prince!james x president's daughter!reader
mention ; angst, slow burn, yearing yearning yearning, true love, royalty, marriage
chapter one - EVERY SPRING
chapter two - EVERY SUMMER
chapter three - EVERY AUTUMN
chapter four - EVERY WINTER
chapter five - EVERY SEASON
Some loves do not begin with a kiss. They begin with everything that comes before it.
For a while, the new year changed nothing.
That was what made it unbearable.
The world kept moving exactly as it had before. Your father governed. Your mother hosted. The newspapers printed photographs of you smiling at events you barely remembered attending. Diplomats kept shaking hands beneath flags. Speeches kept being written. Dresses kept arriving in boxes tied with satin ribbon.
And somewhere on the other side of the world, James Zhao continued existing. That was all. That was enough.
He existed in spring rain.
In your mother’s careful pauses whenever his name appeared in conversation.
In the blue poetry book resting inside your drawer, no longer hidden because hiding it had begun to feel childish.
After Prague, he wrote only once. Not a letter.
A card. Cream paper. Black ink. No royal seal except the one required on the envelope.
I hope the new year is kind to you.
You looked at the sentence for so long it started to feel cruel.
What a careful word. What a cowardly word. Your reply was equally brief.
You regretted it as soon as you sent it. Then you hoped he would understand. Then you hated yourself for hoping.
By March, you were convinced you had ruined something.
By April, you told yourself that perhaps ruining it had been necessary.
By May, you stopped believing yourself.
Your father was preparing for an official visit to Tokyo followed by a regional diplomatic reception in Taipei. Your presence had originally not been required. You had been relieved. Then your mother entered your room one afternoon, holding a pale folder.
“I need to speak with you.”
You looked up from your desk.
“It always is when you bring folders.”
She ignored that and placed it beside your notebook.
“Your father would like you to accompany us next month.”
Not visibly. Years of practice saved you.
“I thought I wasn’t needed.”
You leaned back in your chair.
“That means the Zhao family will be there.”
Your mother watched you carefully.
There was no point pretending you had not understood.
“Is that why you came personally?”
“I came because I am your mother.”
“You came because you know.”
“That sounds worse than knowing everything.”
You turned the folder but did not open it.
That surprised you. Your mother sat on the edge of your bed.
“You are no longer eighteen. There are public obligations, yes, but not every obligation must be accepted.”
“You think I shouldn’t go.”
“I think you should decide why you want to go before deciding whether you should.”
You hated when she was wise, it made lying far more difficult.
“I don’t know why,” you said.
She gave you a sad little smile.
Your mother sighed softly, not disappointed, only tired in the way mothers became when they knew heartbreak was approaching and could do nothing but stand near the door.
“Then go,” she said. “But do not confuse seeing him with having him.”
The words stayed with you long after she left.
Taipei was warm when you arrived, warmer than you expected. The city moved beneath a silver sky, humid and alive, full of neon signs, motorbikes, crowded markets and streets that seemed to breathe differently than any capital you had known.
The palace rose beyond the city like something from another century.
Red gates polished until they gleamed. Everything was beautiful. Everything reminded you that James belonged here more than he had ever belonged to those borrowed rooms in Europe.
You hated the palace immediately.
Because it had shaped him.
Because it knew him in ways you never would.
Because somewhere inside those walls, he had learned to hold his tongue, straighten his back, lower his gaze at the right moments, and become someone everyone could admire but no one could truly reach.
The state welcome took place in the main courtyard. Flags moved in the humid air, cameras flashed.
Your father stood beside King Zhao. Your mother beside Queen Zhao.
You stood slightly behind them. And James stood across from you. For the first time in months, no distance of ocean, letter or silence separated you.
He looked different at home.
Dressed in a dark ceremonial uniform, gold detailing at his shoulders, a sash crossing his chest, his hair perfectly styled, his expression almost unreadable. A prince in every visible way.
Then his eyes found yours. And for half a second, he was only James.
The ceremony lasted an eternity.
You shook hands with King Zhao.
He stepped forward. You offered your hand because that was correct. He took it.
His fingers closed around yours for exactly the right amount of time. Not a second longer.
His face remained composed.
You had not called him that in years.
