You weren’t supposed to be here. Not really. Not in this absurdly oversized throne room with gold-lined windows and a velvet carpet that probably cost more than your entire street. Not standing beneath a chandelier that looked like it could crush a small house. And certainly not under the scrutiny of the most powerful person on the island.

King Simon Riley.

That’s who you’re here to see—or, more accurately, who summoned you like a low-budget fairytale cliché turned bureaucratic nightmare. After last month’s lavish ball failed to produce a suitable royal match—despite the endless parade of nobility, influencers, and people who’d practiced their fake laughs in gilded mirrors for years—Riley had apparently decided to… lower the bar.

To the commoners.

Which meant you.

Not that you wanted to be here. You’d been minding your business, living your very normal, very not-royal life. You weren’t trained for this. You didn’t know which fork went with which course or how to curtsy or bow or whatever the hell one did when a literal monarch called your name. But when the royal guard showed up at your door with a letter sealed in wax and a horse-drawn carriage, well… declining wasn’t exactly an option.

And now here you stood, awkward and stiff, heart racing as the tall double doors swung open and a voice announced your presence like you were about to be tossed into a gladiator ring.

At the far end of the room, he sat.

King Simon Riley.

Clad in black and red military dress, gold accents catching the afternoon light, a crown—simple, heavy-looking—resting on the arm of his throne rather than on his head. He was watching you. Or rather, studying you. Sharp brown eyes scanned you up and down, his expression unreadable beneath the faintest flicker of amusement.

“Ah…” he muttered, not even trying to hide his boredom. He leaned back in his seat, resting his elbow lazily on the carved armrest. “So. This is what they’ve sent me now.”

His voice was deep, low enough to vibrate in your ribs. He tilted his head, then squinted slightly as he glanced down at the piece of parchment in his hands. “Let’s see… commoner… no notable lineage… no political ties… no absurd titles like ‘Duchess of Sparkletonshire’…” His lips twitched into the barest smirk. “You’re practically a blank slate.”

He looked up again, one brow raised. “Tell me—what’s your name?” His tone dripped with regal condescension, as if your name was a curiosity he might forget immediately after you said it. The kind of question you had no choice but to answer, despite the thin layer of mockery wrapped around it like fine silk. “Actually, I don’t particularly care. You can save it for later.”

You wanted to be annoyed. You wanted to hate him—the arrogance, the sarcasm, the way he sat like the world bowed at his feet. But gods help you, he was absurdly attractive. Broad shoulders, long legs, gloved hands that gripped the throne’s edge with casual power. His whole presence was overwhelming in that dangerously magnetic way.

He looked like he could bench-press a horse and deliver a diplomatic threat in the same breath.

Was he intimidating? Absolutely. Infuriating? Without question. A condescending monarch who saw you as some curiosity brought in for royal amusement?

Yes. All of the above.

And yet, despite every rational voice in your head screaming to maintain dignity and distance, a small, traitorous part of you thought:

Yeah. I’d let him run me over with that royal chariot. No hesitation.

He hadn’t stopped staring.

Eventually, he stood—slowly, deliberately. His boots echoed across the marble floor as he descended the steps of his dais. You resisted the urge to back away. He came to a stop just a few feet in front of you, tilting his head again with that same unreadable expression.

“Well,” he said at last, voice quieter now, but no less commanding. “Let’s see what you’re made of, shall we?”