Chapter 2

I cried all night, but the next day, I thought that if Alexander meant for the world beyond, then I would wait for him, no matter where his journey took him.

On the day I came of age, my mother gently combed my hair and whispered, "Charlotte, you're a princess. You can have anything you want."

I replied, "I only want Alexander."

My mother was silent for a long time before she finally said, "What's forced never tastes sweet."

I didn't believe her. I thought that if I was stubborn enough, a person with a cold heart could be warmed if I held it long enough.

The snow kept falling, growing heavier as the sky darkened. The lights outside Hayes Manor swayed in the wind and snow, casting a dim yellow light.

My mind began to blur, and images drifted before my eyes: Alexander teaching me to write when I was eight, showing me his foal at ten, and sending chocolate from outside the palace when I was twelve.

"Your Royal Highness, wake up." In Grace's startled cry, I barely managed to open my eyes and saw a pair of black boots standing right in front of me.

My gaze traveled up to the edge of his dark blue robe, embroidered with subtle patterns, and then to Alexander's familiar face.

He had returned from the training grounds, snow still clinging to his shoulders. His brows were tired, and there was a trace of impatience in his gaze.

"What are you doing, Your Royal Highness?" Alexander's voice was icy, like the blizzard outside.

I tried to speak, but my throat was so dry I couldn't make a sound. My legs buckled, and I nearly fell to my knees. Grace hurried to help me up.

Alexander reached out to steady my arm. His hand was warm, the heat cutting through the chill of my damp sleeve.

For a moment, I almost believed he felt something for me.

But he quickly let go and stepped back, keeping that formal distance between us, as expected.

"I'll take you back to the palace, Your Royal Highness," he said, turning to tell his people to get the carriage ready.

"Alexander," I finally managed to speak, my voice raspy and strained. "Today's my birthday. I'll only ask once. Will you marry me?"

It was as if the storm paused for a heartbeat.

The lights outside Hayes Manor flickered, their glow dancing across his angular features. He was silent for so long, it felt like time itself had stopped.

Then I heard him say, "Your Royal Highness, I refuse."

Those five words, spoken so softly, were like knives piercing the tenderest part of my heart.

"Why?" I asked, my voice trembling.

He turned to look at me, his eyes calm and unreadable. "You deserve better, Your Royal Highness. I'm simply not good enough for you."

"I don't care," I almost shouted. "I can give up being a princess. We can go to the borderlands. I'll follow you wherever you go—"

"Your Royal Highness," Alexander interrupted me, and for the first time, there was a flicker of emotion in his voice. That was a pity.

He added, "You're royalty, meant for the finest man this world can offer. My heart is tied to the battlefield, and my life is full of uncertainty. I can't let you throw your future away for me."

Here we went again.

I suddenly laughed, tears streaming down my face. "Alexander, be straight with me. Is it because you love someone else?"

His eyes flickered, but he didn't say a word.

That was all the answer I needed.

"Who is it?" I demanded, my stubbornness pushing me to the brink, desperate for an answer.

"You don't need to know, Your Royal Highness," Alexander replied, refusing to meet my eyes. "Your carriage is waiting. Let me take you back to the palace."

I didn't remember how I got back to the palace that night. All I recall is the carriage jolting, Grace holding me and crying, while I stared out the window at the snowy scenery slipping away, my heart feeling hollow.

When I finally made it back to Charlotte's Chambers, I came down with a high fever and slept for three days straight.

Alexander's different faces haunted my dreams, including the ones when he was seven, ten, fifteen, and that cold look in the snow. I kept hearing him say, "I refuse."

When I finally woke up, my mother was sitting by my bedside, her eyes red and swollen.

"Charlotte," she said, holding my hand, "let him go."

I stared up at the canopy above my bed and whispered, "Mother, it hurts."

My heart ached, like being cut again and again with a dull knife. There was no blood, but the pain sank deep into my bones.