Sovereign 4
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⬅️ last part
Y/N had barely regained her composure from their last waltz when Harry gently took her hand once more.
“It’s time,” he murmured.
Her heart stuttered in her chest, but she nodded. Margaret, her ever-dutiful chaperone, stayed a few paces behind as they left the glow of the ballroom and entered the quieter, more stately halls of the palace. The silence felt heavier here—thicker with history, tradition… expectation.
She had known this meeting was coming.
Still, nothing quite prepared her for the reality of it.
As the grand doors to the royal drawing room opened, Y/N took a steadying breath. She had practiced her curtsy. Practiced what to say. But still, the sight of the Queen and King—regal and resplendent in their private sitting room—was enough to make her knees wobble.
Harry squeezed her hand gently. “You’re alright,” he whispered.
And then he released her.
Y/N stepped forward and curtsied deeply. “Your Majesties. Thank you for receiving me.”
The Queen, seated elegantly with a crystal glass of sherry in hand, said nothing at first. The King stood behind her chair, quiet and imposing, his gaze sharp and unwavering.
When Y/N rose, the Queen’s eyes flicked immediately to her left hand. A subtle pause followed. “I see,” she said coolly, before turning to her son. “So it’s true, then.”
Harry gave a respectful bow. “I have asked for her hand.”
“And she accepted?”
“She did.”
Y/N stood tall, chin high despite the pounding of her heart. Her hand twitched at her side, the weight of the ring suddenly very real. She hadn’t expected it to be noticed so quickly—though she supposed nothing escaped the Queen’s eye.
“Rather bold of you,” the Queen remarked, her tone unreadable.
“I have never been one for hesitation,” Harry replied. “Especially not when it comes to something—someone—I am certain of.”
The King said nothing, simply watching. Observing.
The Queen, however, stood slowly, her eyes now fixed on Y/N with the sharp focus of a hawk sizing up its prey. “You are not royalty. You hold no title. You are not what this court would expect.”
“No, Your Majesty,” Y/N said softly but firmly. “I am not.”
“And yet,” the Queen continued, circling her like a cat with a curious mouse, “you will soon belong to it. Have you considered what that truly means, Miss Hathaway?”
“I have,” Y/N answered. “Though I know there’s much I cannot yet understand.”
The Queen tilted her head, regarding her. “You have already caused a stir among the ton. There will be whispers—many of them cruel. The court is not kind to outsiders, especially those who rise quickly. They will test you. They may try to break you.”
“I will not break,” Y/N said without hesitation.
The Queen paused.
Then, with something close to a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, she said, “That would be a first in this court.”
Silence followed.
Harry watched them both carefully, but did not intervene.
The Queen turned slightly, her eyes drifting back to the fire. “You unsettle people, Lady Hathaway. That can be dangerous. But it can also be powerful—if used wisely.”
Y/N didn’t know what to say to that. She only nodded.
“I suggest,” the Queen added, “that you steel yourself. Charm is not armour. Wit will not protect you from everything. You must be strong.”
“I intend to be, Your Majesty.”
Another pause. Then, at last, the Queen looked toward Harry. “You’ve made your choice.”
“I have,” he said quietly.
She sighed, almost wistfully. “Then we will see.”
The King stepped forward. “The court will take some time to adjust. But they will.”
Y/N curtsied once more, every motion elegant but full of quiet resolve. “Thank you for receiving me, Your Majesties.”
As they stepped out of the room and the doors shut gently behind them, Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“You were incredible,” he said.
Y/N gave a weak laugh, her pulse still wild. “I don’t feel incredible.”
“You stood before them and didn’t waver.”
“I’m still shaking.”
Harry took her hand, gently linking their fingers. “Good. Means you’re human.”
She looked up at him then. “Do you think they liked me?”
“They don’t need to like you,” he said. “But I think they might be beginning to respect you. And that is far more valuable.”
Harry glanced down the hall, expecting to see Lady Margaret waiting with her usual stern, watchful gaze.
But the space was empty.
Frowning slightly, he took a step forward, scanning the corners—no sign of her. “Odd,” he murmured. “She said she would wait.”
Y/N blinked, shifting uncertainly. “Do you think she’s alright?”
“I’m sure she’s just been pulled away,” Harry said, though his voice lacked conviction.
