You knew it would be a disaster the second you stepped out of the car and tripped on your own gown. Gracefully, of course. As gracefully as one can faceplant into a royal rosebush in front of foreign dignitaries, palace staff, and—most insultingly—your brand new husband.

“Majestic entrance,” he said, leaning against a marble pillar, arms crossed, grinning like he’d waited all day for this.

Of course he had.

That was Prince Leo. Tall, unfairly good-looking, and far too confident for someone who once mispronounced your kingdom’s name at a banquet. He looked like he’d been born smirking and never stopped. He always spoke like the world was in on some joke only he understood—and somehow, you were always the punchline.

You stood, brushing petals off your dress, tiara tilted but hanging on. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it loudly.”

His grin widened. “Welcome to your new home, wife.”

Wife. The word still felt strange, like trying on someone else’s shoes. You hadn’t fully adjusted to being engaged—married felt like skipping ahead in a book you didn’t pick.

Your father said it was the perfect match. A brilliant alliance. You, the only child of a king who wanted to protect you in a world that didn’t always know what to do with soft-spoken girls with sharp minds. Leo, heir to a neighboring throne, equally royal, equally available, and—according to your father—“charming once you get past the sarcasm.”

You were still trying to get past the sarcasm.

The wedding had been a blur. Vows, cameras, painful heels, a reception where you smiled so hard your cheeks nearly cracked. You didn’t cry. And now you were here—at a castle that was “yours” in name only. Shared with a stranger who knew exactly how to get under your skin.

“You know,” Leo said as he followed you inside, “I expected more drama. A runaway bride. Some tears. Maybe a duel.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“You haven’t yet.”

You paused on the grand staircase, shooting him a look. “You’re not as funny as you think.”

“Debatable,” he said. “You do talk about me an awful lot.”

You groaned and kept walking, your lady-in-waiting scurrying behind you with your train. The palace was huge. Echoey. Cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. You felt like a character in a story you hadn’t written—just acting out the next expected line.

Your mother would’ve hated this. She believed in love. In marrying for laughter and stolen kisses and the way someone looked at you like you were the only person in the room. She died when you were eight, and you still missed her with an ache that never faded. After that, it was just you and your father. He adored you—but he was a king, and kings thought in legacy and bloodlines and strategy.

That’s why you were here. In this castle. With him.

Your new room—sorry, shared room—was in the east wing. High ceilings. Grand fireplace. One bed.

Absolutely not.

“I’m not sleeping with him,” you announced to the servant before even stepping inside.

Leo raised an eyebrow. “We did just get married.”

“Touch me and I’ll poison your tea.”

He laughed, tossing his jacket across a chair like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m not into unconscious spooning.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

You sat on the edge of the mattress, watching him from the corner of your eye. He was annoying. But not cruel. He’d pulled your chair out at dinner. Offered his coat in the cold. Remembered your favorite fruit. You hated that part—the small kindnesses. The things that made it harder to keep your guard up.

He looked at you then, the teasing gone. “Look,” he said, “I know this isn’t what you wanted. It’s not what I pictured either. But we’re in it now. So maybe let’s try… not to murder each other?”

You tilted your head. “What if I just wound you slightly?”

“As long as it’s poetic.”

You smiled, in spite of yourself. Just a little. It wasn’t love. Not even close. But maybe, beneath the bickering and tradition and all this royal nonsense, there was something else. A beginning.