── 𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓒𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍'𝓢 𝓦𝐄𝐁 𝅄 ݁ ⏜



❝ 𝐈𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. ❞

✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓢𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



The humid warmth of the greenhouse embraces you as you step inside, clinging to your skin and wrapping around you like a living thing. It is a space of curated perfection, where the chaos of nature is subdued and reshaped into an elegant tableau of blooms and foliage. Ivy drapes from wooden trellises, orchids bloom in delicate clusters, and roses of every hue flourish in arrangements so precise they feel almost unnatural. The earthy scent of damp soil mingles with the cloying sweetness of exotic flowers, creating an atmosphere at once serene and suffocating. It should be beautiful—it is beautiful—but you feel no peace here. Every detail is too calculated, every petal a reminder that nothing in this place, nothing in this moment, is untouched by design.

Your gaze falls on him immediately. Crown Prince Lucian de Valmont stands at the centre of this living art, as if he belongs to it, a figure of golden-haired authority amidst the riot of green. His posture is relaxed yet commanding, the quiet confidence of a man accustomed to bending the world to his will. The light filtering through the glass panels above seems to seek him out, catching the threads of gold embroidery on his dark, tailored attire and illuminating the sharp planes of his face. His eyes, a striking emerald that could cut through glass, meet yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that sends a ripple of unease down your spine.

There is something disarming about his presence. He is the embodiment of aristocratic perfection, poised and immaculate, yet there is a sharpness beneath the surface—a blade sheathed in velvet. It is not his beauty that unsettles you, but the knowledge that he is both predator and sovereign, his power extending far beyond the effortless grace with which he moves. You've seen such men before, across lifetimes: kings and princes who shape destinies with a flick of their fingers, who dismantle lives as easily as they pour a glass of wine. And here he stands, every inch the Crown Prince, a man who wields both his charm and his authority with devastating precision.

You approach him with measured steps, your movements deliberate, each one an act of restraint. The soft rustle of your midnight-blue gown is the only sound that accompanies you, its silver embroidery catching the light like constellations scattered across a dark sky. You feel his gaze on you, unwavering, as though he can see through every layer of composure you've carefully crafted. Each step grows heavier, as though the air itself conspires to slow you, to force you to linger in this moment that already feels unbearable.

When you reach him, you lower yourself into a curtsy, the movement a study in grace and precision. The slight dip of your body, the sweep of your gown, the bow of your head—all of it is calculated, honed by countless lives spent perfecting such gestures. You hold the pose for a breath longer than necessary, as if to steel yourself, before rising to meet his gaze.

"Your Royal Highness," you say, your voice steady but laced with the careful neutrality of someone walking a tightrope. "It is the highest honour to stand before you. May your days be as resplendent as the light you bring to your people."

The words spill from your lips like water over stone, polished and meaningless. They are the currency of court, a language of empty flattery spoken by those who understand its necessity. And yet, as you straighten and lift your eyes to his, you catch the faintest curve of his lips—a smile so subtle it could be a trick of the light. It does not reach his eyes, those brilliant emeralds that remain fixed on you, watchful and unreadable.

He gestures to a table set amidst the greenery, where a tea service waits, its delicate china gleaming in the dappled light. The scene is almost intimate, its simplicity at odds with the grandeur surrounding it, but the intimacy feels calculated, a deliberate choice meant to disarm. "Please," he says, his voice smooth and measured, a quiet command wrapped in courtesy. "Join me."

You move towards the chair he indicates, settling into it with the poise of someone who has played this role too many times to falter. The seat is firm beneath you, the air around you heavy with the scent of flowers and the faint chill of expectation. Your fingers brush the edge of the table, seeking some anchor amidst the unspoken tension that hangs between you.

Lucian pours the tea himself. The act, so uncharacteristic of someone in his position, nearly unsettles your composure. It is deliberate, you realise—a carefully crafted moment meant to catch you off guard, to remind you that he does not adhere to the rules of others but bends them to his will. He places the cup before you with a precision that feels almost ceremonial, his gaze never leaving yours as he resumes his seat.

You lift the cup, the warmth seeping through your gloves as you cradle it in your hands. The silence stretches, weighted and deliberate, as he watches you with a focus that feels almost invasive. It is not the kind of silence that invites comfort, but one that demands vulnerability, that presses against the edges of your defences until you feel as though you might splinter beneath it.

"I've heard much about you, Lady [Name]," he says at last, his tone conversational but underpinned with something sharper. "Your reputation, I confess, is not one of pure admiration. Yet, I find myself curious."

