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enhaflixer · 3 months ago

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pjs - The Prince's Diaries - full fic

💌 Synopsis: Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing. You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia. But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love. Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart. “If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”

cw: SMUT but lots of fluff, smut on a piano, smut in a library, smut on a chaise, lots of fluff barely any angst the reader is in distress cuz of this whole princess thing.

Your alarm blares for the third time, and you finally surrender to consciousness, throwing your arm out to silence the offending device. Another Monday. Another week of classes, part-time work, and trying to stretch your student budget until the next paycheck. Nothing special.

The apartment you share with your roommate isn't much—a cramped two-bedroom with perpetually spotty WiFi and a temperamental shower—but it's home. At least for now.

"Late night?" Your roommate smirks over her coffee mug as you stumble into the kitchen, hair still wrapped in a towel.

"Research paper," you groan, reaching for the coffee pot. "Professor Kim is trying to kill us all before midterms."

You're pouring cereal when a sharp knock at the door makes you jump, spilling Cheerios across the counter.

"You expecting someone?" your roommate asks, already heading to answer it.

You aren't. It's 8:37 AM on a Monday. Nobody visits at 8:37 AM on a Monday.

When your roommate opens the door, the hallway seems suddenly filled with people. Men in dark suits. A woman with an impossibly tight bun. All of them standing with perfect posture, like they've collectively swallowed broomsticks.

"May we come in?" It's not really a question. The woman steps forward, eyes scanning your apartment with barely concealed judgment. "We're looking for Y/N L/N."

Your roommate points at you wordlessly, backing away as the entourage enters.

"Ms. L/N," the woman says, her accent crisp and foreign. "I am Charlotte Martell, private secretary to Her Majesty Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia."

You nearly choke on your coffee. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Genovia," she repeats, as if that clarifies everything. "A small sovereign principality between France and Spain."

"I know what Genovia is," you lie. You absolutely do not know what Genovia is. "But what does that have to do with me?"

The woman—Charlotte—gestures to one of the men, who produces an official-looking folder stamped with a crest you don't recognize.

"Queen Clarisse is your grandmother," Charlotte states, watching your face for a reaction. "And following the tragic death of your father, Crown Prince Philippe, you are now the sole heir to the Genovian throne."

Your roommate gasps dramatically. You burst out laughing.

"Okay, who put you up to this? Was it Kyle? This has his film project written all over it." You look around for hidden cameras.

Charlotte's expression doesn't change. "This is not a prank, Ms. L/N."

"Right. Sure. I'm secretly a princess." You roll your eyes. "And I suppose I've got a glass slipper and fairy godmother too?"

"Your Highness—"

"Nope. Stop right there." You hold up your hand. "I don't know who you people are, but my dad's name was Michael. He was an artist from Cleveland. He died when I was six. My mom raised me alone."

Charlotte and her companions exchange glances.

"Perhaps we should speak with your mother," Charlotte suggests delicately.

"Great idea," you agree, reaching for your phone. "She'll clear this right up."

But when your mom answers, her voice sounds strange. Strained.

"Mom, there are people here saying I'm some kind of princess and you've been hiding it from me my whole life. Tell them they've got the wrong apartment."

The silence on the other end stretches too long.

"Mom?"

"Honey," she finally says, her voice small. "Maybe you should sit down."

Your stomach drops. "No. No way."

"I never thought this would happen," she continues, words rushing now. "The agreement was that they'd never contact you. That you could live a normal life."

The room starts to spin. You grip the counter for support.

"This isn't funny anymore."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. Philippe—your father—wanted to acknowledge you, but I couldn't bear the thought of raising you in that world."

"Philippe?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. "My father's name was Michael."

Your mother's sigh crackles through the phone. "Michael was my brother. After Philippe died, Michael helped us... create a story that would protect you."

"Protect me from what? The truth?" The betrayal cuts deep, making your voice sharp.

"From a life that would never be your own," your mother says softly. "I wanted you to have choices."

You look at Charlotte and her entourage, still standing stiffly in your kitchen. This can't be happening.

"I think I'm hallucinating," you announce to no one in particular. "I haven't slept in thirty-six hours. This is just sleep deprivation."

Your roommate pinches your arm. Hard.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"Not dreaming," she says helpfully.

Your mother is still speaking through the phone. "These people—the Genovian royal staff—they'll bring you to the consulate. I'll meet you there, and we can talk properly."

"Mom, I can't just—"

"Please, sweetheart. Let me explain in person."

