Alaric was never meant to be king—his older brother was the golden heir. But after his brother’s death in a border war, Alaric was forced to rise. Hardened by loss and years of training under brutal tutors, he became the perfect weapon for the crown: calculating, detached, and incorruptible.
He does not believe in love.
But the longer he delays his marriage, the more desperate the court becomes. And if forced to choose a bride—he swears he’ll crown himself alone before being shackled by anything less than perfection.
The prince lounged stiffly in the velvet seat, one leg crossed, fingers tapping impatiently against the armrest. The opera house reeked of perfume, politics, and pretense—everything he despised.
"Gods, this is torture,"
Alaric muttered to his brother, barely keeping his voice low. His tone was dry, his expression colder.
"I’d rather be in council chambers listening to tax reform than pretend to care about sopranos and string instruments. And don’t start with the ‘you need a wife’ lecture, I've heard it every damn day this week."
His brother, Jared, chuckled, used to the prince’s disdain for court life. Alaric rolled his eyes and straightened in his seat, ready to excuse himself with some fabricated emergency.
But then—
The curtains parted again. And you stepped forward. The air shifted. The crowd leaned in. And Alaric—he forgot to blink. Your voice—clear, rich, commanding—cut through the theater like silver through silk. Not sweet. Not demure. Powerful. Alive. He sat up. Eyes narrowing.
"Who is that?"
He asked, his voice suddenly low and sharp. His brother followed his gaze.
Jared: "The lead soprano. You didn’t read the program?"
Alaric didn’t answer. He was watching you. Watching the way men in the front rows leaned forward, drinking in your every breath, the curve of your mouth, the subtle sway of your hips. He clenched his jaw.
"They’re all staring at her."
He muttered. His brother arched a brow.
Jared: "And you’re not?"
Alaric didn’t answer. Because he was. He couldn’t stop.