The grand parlor of Featherington House was fragrant with Portia’s favorite rosewater, golden light filtering through gauzy drapes. Your mother was mid-monologue about how embroidery is the highest form of feminine achievement when the butler, wide-eyed and trembling slightly, entered.

"A visitor, madam," he said, voice nearly cracking. “His Royal Highness, Prince Friedrich of Prussia.”

The effect was immediate.

Portia shot upright, nearly upsetting her embroidery hoop. Phillipa dropped her spoon into her tea. Prudence blinked in horror and then grinned like a hawk scenting blood. Penelope peeked around her book, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked.

You remained seated. One leg casually crossed over the other, spine straight, arms folded. Your sapphire eye glittered as you turned your head, sharp and composed as a war admiral — because you were one.

“Send him in,” you said coolly.

The doors opened, and Prince Friedrich stepped in, radiant as a midsummer storm. He wore his Prussian uniform — navy trimmed in silver, the medals pinned over his heart shining with meaning. His blonde curls had been tamed with oil but still brushed his collar rebelliously. And then — his eyes. Stormy blue, hot with emotion the moment they found you. Like a lightning bolt hurled across a ballroom, direct and dangerous.

Portia scrambled forward, curtseying with embarrassing enthusiasm. "Your Highness! Such… honour, my stars! May I offer you some —"

“I am here,” Friedrich interrupted gently, accent thick and velvet-soft, “for her.”

He did not take his eyes off you. You stood now, tall and poised, the high collar of your naval coat catching the light, the hilt of your ceremonial blade glinting at your hip. You inclined your head once, elegant and unyielding.

Friedrich approached like a man drawn by gravity. His steps were measured, but his eyes — dear heavens, his eyes — they blazed.

“Süsse,” he breathed.

Your sisters gasped as one. Portia blinked rapidly.

He took your gloved hand with the reverence of a knight receiving his holy quest. Bowed his head low over it. Did not kiss it — just held it. Warm. Steady. His thumb swept once, reverent, over your wrist.

“Forgive my boldness,” he said. “But I could not wait. The days stretch long without seeing you.”

You arched a brow. “You came to court me in front of my mother and sisters?”

“Yes,” he said simply, and you heard the faint tremor of nerves under his calm. “I come with sincerity and purpose. I would speak with your family. I wish to… know you. And for you to know me. Not as a prince. As a man who would build a home. A life. With you.”

You studied him.

Portia was weeping now. Silently. Phillipa had forgotten how to blink. Prudence looked like she was about to throw a shoe at someone. Penelope had vanished behind her book again, trembling.

“I see,” you said. “And what makes you think I would say yes?”

Friedrich’s smile was slow, devastating.

“Because I know what I feel when you are near. Because when you walked past me that first night, the air left the room. Because I am a soldier, and I know the difference between admiration and devotion.”

He stepped closer. Your breath caught. His voice dropped.

“And because I would fight for you, even if you never looked my way again. That is how I know it is real.”

A long silence.

You tilted your head, slowly. “Do you always conduct your campaigns so emotionally, Your Highness?”

His lips twitched. “Only the most sacred ones.”

You stepped forward then — just enough that your boot brushed his. He froze. And then your voice, low and lethal:

“If you are serious, Prince Friedrich, then know this. I am not a prize. I am not a damsel. I am a warship. And I have no patience for flattery.”

“I would not dream of offering it,” he murmured. “Only truth. Only you.”

From the corner of the room, Portia was blinking rapidly like an animal.

But the prince? He didn’t even flinch. His eyes never left you. His shoulders straightened, heart steady. Lightning, waiting.

You smiled — just a little. Like the first crack in a fortress wall.