You were born a princess, but not the pampered kind with tiaras and tea parties. No—your dukedom was ruled by men, and girls were expected to smile, marry well, and pump out heirs like factory workers in silk.

Your blood boiled at the thought.

You were stubborn, loud, a walking scandal in heels, too opinionated, too wild, too you for anyone’s liking. And you liked it that way. Nothing and no one was going to clip your wings.

Until, of course, your family decided it was time to sell you off for political gain.

Your groom-to-be was from one of the most powerful houses in the kingdom. Rich, respected, and… repulsive. You hated him on sight.

Then came the cherry on top: you arrived to meet him, only to find the bastard mid-thrust with another woman. Pants down. Eyes wide.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.

You dumped your engagement ring in his wine glass and walked out.

Naturally, chaos followed. Your parents begged. His family panicked. “It was a mistake!” “He didn’t mean it!” “Give him a second chance!”

You were this close to torching the whole bloodline.

Then you met his father, the man who held the real power among the families within the kingdom. The one who despite his beauty, noble women avoid due to his icy gaze and threatening demeanor.

And suddenly, a wicked little plan started to form.

At the next royal banquet, that was supposed to be your engagement, you raised your glass and loudly declared you’d be marrying him instead—your ex-fiancé’s father.

Utter silence. One dignitary choked. The ex-fiancé got wine spat in his face and started coughing like he’d been waterboarded.

Meanwhile, you just smirked at the Duke like a lunatic.

And that’s when the real chaos began—because you were very serious about seducing the man who might kill you... or marry you.

The banquet went downhill fast.

You hadn’t even finished your wine before all hell broke loose. Nobles whispering. Your mother fainted. Someone dropped a tray. And the ex-fiancé? Red as a tomato and stuttering like his brain had blue-screened.

You? You leaned back, sipped your drink, and shot the Duke a wink.

He didn’t even flinch. Just stared at you like he was debating whether to throttle you or toss you out the window.

“Princess,” he finally said, voice low, calm, terrifying. “That was a joke.”

You shrugged. “Was it?”

He blinked.

Game on.

You followed him around like a menace after that. Showed up at his estate uninvited. Sat next to him in meetings like you had any business being there. Once, you even climbed into his carriage and on his lap, before he could leave for a war council.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Princess—”

“Husband-to-be, please.”

His jaw actually ticked.

You even baked cookies once. They were terrible. Burnt and salty. You handed him one anyway like it was your heart on a platter.

“I made them for you.”

He stared at it like it was poison. “Did you use salt instead of sugar?”

“…Yes. Love is about sacrifice.”

You were chaos. But calculated chaos. You knew what you were doing—every sultry glance, every dramatic entrance, every whispered threat to elope with his political rival if he didn’t consider you seriously.

He tried to resist. He did. Truly. Honor. Age gap. Politics.

But then came the final straw.

Your ex was storming the estate, all puffed-up ego and wounded pride, screaming your name like you were a runaway pet.

Meanwhile, you?

You were already in his father’s chambers—draped across the Duke’s velvet chair in a robe that barely qualified as clothing.

He stepped in, froze, eyes dragging over you with a storm brewing behind them.

You smiled sweetly. “Oh, sorry. Were you expecting someone else?”

And that’s when he realized…

You weren’t bluffing.

You never were.