And then his fingers slid down to catch hers—this time not as a polite escort or a prince performing courtly duties, but something more deliberate. More intimate.
He interlaced their fingers, letting their joined hands settle between them. His skin was warm and steady, and the simple change in touch sent a rush of heat to her cheeks.
“Harry…” she began, her voice catching.
But he wasn’t looking for words.
With his free hand, he lifted it slowly, bringing it to the side of her face, cupping her cheek with a tenderness that made her knees go weak. The pad of his thumb brushed along her cheekbone—barely a whisper of contact—and yet it held a power she hadn’t anticipated.
The gesture was nothing scandalous.
And still, it felt as though he had peeled something open inside her.
No glove separated his skin from hers now. She could feel every detail—the softness of his palm, the faint callous at the base of his thumb, the warmth of him, solid and real.
She had never been touched like this.
Not by anyone.
Not like that.
Her eyes flicked up to his. He was watching her—not with hunger, not with entitlement, but something quieter. Something far more dangerous.
Longing.
“You’re blushing,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.
“I’m not,” she said too quickly, her voice higher than intended.
His hand slid back just a touch, his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. “You are,” he said, his voice low and amused. “And you’re trembling.”
“I’m not used to…” She hesitated. “Being touched this way.”
Harry's brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t press. “Then I shall be gentle with you, always.”
She swallowed hard.
There was a part of her—raised by Lady Hathaway, schooled by the rules of society—that warned her to step back. That this moment, as quiet as it was, could be read the wrong way. But then there was another part of her. The part that had danced with him in that ballroom. That had stood before the Queen and not broken. That part didn’t want to move at all.
“I suppose Margaret’s disappearance is rather convenient,” she said at last, attempting levity.
Harry chuckled. “Suspiciously so. Perhaps she’s more of a romantic than she appears.”
Y/N huffed a breath of laughter, though her heart continued to pound. “You shouldn’t touch me like this in the corridor of a palace.”
“Then marry me,” he said, utterly unflinching. “And I’ll be able to touch you wherever I like.”
Y/N’s breath caught, her cheeks blooming with heat as his thumb gently brushed her cheekbone — reverent, tender, and yet charged with something far more dangerous.
Her voice was barely a whisper, but steady. “I already am.”
For a single beat, he didn’t move — the weight of her words clearly striking him deeper than even she had anticipated. Then, slowly, his lips curled into something between awe and desire. He looked at her like she was the very first star to appear in the night sky — and the only one worth wishing on.
He didn’t kiss her. Not yet.
But he leaned forward, his forehead resting gently against hers, and let out a breath that trembled between restraint and longing.
“God help me,” he murmured, “but I think I’m already lost.”
Lady Hathaway was practically glowing by the time Harry led Y/N back to her.
Her daughter’s hand was nestled securely in the crook of the prince’s arm, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright — and there, sparkling proudly on her finger, was the ring. The ring. The very same ring that had caught the Queen’s eye moments ago.
Lady Hathaway nearly swooned.
Harry bowed politely, murmuring something about diplomats arriving and duties to attend. He pressed a fleeting kiss to Y/N’s hand — though the way his thumb lingered against her knuckles betrayed how reluctant he was to let go — and then turned to leave, his navy coat catching the candlelight with each purposeful stride.
As soon as he was out of sight, Lady Hathaway all but pounced.
“My darling girl!” she whispered excitedly, clutching both of Y/N’s hands in her own. “Oh, he is besotted. Completely undone! And that ring, oh my—well, we mustn’t waste a moment. I’ll send word to the modiste in the morning. We’ll begin with the gown, of course, and then—oh! We’ll need to speak to the florist and the baker and—”
“Mama,” Y/N cut in gently.
Lady Hathaway paused mid-ramble, blinking at her daughter.
“I want to plan my own wedding.”
There was a beat of silence, as though the room itself hadn’t quite heard her correctly.
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Hathaway said, her voice sharp with disbelief.
Y/N straightened her posture, lifting her chin ever so slightly. “It’s my wedding. I want it to reflect me. Not just society’s expectations. Not just what will make the papers or earn the Queen’s approval. I want to choose the flowers. I want to meet the musicians. I want to pick the menu and the colours and... everything.”
Lady Hathaway’s mouth opened, then closed again. “But... I was only trying to help—”
“I know,” Y/N said gently, reaching for her hand. “And I want you with me for every step. But not to take over. To be with me.”
