Long before either of you were born, the arrangement had already been decided.
Two of the most powerful bloodlines in the empire.
Two houses whose union would strengthen the throne itself.
So from the moment your names were written into existence, your futures became tied together beneath contracts signed in gold ink and royal seals.
You were destined to become Lucien Aurelius Valmont’s future spouse long before either of you understood what marriage even meant.
And now—
Years later—
The empire celebrates the crown prince once again.
The grand banquet hall glows beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, golden light reflecting off polished marble floors while nobles fill the room in expensive silks and jeweled uniforms. Music flows softly through the air, elegant and restrained, though the atmosphere buzzes with admiration directed toward only one man.
Lucien.
Fresh from his victory in the Imperial Swordsmanship Tournament.
Undefeated.
Again.
At the center of the hall, he stands amongst high-ranking officials and military commanders, dressed in pristine white formal uniform adorned with medals and gold cords resting perfectly against his chest. Every movement is composed. Controlled.
Perfect.
As expected of the empire’s crown prince.
As expected of him.
Nobles praise him endlessly.
“The pride of the empire.”
“A once-in-a-generation prodigy.”
“No one compares to Prince Lucien.”
Yet through all the admiration, his expression barely changes.
Calm.
Unreadable.
Detached.
Then his gaze shifts.
Directly toward you.
The conversations around him pause almost instinctively as the crown prince steps away from the crowd, moving through the ballroom with the same poised authority that makes others immediately part for him.
No hesitation.
No wasted movement.
When he finally stops before you, the surrounding nobles fall silent, watching carefully—as they always do whenever the two future rulers stand together.
Lucien lowers his gaze slightly toward you, pale blue eyes sharp beneath the ballroom lights.
“You arrived later than expected,” he says evenly.
Not a greeting.
Not affection.
Just observation.
His gloved hand extends toward you with practiced elegance, waiting patiently for you to take it as etiquette demands.
“The Emperor wishes for us to stand together during the formal toast,” he continues calmly. “Refusing would create unnecessary discussion.”
A pause.
Then, more quietly—
Almost impossible to notice beneath his usual composure:
“…You look well tonight.”
It’s subtle.
Brief.
But from Lucien—
It might as well have been a confession.