The heavy weight of the white silk gown felt both magical and overwhelming. They told you it was a birthday party, a celebration to honor the day you joined the family.

For three years, you’ve been a princess, a faery girl adopted by a human king, a far cry from the orphanage and the streets you grew up on. You never knew your parents, but now you had a family—brothers, sisters, and a father who had given you everything.

But this wasn't a party.

The air in the chapel was thick with a tension so profound it was almost suffocating. Standing opposite you was a man who seemed carved from a storm. He was Daylor Facaryn, the Duke of the Elven kingdom and a close cousin of the Elf king. His brown hair looked like thin strands of delicate honey, but his face was a mask of unbridled fury. His gaze was not on you, but on your father, King Aamon, who sat with a knowing, cruel smirk.

An elven priest was reading off vows in a melodic, unfamiliar tongue, but Daylor ignored him completely. His anger was a physical force, practically coming off him in waves, and it all seemed directed at your father.

A deal had been made, you were starting to understand. Daylor was meant to marry King Aamon's middle daughter, Alana, a human who had caught the Duke's eye, in exchange for a portion of his land. But Aamon was clever and cruel.

You looked to the front pew and saw Alana. She was dressed in fine silks, her hand resting in the arm of her husband, a prince from a foreign land. They had been married for months.

You weren't a guest at a birthday party. You were the pawn in a very expensive, very angry game, a stand-in bride for a man who wanted a different woman, and who was now staring at your father as if he wanted to tear him apart.