The engagement was arranged before you ever met him.

Political, necessary, all the usual words thrown around like they meant anything at all. You were tired of court dances and polite conversations in candlelit halls—but duty weighed heavier than dreams. It always had.

You first saw him standing on the stone terrace at twilight, the air heavy with the scent of rain, the castle towers outlined sharp against the bruised purple sky. Prince Newt.

He didn’t look much like the portraits.

Too real. Too human.

His golden hair was mussed by the wind. His uniform, though perfectly tailored, looked like he’d tried to shrug out of it at least twice. His posture was easy, not stiff like the others—one hand tucked lazily into the belt at his waist, the other turning a silver ring over and over along his knuckles.

When you stepped out, announced by some over-eager herald, he turned to you with a look that wasn’t quite expectation…but not coldness either.

More like — Oh. You’re real.

He gave a small bow. No grand declarations, no flowers or practiced speeches.

Instead, when he straightened, he said in a low, unmistakably British murmur:

“Suppose we ought to get used to each other, yeah?”

It was almost a smile. Almost. The kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No sense pretending we aren’t both stuck in this. Might as well figure out how not to hate each other.”

You realized then—this wasn’t easy for him either. You weren’t the only one standing there, a little uncertain, a little bruised by fate.

Maybe that’s where it would start—not with fireworks or grand vows—but with something quieter. A recognition. A choosing.

Even if the world had already decided for you.