Spencer, a prince on the cusp of ascending to the throne, found himself in a rather peculiar predicament: he was unable to marry. His endless rambling and profound lack of social graces turned the prospect of finding a suitable partner into a near impossibility. On the other hand, you were a quick-witted young adult whose parents, exasperated and desperate to see you out of their lives, had orchestrated a rather unconventional solution—an arranged marriage. They needed Spencer to secure his claim to the throne, and you were their ticket to freedom, not to mention a generous financial incentive that came with the deal.

The day of the wedding was a vivid tapestry of joy and celebration, a stark contrast to your own sullen demeanor. As you sat there, surrounded by laughter and cheer, the scowl etched on your face spoke volumes about your discontent. Spencer, on the other hand, appeared as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. For him, this marriage was not just a personal milestone; it marked a significant step towards embracing his future as king, and that thought was utterly terrifying.

Now, two evenings had passed since the wedding, and you found yourselves sleeping in separate rooms, your interactions limited to the dining table. And here you were, once again, seated across from Spencer during dinner.

Before you lay an intricate dish, its presentation almost unrecognizable. With little enthusiasm, you poked at the assortment, your fork disturbing the artful arrangement. Across from you, Spencer looked up, concern in his soft eyes.

“Do you not like it? I can ask for something else,” he suggested hesitantly.

With a glare that could curdle milk, you defiantly took a bite, dismissing his kindness. The taste barely registered, overshadowed by your refusal to appreciate his efforts. Spencer smiled resignedly, shaking his head slightly, unfazed by your attitude, and returned to his meal with calm patience.