Perhaps you wanted it to be.
Then he released your hand and the day continued as if nothing had happened.
The first two days were torture disguised as diplomacy.
Breakfasts with ministers.
A visit to a children’s hospital where James knelt to speak to a little boy who refused to smile for anyone else. That was where your anger softened despite your best effort.
The child was maybe six, sitting in a hospital bed with a bandage around his arm and a stubborn frown on his face. Officials crowded the room. Doctors explained the program your countries were funding together.
Then he noticed the boy staring at the golden pin on his lapel.
“Do you like it?” he asked gently.
James unclipped the pin. A royal aide immediately stiffened. James ignored him. He placed the pin in the boy’s small hand.
“You may keep it until I return.”
“Yes. It is very important.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“Because now I have a reason to come back.”
For the first time, the child smiled.
You looked away. It was unfair, really. How was anyone supposed to stop loving someone who did things like that when no camera was close enough to matter?
His eyes met yours across the room.
He had seen you watching.
You hated that he looked almost sad.
That evening, there was a banquet. Of course there was.
There was always a banquet.
You wore deep blue silk because your mother had insisted the color was respectful and elegant. Your hair was pinned up with pearls. You felt polished, diplomatic, unreal. James was seated beside Princess Amara of Lydienne.
You noticed because everyone noticed.
She was beautiful in a pale ivory gown, with golden hair arranged perfectly and a laugh soft enough to sound expensive. She leaned toward James when he spoke. He answered politely.
You told yourself not to care. Then cared so violently you had to set down your wineglass.
“Breathe,” she whispered without moving her lips.
You smiled at the elderly diplomat beside you and pretended your heart was not being ridiculous. Across the room, James looked miserable.
After dinner, you escaped before dessert. You did not mean to go far. Only somewhere quiet. Somewhere without chandeliers. You found yourself in a corridor lined with painted screens, the sound of the banquet fading behind you. The palace was different at night. Less official. More haunted. The lanterns cast soft gold across the floor.
You stopped beside an open window.
Outside, rain had begun falling into the gardens.
It always seemed to rain when you and James were close to honesty.
“You left before dessert.”
“Did Princess Amara survive without you?”
Then James said, “Is that why you left?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He stepped closer, but stopped several feet away.
“You called me Your Highness this morning.”
“You are Your Highness here.”
The words had come too quickly from him. Too honestly. His expression was strained, the perfect mask finally cracked.
“Not to me?” you repeated. “What am I supposed to call you when you spend the evening smiling at princesses chosen by people who think women are treaties with prettier dresses?”
“I did not choose that seating arrangement.”
“I accept many things I hate.”
“That must be convenient.”
The anger in his voice startled you.
“I wanted to write after your last letter.”
“Because I did not know how to answer it.”
“It was one sentence, James.”
“Yes.” His voice lowered. “That was the problem.”
You looked away. He understood.
“I came here because I wanted to see you,” you admitted before pride could stop you. James went still, the rain filled the silence.
“I told myself it was stupid,” you continued. “I told myself it was just another visit, another ceremony, another room where we would stand across from each other and pretend—”
Your voice broke. You hated it.
“Pretend what?” he asked softly.
He looked at you as though the sentence had done something irreversible.
“It is not enough,” he said.
“It has never been enough.”
“Then why are we still doing this?”
He laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it.
“Because we are cowards.”
The word struck you. Not because it was cruel, because it was true.
“I don’t know how not to be.”
The honesty of that should have made it easier.
You stepped closer to the window, the rain-scented air brushing your face.
“Sometimes I think about what would happen if we had met in another life.”
James’ voice was almost a whisper.
“I think about that every day.”
“In another life, you would have written to me whenever you wanted.”
“In another life, I would have come to see you.”
“In another life, people would not watch every room we enter.”
“In another life,” he said, “I would have kissed you long ago.”
He looked as though he regretted saying it. As though he had finally spoken the thought that had lived between you for years. The world narrowed.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No,” you whispered. “Don’t apologize.”
His eyes searched yours. The space between you felt alive.
Every time his hand had stopped before touching you.
Every time yours had done the same.
Then footsteps sounded at the end of the corridor. You both stepped apart.