The phone call ends, and you stare at the device in your hand like it's suddenly turned into a live snake.

"This isn't real," you mutter. "This can't be real."

But three hours later, you're sitting in the Genovian consulate—a building you've passed a hundred times without noticing—watching your mother cry as she explains how she met the Crown Prince of Genovia during a semester abroad, how they fell in love, how she discovered she was pregnant after he returned home, how he died in a car accident before they could marry.

"The Queen wanted to acknowledge you officially," your mother explains, wiping her eyes. "But I refused. I didn't want that life for you."

"That life being...?"

"Being royal," she says, as if it's a disease. "Living in a gilded cage. Every move scrutinized. Never making your own choices."

Charlotte, who has been standing silently against the wall, clears her throat. "If I may, the situation has changed substantially. Without a direct heir, Genovia faces a constitutional crisis. Parliament may vote to dissolve the monarchy entirely."

"And that's... bad?" you ask, still struggling to process any of this.

"The monarchy has protected Genovia's independence for centuries," Charlotte explains. "Without it, larger neighboring countries would likely absorb our territory."

Your mother squeezes your hand. "I never wanted this burden for you. But it's your decision now."

"What decision? I don't even know what's happening!"

"The Queen requests that you come to Genovia," Charlotte says. "Learn about your heritage. Meet your grandmother. After that, you're free to make your choice."

"My choice to... what? Become a princess?"

Charlotte nods solemnly. "To accept your birthright, yes."

You look at your mother, this woman you've trusted your entire life, who has apparently been lying about your identity since before you could speak.

"I have exams next week," you say weakly. It sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

"All arrangements have been made with your university," Charlotte assures you. "This is, after all, a diplomatic matter."

You laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "Right. Diplomatic."

Your mother takes your face in her hands, forcing you to look at her. "You don't have to do this. You can walk away right now, and we'll figure something out."

But you can see in her eyes what she's not saying—that this moment was always coming, that the lie was never sustainable, that a door has opened that can't be closed again.

"I just want to know the truth," you tell her. "All of it."

She nods, tears streaming now. "Then you should go. Meet her. Learn who you are."

Twenty-four hours later, you're on a private jet somewhere over the Atlantic, still half-convinced you're having an elaborate mental breakdown. Your mother came home with you to help pack, both of you moving through the motions like sleepwalkers.

"The Queen is eager to meet you," Charlotte says from across the aisle, breaking the silence that's stretched between you since takeoff.

"My grandmother," you say, testing the word. "My grandmother the Queen."

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "This must be overwhelming."

You laugh, the sound hollow. "I keep thinking I'll wake up."

"I assure you, this is quite real," Charlotte says, missing the point entirely.

You stare out the window at endless darkness, trying to reconcile the person you were yesterday with whoever you're supposed to be now.

"What's she like?" you ask suddenly. "The Queen."

Charlotte considers this carefully. "Her Majesty is... formidable. Dignified. Dedicated to Genovia above all else."

"Sounds warm and fuzzy," you mutter.

"The Queen has experienced great loss," Charlotte adds quietly. "Her husband. Her son—your father. She has sacrificed personal happiness for duty."

That silences you. What do you say to a grandmother who's spent decades thinking her bloodline ended with her son, only to discover an heir she never knew existed?

"I don't know how to be a princess," you admit after another long silence.

"No one expects you to know already," Charlotte replies. "There will be extensive training, of course."

"Of course," you echo faintly. "Princess training."

The palace is like something from a fairy tale—all soaring spires and perfect gardens. Dawn is breaking as your motorcade passes through massive iron gates, and you catch your first glimpse of your apparent new home.

"This is insane," you whisper, pressing your face to the window like a child. "People actually live here?"

"The palace has been the royal residence for over three centuries," Charlotte informs you. "The east wing houses government offices, while the royal family occupies the north wing."

Your suite is bigger than your entire apartment. The bathroom alone is the size of your bedroom at home. You're staring at the claw-foot tub, wondering if you're allowed to actually use it or if it's just for show, when there's a knock at the door.

A young woman in a uniform curtsies—actually curtsies—when you open it.

"Your Highness," she says, eyes downcast. "I'm Olivia, your lady's maid."

"My... what now?"

"I'm here to help you prepare to meet Her Majesty."

Your laugh has a slightly manic edge. "I've been wearing the same clothes for twenty-four hours and haven't slept. I don't think 'preparation' is going to help much."

Olivia smiles sympathetically. "Perhaps a bath first?"

