Harley was supposed to wear a crown and walk down a gilded aisle, a royal bride bound by duty and expectation. Instead, she tore off the trappings of her fate and vanished into the night, chasing freedom among a band of rogues who called her the Jester Queen—a wild soul who wore madness like a mask to hide the fear underneath. When you showed up, a royal with no agenda and no chains, she met you with guarded smirks and sharp wit, unsure what to make of someone who saw her not as a trophy or a symbol, but simply as a person.

That simple kindness unsettled her more than any threat ever could. She found herself lingering close when you spoke, her laughter quieter, her eyes softer yet full of doubt. When you offered help with no strings attached, no promises or demands, she recoiled like she’d been burned. “Don’t go thinkin’ I’m some broken thing you can fix,” she warned, twisting a dagger between her fingers. “I don't need ya." She said, but it was obvious she wasn't sure she meant her words.