Chapter 3

In those early days, a fragile camaraderie held us together. We studied diligently, each of us driven by a silent vow not to disgrace the Parsons name that clothed and fed us.

The first two girls were wed at fifteen.

One was given to the dull-witted son of the Northern Marcher Lord.

The other, to a nobleman rumored to have beaten three previous brides to their graves.

The brightest among us was sent south, a new bride for a venerable, forty-year-old patriarch.

The message was clear: only through exceptional merit could we hope for a favorable match.

After that, the atmosphere curdled. A quiet, poisonous competition took root. Subtle sabotages, whispered accusations, the genteel veneer cracked.

When my meticulously prepared lessons were ruined, earning me a humiliating punishment at the lectern, I felt the first sting of betrayal.

Seeking a moment's respite, I slipped into the garden as the tutor's back was turned. Chasing a stray butterfly, I found myself at the ornamental pond.

There, I saw Mack fishing, his profile sharp against the sunlight, a figure of calm authority.

A bitter thought crystallized. No matter how beautiful the fish, it only moved from one pond to another.

Why not appeal directly to the hand that holds the net?

Mack was the family's brilliant scion. A prodigy who had placed third in the Imperial Examinations before his twentieth year.

His favor was the ultimate currency. If I could secure even a sliver of his attention, I would no longer be just another pawn on their marital chessboard.

I didn't know if I could succeed, but I was willing to stake everything on the attempt.

For three years, I invested every resource. I lavished coins and trinkets on his servant to learn his routines.

I studied his preferences, orchestrated "chance" encounters in the library or gardens, always positioned where his gaze might fall.

Each time he glanced my way, I offered a carefully calibrated smile, one of pure, guileless admiration.

Mack remained an enigma, offering little more than distant acknowledgment, until the day a raging fever seized him, so fierce the household feared for his life and kept a wary distance.

I did not hesitate. By day, I nursed him with unwavering diligence. By night, I pricked my own finger, mixing drops of blood with ink as I copied prayers for his recovery onto sacred parchment.

When the fever broke, a subtle shift occurred. He permitted me a proximity granted to no other.

I was allowed freedoms. My slipping unseen from the ladies' courtyard, my hand sometimes guided by his over calligraphy practice.

Coming back from the royal parties, he would bring me exotic sweetmeats, tokens from a world beyond our walls.

Whispers began to swirl through the estate: perhaps the quiet Julieta had indeed captured the young master's eye.

Dream of Mack? The notion was absurd. If I could just marry a normal guy my own age, not some random match, I'd be laughing in my sleep. Mack's future blazed brighter than the sun.

He was the most coveted bachelor in the capital, his prospects outshining even Lawrence Glover's. To be his principal wife, or even a recognized concubine, was a station far beyond my reach.

With everyone in the estate looking at me with envy and showering me with flattery, I started to feel like I was walking on air.

But then, the edict naming me Eastwatch Palace's crown princess hit me like a thunderclap out of nowhere, snapping me right back to reality.

This wasn't the kind of dream I'd been chasing. It was more like a sheer cliff, impossible to climb, and with no end in sight.

Fear mixed with all that long-suppressed confusion sparked a burst of stupid courage in me.

I walked straight into the Parsons patriarch's study, even though I was never supposed to set foot in there.

I wanted to beg him to let me off the hook, to choose one of the other Parsons girls who was better suited to be the crown princess instead of me.

"The Crown Prince wishes to find the Parsons girl who retrieved his flower. You identified Julieta that swiftly?" the Patriarch's voice, gravelly and measured.

"If it was not her, it could have been no other," Mack replied.

"I had thought you might keep that one for yourself," the Patriarch said.

"How could I take a concubine before my principal wife is even chosen?" Mack's voice, cool and detached, answered from within.

He added, "She is clever, perceptive, and possesses a certain grace. To relegate her to a concubine's quarters would be a waste of useful material."

All that resolve just vanished. The spring sunlight should've been warm, but it burned my eyes so much I couldn't stop crying.

Every calculated smile, every act of devotion, had been a mere diversion, a minor entertainment in their grand design.

Why then, when Eastwatch Palace was considered the pinnacle of a "good catch," did my heart feel like a stone in my chest?

That night, wrapped in a heavy cloak, I went to him.

The moon was a cold, silver coin. When I pushed his chamber door open, he looked up from his papers, utterly unsurprised.

"Mack," I breathed, forcing myself closer, my voice trembling.

I was hoping for a crumb of pity. A flicker of regret.

He merely regarded me, his gaze as still and deep as the pond where I'd first seen him fish.

That profound calm was more devastating than any outburst. Driven by a final, desperate hope, I bit my lip and let the cloak fall.

Beneath it, I wore a gown of crimson silk, sheer as a whisper. "Mack, I... I do not wish to go to Eastwatch Palace. The one I wish to marry is—"

He closed the distance and kissed me. It was not an act of passion, but a seal of silence, brief, perfunctory, utterly devoid of warmth.

When he pulled away, his expression was unchanged. "Prepare for your wedding, Crown Princess," he said, his tone flat. "Do not disappoint the family."

*****

Prince Lawrence had now secluded himself in his country residence for over a fortnight. The court's patience was wearing perilously thin. The royal household simmered with discontent.

This scandal threatened to be the final weight that collapsed Eastwatch Palace's already strained foundations.

I marched my crew straight to the side residence. The startled guards were swiftly pressed against the wall before they could utter a challenge.

The courtyard was a riot of blossoms. Inside the pavilion, I found them: Lawrence, leaning close to Marina, carefully braiding her hair.

She caught his gaze in her hand mirror, and the intimacy of the scene was palpable, a perfect, domestic portrait.

Marina's eyes flickered to me in the reflection. Her smile froze.

Lawrence turned, brow furrowed in confusion. "Julieta..."

"Your Highness," Marina echoed, rising with practiced elegance, her tone dripping with a honeyed deference.

I did not acknowledge her. My gaze remained fixed on Lawrence.

"Your holiday has stretched long enough, Your Highness," I said, my voice cutting through the garden's tranquility. "Your desk at the palace is buried beneath state documents. It is time you returned to your duties."