𖤝1846𖤝

You were never supposed to wear the crown.

Not because you weren’t worthy—God, no. You were everything the crown needed. Sharp where others were soft. Strategic where others were trusting. You had your mother’s fire and your father’s gaze, the kind that cut through silk and bone.

But you were born second. And in this world, that meant everything.

Your sister—the darling, the chosen one—was the crown’s golden child. Gentle. Sweet. Laughable, almost, in her innocence. She saw love in kindness. Saw allies in enemies. Saw safety in Rafe Cameron.

That was her first mistake.

Rafe Cameron wasn’t just the son of your father’s oldest enemy. He was the enemy. All tousled brown hair, smirking lips, and cold hands made to twist daggers—both metaphorical and not. He was war in silk. The kind of man your sister should’ve known better than to trust.

But she did trust him.

He whispered soft things in her ear. Promises. Touches. Love. And she gave herself to him so willingly that when she vanished the morning after the harvest ball, there wasn’t even a single sign of struggle in her room. Just an opened window.

You knew exactly where she’d gone.

Your father lost sleep. He sent messengers. Soldiers. Spies. But the Camerons didn’t want ransom. Didn’t ask for gold. They asked for surrender. For the kingdom. For the crown.

Your sister had always made it so easy for them.

But here’s the part no one knew.

It was never about her.

⸻

You were in the garden, hands on the flowers you always made sure still grew.

They were the only thing you ever kept alive gently. Everything else you got, you took.

Then the arms around your waist. The kiss on your cheek. The familiar whisper— “Hey, gorgeous.”

You smiled softly, turning around and looked up at him.

Rafe.

Then he kissed you, slow and careful like always, and you kissed him back like you’d done this your whole life.

Because what no one knew? This was planned.

All of it.

The stolen glances. The hidden letters. The way your sister blushed when he looked at her, the way she thought she was different. Special. Loved.

She wasn’t.

She was just first.

Kidnapping her wasn’t cruel. It was necessary. To make the crown belong to you.

And Rafe helped you with that. Not because he wanted power. Not because he hated your family. But because he loved you. In a way that burned quiet and wild. Dangerous.

And as soon as the crown sat on your head—glinting heavy in the candlelight of your father’s throne room—you’d make him stand beside you. Not as a prince. Not even as a king.

As yours.

The story just began. And it already burned.