I was about to betray everything I'd been raised to believe, and I couldn't bring myself to care.
The letter from Veridian had arrived that morning, bearing my father's familiar seal and his even more familiar expectations. His words were carefully chosen, as always, praise wrapped around pressure, affection laced with command.
My dearest Penelope,
Word has reached us of Prince Luka's favor toward you. The court speaks of little else but the sun pendant you wear and the way he looks at you. I am proud, as I knew I would be.
The situation with Iramholt grows more dire by the day. Their armies mass at our borders, and their demands grow bolder. Without Aurelion's protection, we will not survive the winter. I trust you understand what this means.
You know your duty, my daughter. Do not let sentiment cloud it.
Your loving father, King Theon
I'd read the letter three times before the full weight of it settled in my chest. It was always duty. The kingdom's survival balanced on my shoulders, on my ability to secure a prince's love and a marriage alliance.
That evening, Luka had invited me to a private rooftop dinner. The setting was perfect, silk cushions arranged under the stars, candles flickering in crystal holders, the entire kingdom spread out below us like a tapestry of lights.
He'd thought of everything, even bringing my favorite wine from the palace cellars.
"You're quiet tonight," he said, refilling my glass with practiced ease. "Are you feeling well?"
"Just thinking." I managed a smile that felt only half-forced. "It's beautiful up here."
"I come here when I need perspective." He gestured toward the lights below. "All those people, trusting us to make the right choices for them. Sometimes the weight of it is overwhelming."
He spoke of the future then, of ruling together, of the changes we could make from within. His vision was compelling, a kingdom where power served justice, where strength protected rather than oppressed. He painted pictures of reforms, of progress, of a better world we could build together.
"You could make history, Penelope," he said, his amber eyes bright with conviction. "Not just as a queen, but as a partner. Someone who shapes the future rather than just inheriting it."
I smiled, nodded, and listened to every word. When he leaned closer, his hand finding mine across the small table, I didn't pull away. When he kissed me, I didn't resist.
It was soft, real, and good, everything a kiss should be.
His lips moved against mine with gentle reverence, his thumb stroking across my cheek as if I were something precious. I could taste the wine on his tongue, could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat where our bodies pressed together.
It should have been perfect. He was perfect, kind, intelligent, passionate about justice and genuinely caring toward me.
Everything I'd been taught to want in a husband. And yet, something was missing. Something I couldn't pretend away anymore, no matter how hard I tried.
***
Sleep was impossible. The palace walls felt like they were closing in, my father's letter burning in my memory alongside Luka's promises of a golden future. I threw off my covers and stalked through the corridors, my bare feet silent on the marble floors.
I told myself I needed air. I lied.
The Pleasure Gardens were quieter at this hour, most activities having moved to private chambers. Soft music drifted from hidden alcoves, punctuated by distant laughter and whispered promises.
I found him in a dim corner, candlelight dancing across his sharp features.
Rios looked up when I approached, his silver eyes unreadable. "Lost, Princess?"
"Hardly." I sat beside him on the silk cushions without invitation, close enough that our shoulders brushed. "You're alone."
"By choice." His voice was clipped, dangerous. "What do you want?"
"To understand." I turned to face him fully. "Today you spoke of freedom, of choice. But here you sit, alone in the dark."
"And you?" He shifted, his knee grazing mine. "What's your excuse for prowling the gardens at midnight?"
"I couldn't stop thinking about what you said. About chains and cages."
His laugh was bitter. "Having second thoughts about your golden prince?"
"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. "Don't pretend you know anything about my choices."
"I know you're here instead of in your tower, planning your perfect wedding." His eyes blazed. "I know you're looking at me like I'm some kind of answer to questions you're afraid to ask."
"You're insufferable."
"And you're terrified." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my cheek. "Terrified that everything you've been taught about yourself is wrong."
"Stop."
"Make me."
The challenge hung between us like a drawn blade. My pulse hammered against my throat as I searched his face for mercy, for distance, for anything that might save us both from this moment.
I found only fire.
"You want to know what terrifies me?" I whispered. "You do. The way you look at me like you can see straight through every lie I've ever told myself."
"And what lies are those, Princess?"
"That I'm content. That I want the life they've planned for me. That I don't dream of something real."
His hand found my jaw, fingers threading through my hair. "Something like this?"
Before I could answer, before I could think, I crashed my mouth against his. The kiss was desperate, hungry, alive with everything I'd been denying.
He responded instantly, his other hand gripping my waist, pulling me closer.
This wasn't gentle courtship or practiced seduction. This was a raw need, the kind that burns everything in its path. His tongue swept against mine, drawing a moan from deep in my chest.
I could taste danger and desire, could feel the barely controlled power in the way he held me.
When we finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, the space between us felt dangerous, like something changed. The air crackled with tension and possibility and the weight of what we'd just crossed.
Neither of us spoke. What could we say? That this was a mistake? That it meant nothing?
The lies would have tasted bitter after the truth of that kiss. I stood on unsteady legs, my lips still tingling from his touch. His eyes never left mine, but he made no move to stop me, no plea for me to stay.
I left before I could ask him to stop me, before I could beg him to make the choice for both of us.
Before I could admit that kissing him had felt more real than anything else in my carefully constructed life.