A servant appeared, bowed, and informed James that his father was asking for him. James closed his eyes for half a second.
Neither of you spoke. Finally, James looked at you.
His voice was calm, that made it worse. You wanted to say, So do I. Instead, you said nothing. He returned to the banquet and you stayed by the window until the rain stopped.
The next day, James avoided you.
Prince James avoided you. James looked for you constantly. You could tell the difference now.
During the official tour, he stood beside his father, composed, distant, untouchable. But each time you entered a room, his gaze found you.
Each time someone made you laugh, something passed over his face.
Each time protocol pushed you apart, his jaw tightened.
He was losing control by inches.
That evening, your families were scheduled to attend a private performance at the palace theater. You sat in a gilded box beside your parents. James sat in the opposite box beside his.
Not because it was in another language.
Because James was looking at you.
Enough that your skin felt warm. Enough that the darkness between the boxes felt intimate. Enough that when the soprano sang something tragic and beautiful, you felt the words in places that had nothing to do with music.
At intermission, you went to the powder room and stared at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection looked calm.
A woman beside you applied lipstick and spoke to another about the performance. You heard none of it.
In another life, I would have kissed you long ago.
You pressed your palms to the sink.
“This is absurd,” you whispered to yourself.
The woman glanced over. You smiled politely.
The third night was the reception in the palace gardens.
It was smaller than the banquet, though still grand enough to make any other event seem modest. Lanterns hung from trees. Musicians played beneath a pavilion. Tables were arranged beside lotus ponds, covered in white linen and bowls of floating candles. The air was warm after the rain.
But close enough that your mother paused when she saw you.
“You chose that deliberately.”
“I chose it because it’s beautiful.”
She approached and adjusted one of your earrings.
Then, more quietly, she said, “Be careful tonight.”
You looked at her. Her eyes were gentle. Sad.
You knew then that she was not warning you about scandal. She was warning you about hope.
You wished she would not.
Hope was already inside you.
James saw the dress immediately. You knew because his entire expression stopped. Only for a moment. Then the prince returned. But the damage was done.
You spent the evening being introduced, praised, escorted, observed. James spent the evening at his father’s side.
That was why, when a palace attendant approached you near the lotus pond and bowed politely, your heart began to beat too fast before he even said a word.
“Miss Y/L/N, Her Majesty asked that you might enjoy viewing the east garden. It is quieter there.”
Your mother, standing nearby, looked at Queen Zhao across the garden. Queen Zhao lifted her glass slightly.
Then, to you, she said, “Do not be long.”
She pretended not to see. The attendant led you through a stone path lined with lanterns before leaving you at an archway covered in pale flowers. The east garden was almost dark.
James was waiting beneath a tree.
Your breath caught. He turned when he heard you. For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
“Our mothers are dangerous.”
“Yes,” he said. “Extremely.”
Something about him was different tonight. Less restrained. Or perhaps restraint had finally become too painful to wear. The garden was enclosed by high walls, softened by vines and moonlight. Water moved somewhere nearby. The noise of the reception was distant enough to feel unreal.
“Why did you ask me here?”
“You already apologized.”
“I apologized for saying it.” His eyes met yours. “Not for wanting it.”
The space beneath your ribs.
“Because I do.” He stepped closer, then stopped. “I know what I am. I know what this is. I know what people would say. I know what my father would say. I know what yours would fear.”
“And I have spent years knowing things.” His voice lowered. “It has not made me want you less.”
The words struck through you.
You looked at him then. Really looked. The boy from the gala was still there somewhere, beneath ceremony and expectation. The man before you was more tired, more careful, more wounded by all the things he could not say. But his eyes were the same.
The same eyes that had found yours over a ballroom full of strangers.
The same eyes that had watched rain in London.
The same eyes that had asked for courage without asking aloud.
“I’m scared,” you admitted.
“No, James. I’m scared because I don’t think this is a passing thing anymore.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
His certainty hurt. You shook your head.
“You have a country waiting for you.”
“And you have one watching you.”
“Yes. I am not the future head of state.”
“No,” he said. “You are only the daughter of one.”
He moved closer again. This time, you did not look away.
“You know what scares me the most?” you whispered.
“That every time we meet…”
“…leaving becomes harder.”