His words land like stones dropped into still water, each one rippling outward, their weight impossible to ignore. You feel the tightness in your chest, the familiar ache of being reduced to whispers and shadows, a figure others shape in their minds without ever truly seeing you. Your fingers tighten around the teacup, though you keep your expression composed, your voice smooth as you reply.

"Curiosity is a dangerous sentiment, Your Highness," you say, letting a faint, wry smile curve your lips. "Especially in matters where truth is so often tangled with rumour."

His own smile deepens, though it holds a calculated edge. "Indeed. Rumours are a currency of their own in our world, aren't they? Yet even rumours have their origins. I would like to think there is more to you than what they claim."

You incline your head, acknowledging his words without conceding to them. "It would please me to know you seek more than gossip, Your Highness."

There is a flicker in his eyes, a subtle shift that makes your breath catch. It is not a look of amusement, though it may appear so; it is the look of a man who is already several steps ahead, who sees paths where others see only obstacles. His next words are quieter, more deliberate, each one measured like a step along a precarious ledge.

"Tell me, Lady [Name]," he begins, his voice soft but piercing, "how would you feel... about becoming the crown princess?"

The air seems to vanish from the room. The scent of flowers becomes cloying, the warmth oppressive. His words hang in the air, sharp and inescapable, a question that is not truly a question, a proposition that feels more like a sentence. The tea in your hands grows cold, forgotten, as the weight of his gaze presses down on you.

Your composure, carefully constructed, threatens to fracture. You have stood before kings and queens, faced judgement and scorn, and yet this—this is something else entirely. This is not a path you chose, not a fate you sought, and yet it unfurls before you now, unavoidable and absolute.

You force yourself to breathe, to steady the trembling in your hands as you meet his gaze. The smile you wear is brittle, a fragile mask that feels as though it might shatter with the faintest touch. "Your Highness," you say, your voice steady despite the storm that rages within you, "such a prospect is... unexpected."

His smile lingers, sharp and unyielding, and you know, with a certainty that chills you to the bone, that he is waiting for you to fall into his web.

The words strike you like a blow, each syllable reverberating in your mind as though the very world itself has tilted.

The air in the greenhouse thickens, no longer just warm and fragrant but heavy, oppressive, laden with the weight of his question. Crown Princess. The title seems to echo in the very space around you, reverberating off the glass walls and lush greenery as if even the flowers and leaves have turned to listen. For a moment, your breath halts, your mind frozen in disbelief. Surely, this must be some cruel jest, an elaborate ploy meant to throw you off balance. Yet as your gaze meets his, those piercing emerald eyes holding you as tightly as any chain, the reality solidifies. He is serious.

But then again, perhaps you shouldn't be surprised. The story always bends to accommodate the arrival of the heroine. The pieces shift, the paths rearrange themselves, and those like you—born to play the villainess—are forced further into the shadows. His interest, his words, they are not meant to last. They are simply another thread in the pattern you have seen time and again. This is how it has always been.

The porcelain teacup trembles faintly in your gloved hands, its delicate edge biting into your fingers as you struggle to maintain composure. You force yourself to breathe, but even that feels shallow, difficult, as though the very air conspires against you. Lucian's eyes remain on you, steady and unwavering, their intensity cutting through every mask you've tried to raise, every defence you've spent lifetimes perfecting. Those eyes are too knowing, too sharp, and they seem to strip you bare with their gaze, peeling away the fragile veneer of control you've clung to for so long.

It is a trap. It has to be.

And yet, there is a moment—a cruel, fleeting moment—where you think of the past you, the girl who might have seen this as salvation. You imagine her wide-eyed disbelief, the way her heart might have raced not with dread but with the faintest glimmer of hope. That girl, so desperate to be wanted, so starved of validation, might have wept with joy at the idea that the Crown Prince himself saw her as worthy of standing beside him. That someone, anyone, saw her as something other than the shadow meant to bolster another's light.

But that girl is gone, lost to the weight of reality, buried beneath lifetimes of rejection, of betrayal, of understanding her role too well. You know better now than to believe this offer is born of kindness. You were born into this world not to shine but to be cast aside, to play the darkness that makes the heroine's light seem brighter. You know where this story leads—his interest will wane, just as it always does. Soon, his gaze will shift to her, the heroine, his heart caught by her goodness, her beauty, her light. You are but the stepping stone on his path to destiny, a piece to be moved until it is no longer needed.

