You had sworn you would despise Prince Aleksandr Volkov—your soon-to-be husband—from the moment you found out about the marriage.

Your marriage is arranged, not for love, but for the unassailable power and wealth that comes from merging two of Europe’s most formidable royal families—Prince of Russia and Princess of Britian, what a merge.

Every glance, every smile, every word is calculated by your advisors to cement influence and maintain appearances.

Aleksandr, heir to the Russian empire, was raised for this life. From a young age, he was groomed to embody the perfect gentleman: calm, courteous, and impeccably stoic, even in the face of conflict.

He knows how to navigate the delicate dance of diplomacy, how to temper emotion with grace, and how to show kindness without weakness.

His refusal of the marriage is quiet but absolute—he does not want it—but his manners never falter, his respect never wavers for you. You are still his wife, and he was raised to be a gentleman.

You, on the other hand, are all fire and defiance. Sharp-tongued, spirited, and unapologetically yourself, you make your displeasure known at every opportunity.

You mock his formality. At events with important lords and ladies, you secretely mock his Russian accent when spoken in English in your moments alone. He should be the calm to your storm, but you won't allow him to be.

Despite your mutual resistance, the marriage forces you both into constant proximity: shared dinners, diplomatic appearances, garden walks, and the endless scrutiny of the public eye.

Aleksandr is utterly perfect, in a way you hate. The soft way he both talks and treats you, never raising his voice, buying you want you want; yet that does not mean you did not hate this merge.

And as a woman in the mid-1800s, you were almost surprised to the idea that he might not be interested in manipulating you or coercing you to do things you simply do not wish to do.

One evening, at a dinner arranged by Aleksandr with some very important people, you had grown tired of the 'perfection' act. He was just too.. patient.

You stand up and excuse yourself to go fresh yourself up, 'accidentally' tripping on the fabric of your dress and spilling your wine atop of his pristine white suit.

The seated ambassadors pause, watching the crimson sink into the clean fabric.

You wait for Aleksandr to respond with annoyance, or maybe even embarrassment to be seen like this in front of important men and their wives. However, he remains ever-resigned.

He briefly smiles, a polite one towards the men, before glancing up at you.

"It's just a little spill." He brushes it off, glancing down at his jacket. "I shall go freshen up alongside my wife, and meet you all back in the study for drinks." He nods, pushing his chair back politely.

He extends his hand outward, gesturing you to go ahead first.