You pace back and forth in your suite after your mother's confession at the consulate, hands pressed against your temples. The weight of everything—your father's true identity, your grandmother the Queen, this entire hidden heritage—crashes over you in waves.

"This can't be happening," you mutter. "This doesn't happen to normal people."

Olivia, your newly assigned lady's maid, watches anxiously from the doorway. "Your Highness, perhaps some tea would help calm your nerves?"

"Stop calling me that!" you snap, whirling around. "I'm not a 'Highness.' I'm just—" You break off, unable to even finish the sentence. Who are you now?

Charlotte enters with a stack of leather-bound books. "These are Genovian history texts. Your lessons begin tomorrow. Also, the royal portrait artist would like to schedule a sitting, and we'll need to discuss your public introduction to the Genovian people."

Something inside you finally snaps.

"EVERYBODY JUST STOP!" you shout, throwing your hands up. Charlotte freezes mid-sentence, Olivia nearly drops the tea tray, and even the security guard outside your door peeks in with alarm.

"I need—" your voice cracks, "I need everyone to just stop for a second. Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my student loans and my biology midterm. And now you're talking about royal portraits and—and—"

You grab the nearest pillow from a velvet settee and scream into it, a muffled sound of pure frustration. When you pull it away, you're laughing hysterically.

"Holy shit," you gasp through semi-maniacal laughter, "I'm a princess. I'm actually a princess!"

You collapse onto the nearest chair, still clutching the pillow to your chest. Your laughter shifts to something closer to hyperventilation.

"This is completely insane," you continue, gesturing wildly. "I've never even been to Europe before, and suddenly I'm supposed to rule a country? I don't even know where Genovia is on a map! I can barely keep my succulents alive!"

Charlotte approaches cautiously, as though you might explode again. "Perhaps a moment alone would be beneficial—"

"No!" You jump to your feet again, pacing frenetically. "No more alone time to 'process.' I need answers. Real answers. Like, what happens if I just walk out right now? Get on a plane and go home? Will there be, I don't know, international incidents? Diplomatic immunity revoked? Does Genovia have an extradition treaty with the United States?"

Charlotte and Olivia exchange alarmed glances.

"I mean, what's stopping me from just saying 'thanks but no thanks' to this whole princess gig? I didn't sign up for this! My mother lied to me my entire life, and now I'm supposed to just—what? Put on a tiara and wave to crowds? Marry some prince I just met? Rule a country I know nothing about?"

You stop suddenly, a thought occurring to you. You turn to Charlotte, eyes wide.

"Wait. Do I get a tiara?"

Charlotte blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. "Several, actually. The Genovian royal collection includes—"

"Several tiaras," you repeat, dazed. "I get several tiaras."

You start laughing again, but this time with a hint of wonder breaking through the hysteria.

"I have a grandmother who's a Queen," you say, testing the words. "My father was a Crown Prince. I live in a palace now." You spin in a slow circle, taking in the ornate room with new eyes. "I'm a princess."

The reality of it finally, truly hits you—not as an abstract concept but as your new life. Your knees go weak, and you sink back onto the settee.

"I'm Princess Y/N Renaldi of Genovia," you whisper, the name strange on your tongue. "Holy shit."

The bath, it turns out, is heavenly. The exhaustion and tension of the past day seep out of your muscles as you soak in water scattered with actual rose petals. It's so ridiculous that you find yourself laughing alone in the massive bathroom.

"Is everything alright, Your Highness?" Olivia calls through the door.

"Fine! Just having an existential crisis in a bathtub fit for Marie Antoinette!"

After the bath comes what can only be described as a full-scale makeover. Olivia is joined by a team that includes a hairstylist, makeup artist, and someone called a "royal wardrobe consultant" who tuts disapprovingly at the clothes you packed.

"These won't do at all," she announces, holding up your favorite jeans like they're contaminated.

"What's wrong with them?" you demand.

"Her Majesty has certain... expectations regarding royal appearance," the woman explains delicately.

"I'm not actually a princess yet," you point out. "Technically, I haven't agreed to anything."

But your protests fall on deaf ears. Two hours later, you're staring at a stranger in the mirror. Your hair has been styled into something elegant and smooth. Your face has been transformed with makeup that somehow looks natural despite taking forty-five minutes to apply. And you're wearing a dress that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe at home.

"There," the hairstylist says proudly. "Now you look like a princess."

You don't feel like a princess. You feel like a fraud in costume.

