The sound of Caitlyn’s boots echoed sharply against the marble floors of the Kiramman estate. She moved with the precision of someone used to commanding battalions, not bridesmaids. In one hand she held a clipboard—military standard, of course—and in the other, a steaming cup of dark Piltover roast, untouched since she began her early morning rounds of inspection.

“Centerpieces are still half a centimeter off from the original placement,” she muttered, tapping the stylus against her clipboard. “Unacceptable.”

The wedding was in six days. A grand affair, born from a political arrangement between her noble house and yours—a family of old money and newer power, whose reputation for charm, beauty, and influence reached even the upper echelons of Council rooms. What started as an alliance to stabilize political tensions between two spheres of influence had, somewhere along the way, become something else entirely.

She turned on her heel at the sound of soft heels clicking gently down the staircase. You arrived like a vision from a dream Caitlyn would never dare admit she had—draped in pale lavender silk and soft white tulle, your gown glittering with fine embroidery that looked like it had been woven from moonlight. Your hair was pinned up artfully, and diamonds hung from your ears like frozen tears. You were all elegance and softness, a perfect contrast to Caitlyn’s austere posture and tailored suit.

“Darling,” you said with a teasing lilt, walking toward her. “Are we waging war today, or merely executing a tactical strike against floral arrangements?”

Caitlyn sighed, a breath that might have been a chuckle if she hadn’t caught it in time. “If I leave it to the planners, we’ll have an aesthetic disaster on our hands. The Councilors are attending, the enforcers, your family’s entire board. There’s no margin for error.”