He did not answer immediately. He simply watched you. As if he wanted to remember every detail of your face. The breeze lifted a loose strand of your hair. Without thinking, he reached toward it.
His hand hung there between you, uncertain.
You could have stepped back. Instead, you stayed still. His fingers barely brushed your cheek before carefully tucking the strand behind your ear. The touch was almost nothing.
He did not move away. Neither did you. Your faces were suddenly much closer than either of you had intended.
“You should stop looking at me like that,” you murmured.
His thumb rested near your cheekbone.
You laughed softly, almost nervously.
“…as if I’m the only person in the room.”
His answer came immediately.
The kind that says everything words are afraid to. You felt tears rise and hated them.
“I’ve imagined this moment so many times,” he admitted quietly.
He looked almost pained by that. As if he had hoped, for your sake, that he was alone in this. Another step.
Now there was barely any distance left.
His voice almost disappeared.
“…there is no pretending after tonight.”
You searched his eyes. There was no arrogance.
No confidence learned in palaces. Only fear.
Fear that you might say no.
Fear that you might say yes.
You smiled through the tears threatening to fall.
“I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
James closed his eyes for a brief second. Almost like he was thanking the universe. When he looked at you again, everything had changed. Not because the world had given permission.
Not because the future had become easier.
But because, for once, neither of you moved away.
His hand cupped your face fully now, trembling slightly. He moved slowly. So slowly it hurt. Giving you every chance to stop him.
Instead, you leaned into his touch.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
Your foreheads met first.
His breathing was uneven.
“So this is what courage feels like,” he whispered.
“This is what love feels like.”
For one second, neither of you breathed.
Then his lips found yours.
Soft. Painfully soft. As though he had spent years imagining what kissing you would feel like and was terrified reality might be less beautiful.
It was better. It was every letter that had arrived too late.
Every dance that had ended too soon.
Every room where he had looked at you and said nothing.
The kiss was careful at first, his mouth barely moving against yours, as if asking whether you were still sure. You answered by kissing him back. Your hands rose slowly, curling into the front of his jacket.
And something inside him gave way. His other hand found your waist, drawing you closer, not roughly, never roughly, but with a desperation that made you realize restraint had been hurting him too. You had thought James was controlled because he was calm.
Now you understood. James was controlled because if he was not, he might love you like this. Completely.
The kiss deepened. Only for a heartbeat. Enough to make the world fall away. Enough to make you forget your name, your country, your father’s title, his crown, everything except the warmth of his mouth and the way his hand trembled at your waist.
Only enough to look at you.
His forehead rested against yours. His eyes opened slowly.
You were smiling. You felt it before you realized.
“You smiled,” he whispered.
“I don’t think I have ever seen anything more beautiful.”
You laughed, embarrassed and breathless.
“I was not looking at them.”
Your chest ached. You rested your forehead against his again.
“I think this is going to ruin us.”
James closed the tiny distance between you and kissed you again. This time, it was slower. Sadder. As if he knew you were right.
“If it does,” he whispered against your lips, “it will still be worth every second.”
You should have told him not to say things like that. You should have stepped back. You should have remembered your mother’s warning. Instead, you kissed him until the music from the reception disappeared.
You returned separately. James went first. He looked at you before leaving the garden, his mouth still slightly swollen, his composure not yet fully restored.It made something warm and possessive unfurl inside you. Then you hated yourself for it. You were not allowed to possess him. No one was. Perhaps that was what made him so impossible to stop wanting. When you returned to the reception, your mother looked at you once and knew.
She did not speak. Only touched your arm lightly as you passed. A silent question.
You looked across the garden. James stood beside his father, speaking to a minister. Perfect again. Except his eyes were on you.
You answered your mother just as silently.
After that night, the world became unbearable in a new way. Before the kiss, longing had been a kind of hunger. After the kiss, it became memory. Your mouth remembered him at the worst moments.
During breakfast with your parents.
During a university lecture.
During a museum opening where an old man spoke to you for ten minutes about restoration funding and all you could think about was James’ hand at your waist.
You did not see him alone again in Taipei. There was no opportunity. Or perhaps both of you were afraid of what opportunity would become now.
He looked at you constantly.
You looked away constantly.