For a moment, her mother simply stared — caught between pride and resistance. Then, with a quiet huff, she nodded once, almost begrudgingly. “Very well. We shall plan it. Together.”
Y/N smiled, relief loosening her shoulders. “Together.”
Lady Hathaway gave a sniff, but the sparkle had returned to her eyes. “Although... I do hope you’ll still wear my tiara. It’s been in the family for generations.”
Y/N laughed, wrapping her arm through her mother’s as they walked up the stairs. “We’ll discuss it.”
As soon as morning sunlight spilled through the windows of the Hathaway residence, the house was abuzz with motion. The staff barely had time to finish dressing the front rooms before the knock came — three deliberate raps, firm but not brash.
Lady Hathaway was still in her robe, hair barely pinned, when the footman entered the drawing room and announced, a little breathlessly, “His Royal Highness, Prince Harry.”
Y/N’s teacup froze halfway to her lips.
He hadn’t written. He hadn’t sent word. But there he was, standing in the foyer, tall and self-assured in a dark coat and riding gloves, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to appear unannounced before breakfast.
When Y/N entered the room, he turned to face her — and her breath caught.
“Good morning, Lady Y/N,” he greeted, with a knowing smile. “I do hope I’m not intruding.”
“You are,” Lady Hathaway muttered from behind her, hurrying to pull her robe tighter. “But I suppose that’s your royal prerogative.”
Harry chuckled politely. “I wouldn’t have come so early, but I have a matter I wished to speak of... in person.”
Y/N raised a brow. “Could it not have been written in a letter?”
“It could have,” he said. “But I much preferred the idea of seeing you.”
Lady Hathaway cleared her throat pointedly.
Harry, entirely undeterred, turned back to Y/N. “The Queen has begun making arrangements for your arrival at the palace. She’s requested you move in... soon. Before the wedding. She believes there is much to discuss, many preparations to begin. The transition, she says, should be gradual.”
Y/N blinked. “Move in?”
“ Your own wing. With your own staff. Nothing improper.” He hesitated, then added more softly, “But yes. Move in.”
Behind her, Lady Hathaway sucked in a breath. “Absolutely not.”
“Mama—”
“I thought we had time,” she said, voice cracking ever so slightly. “I thought we would have more time together. I assumed — assumed, as any mother would — that you’d remain here until the wedding, that we would sew and plan and prepare in this house, your home.”
Y/N turned, her heart aching at the sight of her mother — suddenly fragile, clinging to a vision of a future that had already shifted beneath her.
Harry stepped forward, more gently now. “Lady Hathaway, I understand. And I wouldn’t ask this if it weren’t necessary. The court, the customs… there is much she will be expected to learn. I want her to be prepared — and protected. And she won’t be alone. The Queen has ensured that everything she needs will be provided.”
Lady Hathaway’s lips pressed into a line, and she looked to Y/N — not the prince. Her daughter.
Y/N swallowed, stepping closer to her mother. “it doesn’t mean I’m not still yours. I’m just— I’m also becoming his. Becoming theirs.” She offered a small, hopeful smile. “You raised me for this. Let me do it... my way.”
A silence passed. Then, slowly, Lady Hathaway nodded, her expression laced with resignation and pride. “At the very least,” she muttered, “I’ll be there to help you pack.”
Harry’s hand brushed lightly against Y/N’s, a silent thank you.
“And if you ever wake me with a royal visit before eight again,” Lady Hathaway added, eyeing him, “I shall not hesitate to lock the doors and pretend we’re out.”
Harry smiled. “Duly noted, Lady Hathaway.”
The morning light spilled softly through the windows as the palace movers arrived, their footsteps brisk and purposeful. They began packing Y/N’s belongings carefully, wrapping each treasured item and placing them gently into sturdy crates. Outside, the grand carriage waited, polished to a shine, ready to carry her away to a new life.
Y/N and Lady Hathaway stood side by side near the front door, watching the steady activity unfold. The familiar walls of their home seemed suddenly smaller, the moments heavier.
Lady Hathaway’s voice broke the quiet, gentle but firm. “Write to me every day, Y/N. I want to hear everything—even the smallest details. It will help me feel close to you.”
Y/N nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat. “I will, Mother.”
