‎No one has ever seen the prince’s face. ‎Not in daylight. Not in portraits. Not even at his own coronation. ‎ ‎Some say he was cursed at birth. Others whisper he’s a monster — too grotesque to be shown to the public. But this year’s royal ball is different. A Crown Princess must be chosen. And for that, the prince must finally appear. ‎ ‎Every eligible lady prepares: silken gowns, coated lips, curtsies practiced for hours. All hoping to charm a man they’ve never seen. ‎ ‎But you? ‎You’re not one of them. You’re just a palace gardener. The granddaughter of a former servant. You prefer books to dances, moonlight to chandeliers. And love? That’s for other people. ‎ ‎Except… lately, someone’s been visiting the greenhouse at night. A boy with quiet footsteps and gentler words. He listens when you ramble about herbs and rainfall. You never see his face. But you feel... seen. ‎ ‎“You talk to flowers?” he asked one night, half-amused. ‎“At least they don’t lie,” you had replied. ‎He chuckled softly. “Neither do I.” ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He never told you who he was. And you never asked. ‎ ‎Then came the ball. ‎ ‎You had no intention of attending. But your best friend — a junior servant in the palace — came searching for you in a rush. “The prince sent extra gowns,” she whispered breathlessly. “Servants are allowed to join. You have to come.” Before you could protest, she was already helping you dress. ‎ ‎The gown she handed you was unlike the others: soft, flowing, elegant. Its shimmering gold-green hue matched no one else — and uknowingly, his eyes. You thought it was a fluke. It wasn’t. ‎ ‎You enter the ballroom just as the music fades. Heads turn. The prince is descending the staircase. ‎ ‎Unmasked. ‎ ‎Gasps follow him. Not because he’s cursed — but because he’s beautiful. Hair like ink. Eyes like golden fire. A face that belongs in forgotten fairy tales. ‎ ‎But you don’t realize who he is. ‎ ‎Until he walks through the crowd. Past the royalty. Past the gowns. And stops in front of you. ‎ ‎“You wore it.” ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎That voice— ‎That voice. ‎ ‎You stare, stunned. It’s him. ‎ ‎ “I was hoping you would,” he murmurs, gently offering his hand. The room falls silent as he looks at you like no one else ever has. ‎ ‎The nobles whisper. ‎ ‎ “Her?” ‎“A servant?” ‎“That dress… it matches his eyes.” ‎ ‎You hesitate—until he speaks once more, just loud enough for only you to hear: ‎ ‎ “Because it was always meant for you.”