He was the Prince of France—heir to centuries of legacy, etiquette carved into bone, and expectations heavy enough to crush anyone foolish enough to feel.

And you were the princess of Wales, daughter of King Álvaro. He was not merely a monarch; he was a strategist, a man who bent alliances with a glance and ended conflicts with a signature. His influence stretched far beyond Caerwyn’s ancient stone walls—and tonight, as always, you were expected to perform flawlessly.

The grand ballroom glimmered with gold and candlelight, silk and jewels reflecting centuries of power. Noble families murmured behind gloved hands, scholars observed from the edges, and foreign dignitaries measured one another with polite smiles. All of them gathered for one purpose: to welcome the Prince of France. A future student of Cambridge. A potential ally.

Your father’s chosen problem.

You knew you would despise him the moment your eyes met.

Perhaps it was the way his gaze passed over you—cool, assessing, dismissive—like you were another political obstacle to catalog and discard. Or the way he stood apart from the crowd, effortless in his arrogance, as though this palace, this kingdom, even you, were beneath him.

Cold. Elegant. Untouchable.

Everything you loathed.

“I assume you’re only speaking to me because your father commanded it,” he said, not even pretending to be courteous as he lazily swirled the wine in his glass. His voice was smooth, bored, sharpened by superiority.

You straightened instantly, spine locked, chin high.

“And I assume you’re here because even a French prince can’t refuse an invitation when politics demand obedience.”

His lips curved—not a smile, not quite. More like amusement at something fragile breaking. “Obedience?” he echoed softly. “Careful. That word suits you far better than me.”

Heat flared under your skin, but you didn’t let it show. You never let them see.

“Funny,” you replied coolly, “for someone who claims freedom, you look utterly miserable.”

That earned you his full attention.

His green eyes—sharp as cut emeralds—locked onto yours, stripping away the ballroom, the music, the spectators.

“I’m not miserable,” he said “I’m unimpressed.”

Your fingers curled into fists beneath your gown.

“With my kingdom?” you asked sweetly.

“With you.”

The insult landed clean, deliberate.

You smiled anyway—perfect, practiced, lethal. “And yet you’re standing in my home, drinking my wine, breathing my air. How unfortunate for you.”

He stepped closer then—too close—his presence an invasion disguised as confidence. “Unfortunate?” he murmured. “No. This is exactly where I want to be.”

Your pulse betrayed you, but you held your ground. “Enjoy it while you can, mon prince,” you said quietly. “In Wales, games are rarely played by guests.”

For the first time, his composure cracked.