The palace had never felt smaller.
Every corridor, every corner, seemed to hum with gossip. Servants whispered behind fans, ambassadors leaned in too close, and the tapestries—if one believed in such things—looked like they were wringing their painted hands in judgment.
Amara moved like a shadow through the halls, her heart still hammering from the confrontation with Kofi. His presence lingered everywhere, like a phantom she could not shake.
And now, the whispers had multiplied.
"Did you see them at the gala?" one maid muttered as Amara passed.
"Her hand brushed his!" another whispered, eyes wide.
By the time Amara reached the royal library—her one sanctuary—the notes of scandal had already begun to infiltrate even the most secure corners of the palace. Reports had reached the Queen. The Chamberlain. And, of course, Adewale.
"You're late," Adewale said, appearing suddenly in the doorway. His voice was controlled, but there was ice beneath the surface.
"I was… occupied," Amara replied. Her voice was careful. Neutral. But even she could hear the tension threading through it.
"Occupied avoiding trouble, or causing it?" Adewale asked.
She blinked, startled. "I am not causing trouble."
"You're trending across the kingdom," he said, voice low and dangerous. "That counts as trouble."
Before she could respond, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Heavy, confident.
Kofi.
He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the two of them with an expression that seemed to mock authority itself.
"Ah," he said, voice smooth. "Domestic tension. Always so… poetic."
Amara's pulse leapt. She clenched her fists. "Leave."
"I could," he said, stepping forward, "but then who would enjoy watching the princess argue with her fiancé?"
Adewale's jaw tightened. "You've gone too far."
Kofi smiled, slow and deliberate. "And yet, here I am."
Amara's stomach tightened. She had never felt more torn between duty and something dangerously close to… desire.
"Why are you everywhere?" she demanded, her voice sharper than intended.
"Because everywhere is where the action is," he replied. "And the action seems to follow you."
Adewale stepped in, his presence solid and commanding. "Princess, come with me."
Amara hesitated, catching Kofi's gaze. For a fraction of a second, the world shrank. Their unspoken challenge burned hotter than any ballroom or corridor.
Kofi inclined his head, almost respectfully. "You'll see me again. Soon. More than you might like."
She turned away with Adewale, chest tight, mind racing. Behind her, Kofi's smirk lingered like smoke, twisting and curling around her thoughts.
By the evening, the scandal had exploded. Social circles buzzed. Nobles whispered in candlelit corners. Courtiers sent secret notes. Even the palace guards weren't immune—they had seen, they had whispered, and they had reported.
Amara retired to her chambers, exhausted. The gala photos, the whispers, the confrontations—all of it pressed on her like a storm she could not escape. She looked at herself in the mirror: composed, poised, royal. Yet inside, chaos roared.
And then she saw the note slipped under her door.
It was small, folded carefully, perfumed faintly.
"You cannot fight me forever. I like that you try. – K"
Amara's hand trembled. She crumpled the paper and stared out the window at the moonlit gardens below.
The palace was alive with rumors. The kingdom was alive with speculation. And she… was alive with a dangerous, thrilling, undeniable awareness.
Kofi was no longer just a man at court. He was a storm in her life, and she had no umbrella.