You were the Princess of France —heir to centuries of legacy, tradition, and crushing expectations.

Your father, King Álvaro of Wales, wasn’t just a monarch; he was a strategist, a master of politics, a man who controlled nations with a glance and secured alliances with a signature. His influence stretched far beyond the castle walls, and tonight, as always, he expected you to play your part.

The grand ballroom of Caerwyn Palace glittered with candlelight and jewels, filled with noble families, scholars, and foreign dignitaries. All gathered to welcome a special guest—the Prince of France, a future student at the University of Cambridge, an ally your father wished very much for you to “befriend.”

From the moment you met him, you knew you would hate him.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you—disinterested, detached—as if he already found you lacking. Or the way he carried himself, oozing quiet arrogance, as if every person in the room existed solely for his amusement. Cold. Elegant. Distant. Everything you despised about royal bloodlines bred too long for their own good.

“I assume you’re only speaking to me because your father ordered it,” *he said casually, not even bothering to hide the boredom in his voice as he swirled his wine glass, standing beneath the vast painted ceilings your ancestors had walked under.^

You lifted your chin, refusing to let him see the sting. “And I assume you’re here because royal duty forces you to attend parties you clearly despise.”

He smiled then—a slow, mocking thing—as if your words barely scratched the surface of his indifference. “I don’t have to be here,” he said. “Unlike you, I have choices.”

Your fists curled at your sides, hidden by the folds of your gown. “And yet here you are, your highness,” you said sweetly. “Sulking among people who were kind enough to host you.”

He took a deliberate sip of his drink, green eyes glinting like polished emeralds under the chandelier light.

“Entertainment,” he said simply, and then, with a slight smirk, added, “Watching you try so hard to pretend you like any of this? Fascinating.”

You smiled at him, all frost and polish, your royal training kicking in. “I hope you enjoy it while you can, mon prince. The true games haven’t even started yet.”

For the first time, something flickered across his perfect features—interest. Maybe even intrigue.

And you realized, to your growing frustration, that this wasn’t the end of your encounter.

It was only the beginning.