By morning, the engagement had become global gospel. Every screen she passed flickered with her face. Headlines cascaded down digital skyscrapers: The Crowned Love Story, Royal Romance Sealed in Sapphire, Future Queen of Aravelle Confirmed. Her phone buzzed every thirty seconds—notifications from stylists, advisors, former acquaintances suddenly reinterested in her orbit.
Stephanie sat inside her private suite's media lounge, curled on a velvet chaise, bare legs tucked beneath a silk robe the color of mist. She hadn't slept. The palace had installed a temporary crisis-control team outside her door, but the irony was suffocating. There was no crisis. Only perfection. Manufactured, varnished, and broadcast in 4K.
The ring still sat on her finger like a forged shackle—beautiful, brilliant, blinding.
She tapped through press releases. The palace had issued six by sunrise. Carefully phrased blurbs about their "private love" and "shared vision for modern monarchy." Her own quote was polished—crafted by Charlotte, not her. "Prince Michael and I are honored to begin this next chapter together, guided by duty, partnership, and a deep mutual respect."
Respect.
What a lifeless substitute for love.
A knock. Then Charlotte entered—high bun, tablet, pearl earrings, perfectly pressed cream blazer.
"They've confirmed the morning interviews. BBC first. Then Royal Today. Vogue's doing a photo exclusive at noon. We need to pick your wardrobe—House of Avelin sent options." She placed the tablet on the ottoman. "Also, the Queen wants a briefing before noon."
Stephanie said nothing.
Charlotte's smile faltered slightly. "Stephanie. This is the moment. You're being embraced globally. You're the most talked-about woman on the planet."
"That's not new," Stephanie murmured.
"But now you'll be remembered forever."
Stephanie glanced at the tablet. Images of gowns—ice-blue tulle, crimson crepe, opalescent silk. All flawless. All wrong.
"I want the grey one," she said. "The tailored sheath."
Charlotte blinked. "That's… severe."
"Intentional."
Charlotte hesitated, then nodded. "Understood."
As the door closed again, Stephanie rose. She crossed the suite to her private study—a library carved from dark walnut and soft lamplight. Her laptop lay closed on the desk. Next to it, a single photograph—her and Arielle at seventeen, standing on a rooftop in Millerdale, arms linked, wind in their hair. She remembered the evening: a school protest that had turned into a rooftop concert. They had danced barefoot under streetlights, fearless and free.
She opened the laptop. Searched her inbox.
Arielle Vance
Re: Millerdale Town Center
She clicked the attachment: a sleek, minimal pitch deck. Redeveloping Millerdale's abandoned train station into a community center with a farmers' market, green roof, startup space. The kind of place people built futures in. Groundbreaking scheduled in six weeks.
Stephanie exhaled.
She picked up her phone. "Call Logan."
Seconds later, her personal assistant answered, his voice still slightly sleepy.
"Logan. Get me a flight to Millerdale. Discreet. No palace channels. I'll need cover—business recon, maybe brand investment."
There was a pause. "That's a serious risk, Steph."
"Do it."
He didn't ask further. He never did.
She stood again and looked out her suite's tall glass windows. The capital sparkled below—power, illusion, wealth. The world believed her to be at the peak of her story. But something had cracked beneath the glamour. Something real.
The palace team was in full spin mode.
By midday, the Queen Consort's private salon buzzed with stylists, photographers, and press liaisons. Stephanie sat perfectly posed on a rococo loveseat, grey dress hugging her frame, diamond earrings catching camera light. Her makeup was matte, neutral—designed for restraint, not allure. Even her hair was sleek, pulled into a low chignon. No curls. No softness.
"Show composure," Charlotte had whispered. "This is your coronation moment."
The photographer called for smiles. Stephanie gave him one—precise, unsmiling eyes, regal tilt. The future Queen. Iced composure.
After the shoot, she slipped away. Her heels echoed down the private marble corridor as she moved toward the east gallery. Few used it. The portraits there were older, faded. Former consorts and forgotten alliances.
She stopped before one—Queen Liora, the only royal in Aravelle's history who had abdicated. She had left for art school in Paris. The scandal had nearly broken the monarchy. But Liora's portrait remained. Quiet rebellion carved into oil paint.
Stephanie stared. Then spoke softly. "Did they call you foolish too?"
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, the message read:
From: Logan
Got you a flight. Departing 3:20am. Private. No trace.
Stephanie slipped the phone back into her pocket and turned away from the portrait. One night left. One final performance.
That evening, Prince Michael hosted a diplomatic dinner in her honor. Crystal candelabras flickered across polished oak tables. The menu: seared venison, truffle consommé, gold-dusted soufflé. The guests included prime ministers, barons, tech billionaires.
Stephanie sat beside Michael at the head of the table, playing her part.
"You've won the world, darling," Michael said between courses, his voice low. "Your numbers are stronger than ever. Approval ratings through the roof."
"I'm not a campaign," she replied quietly.
"You are," he said, sipping his wine. "We both are."
She looked at him—really looked.
His hair, his posture, his ring glinting under the chandelier.
He had loved her once. She was certain of that. But somewhere between power and protocol, that love had calcified. Now they moved like colleagues. Like co-rulers. Like ghosts.
After dinner, as guests mingled near the palace gardens, Stephanie stepped away. She wandered through the hedge maze until she reached the hidden alcove with the ivy-covered bench. She had discovered it during her first month at court, back when she still believed love could survive exposure.
She sat and looked at the stars.
The ring caught moonlight again. She slid it off, slowly, then closed her hand around it.
A voice startled her.
"I never thought you'd say yes."
She turned.
Ethan Drake.
Millerdale's golden boy. Her once-almost-everything.
He stood in the moonlight like memory resurrected—tall, broad-shouldered, his smile slower now, wiser. No tuxedo. Just a black button-down, sleeves rolled, like he belonged anywhere but here.
Stephanie stood, heart pounding. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm the tech liaison for the Queen's new youth initiative," he said. "I'm also here to remind you that you're not invincible."
She blinked. "You still dramatic, then."
He shrugged. "You still running?"
She looked down at the ring in her hand. "Maybe I'm ready to stop."
Ethan stepped closer, his gaze soft but clear. "Then stop pretending."
The moment stretched.
Then, footsteps. Voices. Guests approaching.
Stephanie slid the ring back on.
But her hand shook.