It was a ridiculous arrangement. Still, on the final day, as your family prepared to leave, James found one moment.
In the palace hallway, just before the farewell ceremony. He approached you while your parents spoke with Queen Zhao. No one was close enough to hear.
“You are leaving,” he said.
It was a stupid conversation. You wanted to cry. He looked as if he did too.
A small smile touched his mouth.
He slipped a folded paper into your hand with such subtlety no one noticed. Your fingers closed around it.
“I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” you whispered.
Your father called your name. You turned, then looked back at James.
“Safe travels, Miss Y/L/N.”
You wanted to laugh. Or slap him. Or kiss him in front of every horrified adviser in the palace. Instead, you curtsied.
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
For a second, you thought you had hurt him. Then you realized he understood. Sometimes titles were armor. Sometimes they were punishment. You left the palace with his letter pressed into your palm.
You opened it on the plane.
I have thought of many things to write and discarded all of them because they sounded either too careful or not careful enough.
So I will write the truth while I still remember how.
I wanted to kiss you the night we met.
That is not romantic. It is embarrassing. I was eighteen and you looked at me as if I were both interesting and inconvenient, which no one had done before. I spent the flight home thinking of your smile and told myself it would pass.
I wanted to kiss you in London, when you held the book.
In Vienna, when we danced.
In Rome, when the wind moved your hair.
In Madrid, when I held your wrist.
In Geneva, when your hand was in mine.
In Monaco, when you said we would ruin each other.
I wanted to kiss you in every room where I did not.
Last night, I finally understood that wanting quietly does not make it safer.
It only makes the silence heavier.
I do not know what we are allowed to be.
You read the last line until the ink blurred. Then you pressed the letter to your mouth and cried silently beside the airplane window while the ocean unfolded beneath you.
There was no formal agreement between you. No promise spoken in dramatic terms. No declaration beyond ink and one impossible kiss beneath lanterns. And yet, somehow, you belonged to each other after that.
But in all the ways that mattered most.
The next months were built out of stolen paper. His letters became less careful. So did yours.
You are arrogant to assume I wanted you.
I have been called many things by ministers, tutors and foreign officials.
Arrogant has never pleased me more.
The staff still calls it a problem.
I have named it Majesty officially.
This may be my first act of rebellion.
If naming a cat is rebellion, your kingdom is in terrible trouble.
My kingdom was in trouble the moment I met you.
You kept that letter beneath your pillow for three nights. Then hid it because even paper had begun to feel too intimate.
You saw him again in the autumn. A memorial service in Paris . Not romantic. Not suitable for lovers. Perhaps that was why it became one of your favorite memories. The ceremony was solemn. Everyone wore black. Rain made the stone steps slick, and the sky looked bruised. Afterward, while guests moved through the embassy in quiet clusters, James found you in a corridor.
He simply stood before you and said, “I missed you.”
“We saw each other three months ago.”
No one. Still, he did not touch you. Not until you moved first.
Only your hand reaching toward his.
He took it. For seven seconds, you stood in a dark corridor holding hands like it was something holy. Then footsteps approached. You let go. But before you could step away, James lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your palm.
You spent the rest of the reception with your hand closed around the kiss.
Winter came again. This time, waiting was different.
But not him. Never fully him.
There were days when love felt like a privilege. Others when it felt like punishment. Your mother found you one evening in the library, sitting by the fire with a letter open on your lap.
“You are happy,” she said.
The answer should have been yes. Instead, your eyes filled. Your mother came to you at once.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
She sat beside you and pulled you close. You rested your head on her shoulder like you had when you were a child.
“I thought love would make things clearer,” you whispered.
Your mother stroked your hair.
“No. Love often makes the truth impossible to ignore.”
The words had never been spoken aloud before.
They entered the room and changed it. Your mother closed her eyes.
“I don’t think I can stop.”
You laughed through tears.
“I wish I knew how to protect you from this.”
She kissed the top of your head.
“But I can sit with you in it.”
James said it first in person.
Not I love you. Not yet. Something worse.
Brussels. A diplomatic dinner.
You had become twenty now, and James twenty-one. The years had not made this easier. They had made it deeper, which was far more dangerous. After dinner, he led you into an empty gallery under the excuse of showing you a painting. There was a painting but neither of you looked at it.