Her mother’s gaze softened, eyes lingering on her daughter with a tenderness that took Y/N by surprise. “I’ll come to see you as soon as I can. And as often as possible.”
She hesitated, then took a breath, her voice steadying with conviction. “Remember, my dear, the importance of making this marriage work. It won’t always be easy, but you must be strong. For yourself, for Harry, and for the life you’re building.”
For the first time in years, Y/N saw clearly the depth of her mother’s love. It wasn’t the calculated interest of a social climb, nor the cold appraisal of an asset to be traded. It was genuine, fierce, protective.
Lady Hathaway reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind Y/N’s ear. “I believe in you.”
A warmth bloomed inside Y/N’s chest, a quiet reassurance she hadn’t known she needed. She gave her mother’s hand a small squeeze before stepping toward the waiting carriage.
As the door closed behind her, the house seemed to exhale, and with it, Y/N took a steadying breath, ready to face the unknown.
Y/N stood in the center of her new chamber, breath caught between awe and uncertainty. The room was vast — far larger than any she had known — with soaring ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork that gleamed softly in the afternoon light. Tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, draped with heavy silk curtains of deep emerald, matching the royal colors she had only glimpsed at formal events before. Through the glass, the palace gardens unfurled like a living tapestry: neat rows of flowering hedges, marble statues glinting in the sun, and beyond, the river curling gently through the landscape.
Her eyes roamed the room: polished hardwood floors that gleamed beneath an elaborate Persian rug, thick and plush underfoot; an ornate canopy bed, draped in velvet and embroidered linens, promising rest she wasn’t sure she deserved; a gilded writing desk tucked beneath a tall mirror framed in gold leaf; and a delicate porcelain tea set resting on a silver tray atop a side table, untouched and pristine. Against one wall, a grand fireplace carved with the royal crest sat cold, yet its presence was commanding, as if the room itself held centuries of whispered secrets and noble dreams.
Everything gleamed with majesty and history, every detail painstakingly crafted to impress and overwhelm. Y/N felt like a small bird in a gilded cage—beautiful, yes, but confined by expectations heavier than the velvet drapes around her.
Her thoughts swirled with a mix of wonder and apprehension until a soft knock echoed through the room, startling her. She turned sharply, heart skipping, to find Harry standing there, framed in the doorway.
His usual confident smile softened as he stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him.
“May I come in?” His voice was low, familiar, yet carrying a new kind of warmth.
Y/N nodded, suddenly shy amid the grandeur that still surrounded her — and the presence of the prince, here, in her sanctuary.
Harry stepped further into the room, his eyes searching hers with quiet concern. “How are you doing?” he asked softly, his voice low enough so only she could hear. “Are you... feeling alright? This must be quite overwhelming.”
Y/N swallowed, managing a small smile despite the flutter in her chest. “It’s... a lot,” she admitted. “But I’m managing. I suppose I’ll have to get used to it.” She glanced around at the footmen and ladies-in-waiting bustling through the chamber, placing her belongings with practiced efficiency.
They both instinctively kept a careful distance — not quite close enough to touch, yet no longer strangers either. The space between them felt charged, like the moment before a dance begins.
Harry’s gaze softened. “You’re doing more than managing,” he said, a playful tilt to his lips. “I don’t think anyone else could pull this off quite like you.”
Y/N let out a light, surprised laugh. “Are you trying to flatter me, Your Highness? Because it’s working.”
He stepped just a little closer, voice dropping to a murmur. “I’m merely stating facts.” His eyes flicked to her lips for a moment before he added, “You look beautiful.”
Her cheeks warmed, but before she could reply, a firm yet polite clearing of a throat made them both turn.
The door opened, and the Queen entered, accompanied by two ladies-in-waiting and Y/N’s new chamber woman. Her Majesty’s expression was unreadable but composed as she regarded the scene—a private moment interrupted.
“Ah, I see you are settling in,” the Queen said, voice calm but carrying the weight of authority. “Lady Y/N, this will be your chamber from now on. Your chamber woman, Mrs. Wentworth, will assist you with whatever you need.” She nodded toward the poised woman standing quietly by the door.
Harry gave Y/N’s hand a gentle squeeze before stepping back.
The Queen’s gaze swept slowly across the chamber, assessing the placement of trunks, the sheen of the polished floor, the morning light casting long golden streaks across the rugs. Her eye lingered on a velvet chaise in the corner, then returned to Y/N.
