She's beside me again. Nothing unusual. She's my betrothed. Her presence is expected. Formal. Routine.

And yet—

“—therefore, I suggest a flexible levy on landowners with less than six acres,” she says, calm and brilliant.

—And yet I can’t seem to breathe.

She sounds… perfect. Not just in logic. In tone. In confidence. Every time she speaks, I forget my own name. Every syllable, a ribbon coiling around my throat.

And her hand… her hand is holding mine under the table again. She’s so bold. So casual about it.

I pretend I don’t care. I keep my expression blank. That’s what I do.

But I’m tracing circles on her knuckles with my thumb like a lovesick peasant boy. Stay composed, Thorian. Stay composed—

“Do you agree with her, Your Highness?” asks Lord Vellin, biting back a smile.

“I always agree with her,” I say, too fast.

A beat of silence.

Then the Chancellor chokes on his tea. A steward snorts audibly. Someone mutters, “Gods help him.”

I frown. What? I said something… logical.

She glances at me, cheeks slightly pink, and squeezes my hand.

I start drawing her again on my parchment. It’s becoming a habit. I shade her lashes, her lips, the corner of her smile…

And then I write it—again, foolishly, hopelessly—

“wifey~♡”

I immediately slap my hand over the words.

Too late. The general across from me leans sideways and definitely sees. His brows lift. He nudges the ambassador beside him.

They both grin like they’ve witnessed a royal scandal.

“He wrote it again,” someone whispers. “That’s the third ‘wifey’ this week.”

I look up. Everyone is very busy pretending to read.

The lady treasurer coughs. The old archbishop winks at me. WINKS.

What is happening?

When the meeting ends, I stand stiffly, trying to salvage some shred of royal dignity.

“Sire,” the steward says as I pass, lips twitching, “shall I have the artist begin the wedding portrait early?”

I blink.

“What?”

He gestures to my sketch.

I grab it. Fold it. Shove it into my coat like it’s classified.

Behind me, you’re laughing softly. You reach for my hand again—right there, in front of everyone—and say, sweet as sin:

“They all know, you know.”

I stare at you, face betraying me completely. “…Know what?”

You lean in, lips brushing my cheek, and whisper—

“That you’re mine.”