Your voice, when you finally speak, feels distant, hollow, as though it belongs to someone else. "Your Highness," you begin, forcing a smile that feels brittle, barely able to hold its shape, "I hardly think—"

He interrupts you, the faintest lift of his hand silencing you without effort. His smile deepens, not with amusement but with a quiet, knowing confidence that sends a chill through you. "You doubt the idea," he says, his tone calm, almost conversational. "Or do you believe yourself... unsuited to the role?"

The words sting, and not because they are false. The truth of them burns beneath your skin, though you force your expression to remain neutral. Your hands, however, betray you. You set the teacup down carefully, deliberately, as if the motion alone can ground you, though your fingers tremble faintly as they leave the porcelain.

"I am honoured by your consideration, Your Highness," you reply, your voice steady but thin, a thread stretched taut. "But I must admit, I find it difficult to imagine what merit you might see in such a notion."

Lucian leans forward, his movements unhurried but deliberate, and the shift in his posture sends ripples of unease through the air. His gaze sharpens, fixing on you with an intensity that makes your pulse race, the blood thrumming in your ears. "Perhaps I see more than you think, Lady [Name]," he says, his voice softening slightly, though it loses none of its weight. "And I do not make such offers lightly."

You draw a slow breath, letting it steady you, though the effort feels hollow. "Your Highness," you say, lowering your gaze, your words carefully measured, "there are many who would be far more deserving of such a title. I am certain you will find someone better suited to stand at your side."

The silence that follows is unbearable. You do not dare to look at him, afraid of what you might see in those eyes, afraid of what you might betray in your own. Yet when he speaks, his voice is calm, almost amused, though there is steel beneath his words.

"You speak as though the decision is already made," he says, his tone unyielding. "And yet, I wonder... is it truly yours to make?"

The question cuts deeper than it should, striking at the very core of your being. You feel the weight of his words settle over you, heavier than the title he has offered. He is right, of course. It is not your decision. Your life has never truly been your own, bound as it is by the chains of duty and expectation, by the will of those who see you not as a person but as a pawn. If your father were to hear of this, if he were to learn of the Crown Prince's offer... there would be no choice. Refusal would be unthinkable, impossible.

You lift your gaze, meeting Lucian's eyes with a steadiness you do not feel. "Forgive me, Your Highness," you say, your voice quiet but resolute. "But I believe some decisions must be made with the heart, not merely with logic or duty."

For a fleeting moment, something flickers in his expression—amusement, perhaps, or intrigue. But it is fleeting, gone before you can place it. He leans back slightly, his gaze softening just enough to grant you a momentary reprieve from its intensity.

"An admirable sentiment," he says, his tone light but laced with something you cannot quite place. "I wonder if it is one you truly believe."

The conversation shifts after that, slipping into the practised formality of polite discourse, but the tension does not abate. The weight of his proposal lingers, a shadow that follows you through every word, every glance. When the meeting finally ends, you rise, curtsying deeply, the motion precise but heavy with unspoken tension. His eyes follow you as you turn to leave, their intensity pressing against your back like a physical force.

And for the first time in many lifetimes, you wonder if even you are strong enough to bear what comes next.



───────── ⟡ 𝜗𝜚 ‧ ⁺ ⊰ ─────────



The cold air strikes you like a blade the moment you step out of the greenhouse, slicing through the humid warmth that clings to your skin. It is a sharp, biting chill, laden with the unrelenting stillness of the palace corridors. Each breath feels heavier than the last, the frost-laden air seeping into your lungs and mingling with the suffocating weight of the Crown Prince's words.

The title rings through your thoughts like a tolling bell, relentless in its cadence. It reverberates with a weight that feels almost physical, pressing against your chest and dragging you deeper into the mire of disbelief and dread. The corridors stretch ahead, their grandeur oppressive, the polished marble floors gleaming coldly beneath the pale light filtering through the tall, arched windows. Every step echoes in the silence, a hollow sound that feels as though it belongs to someone else, someone walking these halls in your stead while you drift somewhere far away.

Your gloved hands tremble at your sides, hidden within the folds of your gown, and the midnight blue fabric trails behind you like a shadow, an extension of the darkness swirling in your mind. Each step forward feels heavier than the last, the ache in your chest deepening with every movement, every thought. The polished walls, adorned with gilded sconces and tapestries depicting long-forgotten triumphs, seem to lean inwards, closing around you, their opulence suffocating rather than awe-inspiring.

The question lingers in the air, clinging to your thoughts with a cruel tenacity. It twists and winds itself into every corner of your mind, tightening like a noose with each repetition. You cannot escape it, no matter how you try to push it away, to rationalise it as some cruel jest or calculated move in the endless games of court. Lucian's voice—calm, deliberate, so unerringly certain—plays in your ears, a sound that chills you more than the winter-like air of the corridors.