The room was narrow, lit dimly, smelling of wax and old wood. The door remained open.
James stood close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.
“I have to tell you something.”
Your heart began to race.
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“If it’s terrible, wait until after dessert.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
You looked at him carefully. He seemed nervous. James, who could address parliaments and kings without blinking, was nervous in front of you. That alone nearly broke you.
He looked at the painting.
“My father has begun speaking more seriously about marriage.”
It entered the room like a blade. You looked away.
“I told him there is no one.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. Painfully.
James reached for you, then stopped. His hand fell.
You looked at him. His voice was rough now.
“There is no one suitable.”
“There is no one they would accept.”
“There is no one I want to give them.”
“And what about what you want?”
It was too much. You looked toward the open door.
“You should not say these things.”
His answer was immediate.
“Because when I do not, I feel like I am lying to you.”
The honesty took the fight out of you. You turned back. James stepped closer. Still not touching.
“I do not know how this ends,” he said. “But I need you to know that when they speak of marriage, I do not imagine a throne.”
“A house far enough from palace walls that no one knocks before breakfast.”
You let out a broken laugh.
You smiled despite yourself. He looked at you like that smile was everything.
“Majesty needs a successor.”
“You are not naming our imaginary cat Majesty the Second.”
James went very still. Our. You had said our.
Without thinking. Without meaning to. Your smile faded, his did too. The silence that followed was tender enough to hurt.
But your voice had no strength. He stepped closer. This time, his fingers brushed yours.
“I think about it,” he said.
“I think about ordinary things with you.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. He lifted his hand slowly and wiped it away with his thumb.
“If I am to be ruined,” he whispered, “let it be by that.”
You kissed him first. Because you had to. Because if you did not, the grief of wanting would tear you open. This kiss was not like the first.
His hand slid to your waist. Yours rose to his neck. He backed you gently against the wall beside the painting, his mouth warm and desperate against yours. The door was open, anyone could have passed but neither of you stopped. For twenty seconds, maybe thirty, you were reckless.
Then someone laughed in the corridor.
James tore himself away. Both of you stood frozen. Breathing hard.
No one entered. You covered your mouth with trembling fingers, half laughing, half crying. James looked at you.
Then, softly, he said, “I want this.”
“Not the danger. Not the secrets.” His voice broke. “You.”
“All of you. Not corridors. Not letters. Not five minutes stolen between speeches.”
You wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.
“One day,” he said, “I will ask you properly.”
You knew what he meant. Your whole body went cold.
“I am not promising. I am telling you what I want.”
“You may not be allowed to want it.”
“Then I will want it anyway.”
“No,” he said. “But it is where I begin.”
That night, back in your hotel room, you did not sleep. You sat by the window in your nightdress, looking at Brussels beneath the rain, thinking of a house far from palace walls.
It was ridiculous, It was impossible. It was the cruelest dream anyone had ever given you. And yet, for the first time, you let yourself imagine it. Not because you believed it would happen.
Because James did and loving him had made you foolish enough to borrow his hope.
The months that followed were the happiest you had ever been. And the saddest. That was the terrible truth of secret love. Joy came wrapped in fear.
A letter could make your entire week. A headline could destroy it.
You saw James in Lisbon in June. He kissed you behind a row of orange trees while fireworks exploded above the river.
You saw him in Edinburgh in September. You spent twenty minutes together in an old chapel while rain struck the stained glass. He held your hand and spoke of nothing important because importance belonged to everyone else.
You saw him in New York in November. He sat across from you at a formal dinner and never once looked at your mouth, which meant he was thinking about kissing you the entire time.
Afterward, in the service corridor of a hotel, he did. You laughed against his lips because the whole thing was absurd.
He smiled and said, “I missed you.”
“You could pretend otherwise.”
“I am tired of pretending.”
That sentence returned later. Much later. When pretending stopped being romantic and became survival. But that night, you kissed him again and believed tiredness could become courage.
At Christmas, James sent a letter with no seal. It arrived through Queen Zhao’s personal correspondence, hidden inside a parcel of silk scarves for your mother. You opened it alone.
I have been instructed to choose suitable gifts this year.
