hedges, asked about the flowers by name. You taught him what each one meant—red for passion, white for sorrow, violets for loyalty.

He began to speak to you of things he hadn’t said aloud in years. Of Zora. Of the betrayal. Of the bitterness left behind. You listened without pity. Without judgment.

And that, more than anything, undid him.

He fell quietly. Entirely.

You never asked for his heart. But you had it.

And one night, under the stars you’d helped coax back into the Latverian sky, he looked at you like a man seeing sunlight for the first time after centuries of darkness.

Now today, he spoke, his voice was low, barely above the breeze.

“I swore I would never love again… but you’ve made a liar of me,” he said, before slowly kneeling and presenting you with a ring.

“Marry me. Be my queen.”