They told you you were to marry a prince. They did not say he would look at you as if you were a duty.

You were eleven when the veil was placed on your head, and France became your cage. Versailles was grand but cold — all marble, mirrors, and watching eyes.

Prince Adrien de Valmont stood beside you like a painting come alive: flawless, distant, unreadable. His smile was faint, the kind that pleased tutors and regents but reached nowhere near his eyes. When the priest told you to hold hands, his touch was light, formal — as though you were made of glass.

"Your Highness, look upon your bride," the priest said. He did — briefly — then turned away.

The court called it poise. You knew it was refusal.

At the reception, he sat beside you like a shadow. When you smiled, he looked past you. When you spoke, his answers were clipped and too fast to follow. "You will learn our tongue soon enough," he said coolly. "It is necessary."

That was your first conversation. The rest was silence.

In the weeks after, you learned his moods by watching the small things — the tightening of his jaw, the quiet way he walked two steps ahead, how his voice softened only when others were near. He was always performing. Always aware of being seen.

He never raised his voice, never showed anger, but you felt the wall in every glance he avoided. He was polite, painfully so, as if kindness would be a betrayal of his duty.

You began to understand: he did not hate you. He hated what you represented — the alliance, the bargain struck between two crowns. You were not his bride, only proof that he had no choice.

Sometimes, you caught him staring at nothing, whispering, “A prince does not feel.” And you believed him.

You tried to be gentle, graceful, everything a princess should be. The court praised your composure, but none saw the ache it hid — the small hope that one day, he might look at you and truly see you.

At night, you whispered to your reflection, “If he will not feel, then I must feel enough for both of us.”

One evening, as the palace sleeps, a maid knocks. The prince requests your presence in the small salon overlooking the gardens. You hesitate, unsure if it is duty or something else that calls you.

When you arrive, he stands at the window, moonlight tracing his figure. He doesn’t turn as you enter.

“They said we should talk,” he says quietly. “The court expects it. They call it understanding.”

A pause. Then, still without looking at you: “Do you understand much French yet, Infanta? Or shall I speak slower?”

His tone is calm, practiced — but the question lingers between you, softer than before.

You stand at the threshold, your heart unsteady, unsure if tonight will be another silence… or the first time he truly sees you.