For my father, a rare edition of military essays.
For my mother, jade earrings.
For several ministers, wine.
For you, I considered sending something careful.
Then I realized I have been careful with you for years and have almost nothing to show for it except longing. So here is the truth.
If I could give you anything, I would give you a morning.
No one waiting outside a door.
I would wake before you and be foolish enough to watch you sleep until you accused me of being unbearable. I would make terrible coffee.
The cat would choose you over me. I would resent it forever.
We would argue about whether the curtains should be opened.
You would win. I would let you.
A life so ordinary no historian would ever write about it.
You cried so hard you had to hide the letter beneath your mattress before dinner. That evening, surrounded by Christmas lights, cameras and guests, your father raised a toast to peace between nations. You raised your glass. And thought of terrible coffee.
But this time, it brought something different with it.
A column in a European newspaper mentioned that the Taiwanese Royal Council had begun early discussions regarding Crown Prince James’ future marriage.
You read it once. Then threw the newspaper away. The next week, another article appeared.
Names began attaching themselves to him.
Women with titles polished enough to reflect a crown.
Your name did not appear. Of course it did not.
You were the daughter of a president.
James wrote three letters in two weeks. You answered none of them. Not because you wanted to punish him. Because you did not know how to write the question that was destroying you.
Finally, a fourth letter arrived.
You sat with it for an hour.
I do not know what I am allowed to ask you.
His reply came faster than any before.
Are they choosing your wife?
Three weeks passed. The longest three weeks of your life.
You wanted to believe him.
The last scene of that chapter of your life happened in summer. A royal anniversary celebration in Copenhagen. It was meant to be magnificent.
James arrived late, and when he did, he looked furious beneath his perfect composure. You had never seen him like that.
He did not come to you. He could not.
Instead, he stood beside his father as dignitaries welcomed them, his jaw tight, his eyes cold enough to frighten even the photographers into keeping distance.
At dinner, he was seated beside Princess Amara again. This time, you did not feel jealousy. You felt dread. Because James did not smile.
After dinner, you found him in a narrow hallway outside the ballroom. Or perhaps he found you. It no longer mattered.
The moment he saw you, the mask broke.
“They gave me a list,” he said.
“Of women considered appropriate.”
The hallway tilted. You gripped the wall.
James moved toward you. You stepped back. Not because you feared him. Because if he touched you, you would fall apart.
“Your name was not on it,” he said.
“I told them there is already someone.”
You looked at him. He looked almost calm now. Terrifyingly calm.
“My father asked if I had formed an attachment.” His voice was low. “I said yes.”
You could barely breathe.
“I told him there is already someone.”
“You should not have done that.”
“I should have done it sooner.”
“You don’t understand what this means.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“No, you don’t.” Your voice shook. “To them, I am not a girl you love. I am a problem.”
“You are the only solution I have ever wanted.”
“Stop making it sound beautiful.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“That does not make it less true.”
He stepped closer. This time, when you moved back, your shoulders hit the wall. He stopped immediately.
“Do you want me to walk away?” he asked.
The honesty broke from you like a sob.
You looked at him through tears.
James looked toward the closed ballroom doors.
The world waiting to claim him. Then back at you.
“Now they try to take you from me.”
You wanted to believe that love could be won by wanting hard enough. You wanted to believe princes could fight crowns and win. You wanted to believe every story you had been wise enough to distrust.
Instead, you reached for him. James crossed the distance in one step.
He kissed you like a man already losing a war.
You kissed him back like a woman afraid he would. His hands framed your face. Yours held his wrists. The kiss tasted of tears and panic, of years spent waiting and the sudden knowledge that waiting might not save you. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.
“I will choose you,” he whispered.
That night, James returned to his family.
Neither of you slept. By morning, the world had not yet changed. But it had begun. You knew because your mother entered your room before breakfast and closed the door behind her. Her face was pale.
“James spoke to his father.”
You looked down at your hands.
Your mother sat beside you. For a moment, she did not answer. That was answer enough. Then she took your hand.
“Now,” she said quietly, “they decide whether love is worth a crisis.”
Your mother looked at you with all the sadness in the world.
“That is the cruel part.”
She brushed your hair back from your face.
chapter four will be out very soon...