You round a corner, the sunlight streaming through the vast windows catching your eyes unexpectedly. The light is too sharp, too vivid against the muted tones of your thoughts, and for a moment, your vision blurs. Your steps falter, your balance wavering, and before you can steady yourself, your knees give way, and the unforgiving marble floor rises to meet you.

The impact is jarring but muted, the sound of your fall swallowed by the vast emptiness of the palace. For a moment, you remain where you've crumpled, the world spinning faintly around you. Your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, the fabric of your gown pooling around you like spilled ink. Your fingers clutch at the embroidery on your lap, the delicate silver threads biting into your palms as though trying to anchor you, to tether you to a reality that feels increasingly distant.

You cannot cry. You haven't cried in years—not in this life, nor in the many before it. The tears have long since dried, replaced by an ache so deep it feels woven into your very being. It is a hollow, gnawing sensation, a weight that sits heavy in your chest, unyielding and cruel. You press a hand against your ribcage, as though trying to contain the storm that churns within, but it is futile. The storm rages on, silent and consuming, a tempest without end.

The stillness of the corridor amplifies the sensation that you are utterly alone. Yet, as you push yourself up, the air shifts, subtle and unnerving. A prickle runs along your spine, the distinct, undeniable feeling that you are being watched. It begins faintly, a whisper at the edges of your awareness, but it grows stronger, more tangible, until it wraps around you like a shroud.

You glance over your shoulder, your gaze darting to the corners of the corridor, to the shadows pooling beneath the gilded sconces. There is nothing there—nothing visible, at least. But the sensation remains, unrelenting, and your pulse quickens, a cold sweat breaking out beneath your gloves. You tell yourself it's your imagination, a trick of exhaustion, of fear. But the weight of that unseen gaze is impossible to ignore, pressing against you with an intensity that makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

You force yourself to stand, your movements slow and deliberate as though any sudden motion might provoke whatever phantom presence haunts you. "Enough," you whisper, the sound barely audible, swallowed by the vastness of the corridor. The word feels hollow, more an attempt to steady yourself than an actual command. You gather the folds of your gown and begin walking, your steps quicker now, the polished marble reflecting your hurried movements.

The grand entrance hall looms ahead, its towering arches and sweeping staircases gilded with an ostentation that feels almost mocking. You call for a carriage, your voice crisp but low, the tremor in it betraying the panic simmering beneath the surface. The servants respond with their usual efficiency, their faces carefully neutral, though you catch a flicker of something in their gazes—curiosity, perhaps, or pity. You look away, unwilling to meet their eyes.

The carriage arrives swiftly, its dark, lacquered surface gleaming under the muted daylight. You step inside without hesitation, the soft cushions offering a semblance of comfort but no real reprieve from the storm within. As the door closes behind you, the oppressive sense of being watched begins to dissipate, though it leaves behind a hollow unease that lingers in your chest.

For a moment, you glance out of the small window, your eyes scanning the palace's imposing facade. The vast structure rises against the grey sky, its spires piercing the heavens like daggers. There is no sign of movement, no figure standing in the shadows, no piercing gaze following your departure. And yet, the unease remains, a shadow clinging to your thoughts, its presence as unwelcome as the Crown Prince's words.

You turn away from the window, the interior of the carriage closing in around you. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the cobblestones fills the silence, a steady, monotonous sound that does little to soothe your frayed nerves. You grip the folds of your gown tightly, the embroidered silver threads digging into your fingers as you try to ground yourself in the tactile sensation, to pull yourself away from the spiralling thoughts.

But it is impossible. Lucian's voice echoes in your mind, his piercing gaze burned into your memory. Crown Princess. The title presses against your thoughts like a chain, unyielding and suffocating. You close your eyes, leaning back against the cushions, but even the darkness behind your lids offers no reprieve. You can still see his face, the calculated curve of his lips, the sharp glint in his eyes—a predator's gaze, unrelenting in its focus.

The carriage jolts, and for a moment, your heart leaps in your chest, the sudden motion pulling you back into the present. You open your eyes, staring blankly at the rich velvet interior of the carriage, its opulence at odds with the emptiness within you. The journey feels endless, each turn of the wheels dragging you further from the palace yet no closer to freedom. You wonder if this life, too, will end in a way you've come to know too well.



✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓔𝐍𝐃 𝓞𝐅 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓢𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓥𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝓘𝐒 𝓣𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃!

𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦! 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘹 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴! 𝘧𝘦𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

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