“Tomorrow,” she began crisply, “we shall begin the process of selecting your ladies.”
Y/N straightened slightly, unsure whether to smile or look concerned.
“They will be responsible for your wardrobe, your appearance, your daily schedule. They will dress you, fetch what you require, run errands on your behalf. They will represent you when you cannot represent yourself. Choose wisely.”
The Queen stepped further into the room, her train whispering across the stone.
“You will not have to manage them, of course. That will be Mrs. Wentworth’s responsibility.”
At the sound of her name, Mrs. Wentworth dipped her head in a slight curtsy. She stood tall beside the Queen—hands folded, spine stiff, lips pressed into a thin line. Her dark gray gown was neat and unadorned, save for a small brooch at her collarbone. Everything about her screamed precision.
“She is your chamber woman. She has served this court longer than some of the noblemen who sit in it. She will advise you on what is proper, and more importantly, on what is possible.”
Y/N met Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes and offered a polite smile. The woman’s expression didn’t shift. Not even a flicker of warmth. If anything, her lips pursed tighter.
“I trust you will find her guidance... instructive,” the Queen added, her tone unreadable.
“I’m sure I will,” Y/N said quickly, though a small chill settled at the back of her neck.
“Good.” The Queen gave a single nod. “That will be all for today. We have much to prepare.”
With a turn that signaled the conversation was over, the Queen swept from the room, her ladies trailing behind her like loyal shadows.
Mrs. Wentworth curtsied again and followed, not without casting one final, silent glance toward Y/N. It was not cruel, but it wasn’t exactly kind either. It was the look of a woman already judging her worth.
The room was quiet again.
Y/N exhaled slowly and turned to Harry, who hadn’t moved from his spot by the window.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Still glad you said yes?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, lips twitching with reluctant amusement. “Ask me again after tomorrow.”
He grinned. “I plan to.”
The sun had barely risen when the palace halls began to stir. Servants moved with purpose, the clinking of silver basins and the soft rustle of linens echoing faintly through the east wing.
Y/N stood in the center of her chambers, still adjusting to the grandeur around her—the thick velvet curtains drawn open to reveal a pale morning sky, the polished mahogany wardrobe, the array of perfumes and powders lined like soldiers along her dressing table. Her gown for the day—a pale blue silk chosen by Mrs. Wentworth herself—was already being fastened at the back by one of the palace maids.
“You will stand before them shortly,” Mrs. Wentworth said, appearing beside her without ceremony. “Do not fidget. Speak clearly. Make eye contact. You are not simply selecting attendants—you are defining your household.”
Y/N managed a small nod. Her stomach twisted.
The gown’s final button snapped into place. She was ready.
The drawing room chosen for the selection was high-ceilinged and cold, despite the fire crackling at one end. Y/N stepped inside with Margaret just behind her, her chin held high, remembering her mother’s words—Be strong.
Arrayed before her stood nearly a dozen women. All noble. All beautiful. All carefully chosen by the court to present the right sort of impression.
Some smiled with forced sweetness, others simply studied her with veiled scrutiny. A few looked barely older than Y/N herself, while others seemed already trained in the art of curtsying and whispering behind fans.
Mrs. Wentworth moved to the center of the room. “Her Royal Highness, Lady Y/N,” she announced—her voice carrying with quiet authority.
A ripple of curtsies followed.
Y/N felt all their eyes land on her.
The Queen entered next, seating herself with unspoken command in a tall chair to observe the proceedings. Harry was not present.
Mrs. Wentworth turned to Y/N. “You may speak with each of them. Ask what you wish. Their purpose is to serve you, my lady. They are not just decorative—they are functional. Choose based on sense, not sentiment.”
Y/N tried not to look at Margaret, but she could feel her comforting presence behind her, a small anchor in the storm.
The interviews began.
One by one, the women stepped forward.
Lady Charlotte was from a respected family in the North and spoke with crisp enunciation—but her eyes rarely met Y/N’s, and she seemed more interested in the Queen’s reaction than Y/N’s questions.
Miss Pembroke had a clever wit and an easy laugh, but she wore a perfume so overwhelming Y/N had to blink to stay focused.
Lady Emilia spoke fondly of poetry and long walks through the gardens. Y/N liked her instantly.
And so it went.
By the end of the hour, her mind swam with names, lineages, talents, and subtle threats of rivalry dressed as politeness.
When it was done, Mrs. Wentworth approached.
“You may make your selections now. Four, no more.”
Y/N stepped forward, pulse fluttering. She chose with care.
Lady Emilia, for her kindness. Miss Nora Talbot, for her quick thinking and sensible answers. Lady Astrid, despite her coolness, for her competence. And lastly—after a moment of hesitation—she selected Miss Lucy Greaves, who had remained quiet throughout the interviews but had asked Y/N if she liked books, and had recommended one.
“I think she’ll surprise you,” Y/N had said softly to Mrs. Wentworth.
The Queen raised an eyebrow when she heard the names, but said nothing.
Only when the room was dismissed did she approach Y/N, her voice low.
“Your choices will reflect on you. One day, they will reflect on the crown.”
Y/N bowed her head respectfully. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
But the Queen studied her for a moment longer. Then, unexpectedly, she said, “Lady Emilia has a soft heart. That can be both strength and weakness. Keep her close, but teach her not to flinch when the court bares its teeth.”
Y/N blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And Miss Greaves...” The Queen gave the faintest, smallest smile. “I think you were right about her.”
With that, she turned, her ladies trailing behind her.
The room emptied. Y/N stood alone for a moment, the weight of her new role pressing down gently on her shoulders like a new cloak.
And still, somewhere beneath it all, she smiled.
The heavy doors closed behind the Queen and her retinue, the echo of their departure leaving a lingering hush in the drawing room. Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. With a gentle smile, she turned to the four women she had chosen, each of them standing a little straighter now, eyes expectant and bright.
“I want to thank you,” Y/N began, her voice steady despite the anxious flutter still deep in her chest. “I know this position will not be easy, but I hope we can come to trust one another. I would very much like us to be a team—”
“Lady Y/N,” came the firm, clipped voice of Mrs. Wentworth.
Y/N turned, mid-sentence, to see the woman striding toward her with purpose, a rolled parchment in one hand and her expression unreadable.
“There’s been a development,” Mrs. Wentworth said briskly, then paused. “The royal engagement has just been officially announced.”
Y/N’s breath caught. Her eyes widened. “Already?”
“It was approved just moments ago and read aloud at the front gates of the palace,” she explained. “Which means it is now your duty to present yourself to the kingdom.”
Y/N blinked. “Present myself?”
“To the people,” Mrs. Wentworth clarified. “You are to step out onto the east balcony. With Prince Harry. It is not a request, my lady. It is your role now.”
Y/N felt a ripple of heat rush through her. Her heart thudded against her ribs.
She looked at the women around her—her new ladies-in-waiting, all of whom were now watching her with curiosity, awe, and no small amount of expectation. Then to Margaret, who stood silently in the corner, eyes soft but proud.
“Now?” she asked.
“Now,” Mrs. Wentworth affirmed. “The prince is waiting.”
The corridor leading to the balcony had never felt so long. As Y/N walked beside Mrs. Wentworth, her skirts trailing behind her and her slippers making the faintest sound on the marble floors, she tried to steady her breathing.
The doors loomed ahead.
And then, there he was.
Harry stood beside the double doors leading out to the balcony, dressed in royal blue, the color striking against his pale skin and the dark sweep of his curls. A ceremonial sash crossed his chest, and the signet ring on his hand glinted as he reached for her.
His eyes found hers at once. He smiled.
“Ready?” he asked softly, his fingers brushing against hers.
“Not even remotely,” she whispered back.
He chuckled. “Good. Neither am I.”
Their hands met—his steady, hers trembling just slightly. He gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze.
Behind the doors, they could already hear the crowd. Cheering. Calling. The sound of hundreds, if not thousands, of voices waiting—expecting.
“You’ll be magnificent,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer.
She gave a shaky smile. “You’re only saying that because you’re required to like me now.”
“I liked you before,” he said, brushing his thumb gently over her knuckles. “Now I just happen to have a crown to offer.”
The doors opened.
The sun hit them first. And then the roar of the crowd below.
They stepped out together, side by side. Her hand still in his.
And for the first time, Y/N looked out over the kingdom—not as a young woman lost in court politics, or as someone being used for advantage.
But as a future princess. As someone who belonged.
next part ➡️