The "Blue Salon" turns out to be a formal sitting room where an elegant older woman waits, standing by a window. She turns as you enter, and you see your own eyes staring back at you from her face.

"Your Majesty," Charlotte announces, "Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N Renaldi."

The Queen—your grandmother—studies you silently for a long moment. You resist the urge to fidget under her gaze.

"The resemblance is remarkable," she says finally, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of emotion. "You have his eyes. My son's eyes."

You don't know what to say. This woman is a stranger who is somehow your closest living relative.

"You must have questions," she continues when you remain silent.

"About a million," you admit. "Starting with why my entire life has been a lie."

If your directness offends her, she doesn't show it. "Your mother made her choice. I respected it, though I disagreed with it. But circumstances have changed."

"So I've heard. Constitutional crisis. End of the monarchy. Very dramatic."

A hint of a smile touches her lips. "You have spirit. Good. You'll need it." She gestures to a chair. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

The next hour is a crash course in your own heritage. The Queen—your grandmother—explains the history of Genovia, the role of the monarchy, and the crisis created by the King's death without a recognized heir.

"Parliament has granted a grace period of three months," she explains. "In that time, you must decide whether to accept your title and begin preparation for eventual rule, or to renounce your claim permanently."

"And if I renounce?"

"Then the monarchy ends with me," she says simply. "And Genovia's future becomes uncertain."

No pressure or anything.

"There's another complication," your grandmother adds, and something in her tone makes you brace yourself. "The Genovian constitution requires the heir to be married before taking the throne."

You choke on the tea you've been sipping. "Married? I'm twenty-one!"

"Which is why, should you accept your title, suitable candidates would be presented immediately."

"Suitable candidates," you repeat incredulously. "You mean arranged marriage?"

"Think of it as... pre-screened dating," your grandmother suggests with a straight face.

"This is insane," you mutter, setting down your cup before you drop it. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my midterms. Now I'm discussing arranged marriages and constitutional crises."

Your grandmother regards you thoughtfully. "I understand this is overwhelming. You need not decide everything today. Take time to adjust. Learn about Genovia. Meet some of the young men Parliament considers suitable."

"And if I hate them all?"

"Then we face that challenge when it arises," she says diplomatically. "For now, perhaps we can start with dinner. I've invited one potential candidate to join us this evening."

"Seriously? I just got here!"

"Time is a luxury we don't have," your grandmother reminds you. "Prince Jongseong of Astoria is already in Genovia for diplomatic meetings. It's an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted."

Your head is spinning. "Prince who of where now?"

Your grandmother hands you a folder. "Astoria is a key ally. A marriage alliance would be most beneficial."

You flip open the folder to find a dossier—an actual dossier—on someone named Prince Jongseong of Astoria. The photograph shows a young man about your age with perfect features and an expression of cool dignity. He's handsome in an intimidating way, like a sculpture you're not allowed to touch.

"Great," you say weakly. "Blind date with a prince. No problem."

The day passes in a blur of instructions, protocol lessons, and people telling you how to walk, talk, sit, and breathe like a princess. By evening, your exhaustion has been replaced by a surreal, floating feeling, as if none of this is actually happening to you.

"Remember," Charlotte reminds you for the hundredth time as you're escorted to the State Dining Room, "curtsy when he's introduced, address him as 'Your Highness' initially, then 'Prince Jongseong' after that. The Queen will lead the conversation."

"What if I just hide under the table?" you suggest. "Blame it on jet lag?"

Charlotte doesn't even acknowledge your joke. "The Prince is known for his diplomatic skill and decorum. Please try to match his level of dignity."

"No pressure there."

The dining room is intimidating—all crystal chandeliers and gold trim. Footmen stand at attention along the walls. Your grandmother already waits at the head of a table that could seat thirty, though only four places are set.

"You look lovely," she tells you, and you resist the urge to tug at the formal dress that feels like a costume.

"I look like someone else," you reply honestly.

"Sometimes appearing royal is the first step to feeling royal," she says, which doesn't make you feel any better.

The doors open, and a court official announces: "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of the House of Park, Crown Prince of Astoria, and Lord High Commissioner of the Eastern Provinces."

Your first thought as he enters: people shouldn't be that perfect-looking in real life. It seems unfair somehow.

Prince Jongseong is tall and moves with unconscious grace. His formal attire—some kind of military dress uniform with medals and sashes—accentuates broad shoulders. His features are even more striking in person—sharp jawline, intense eyes that miss nothing.

You remember to curtsy, wobbling slightly in your heels. When you straighten, his eyes meet yours directly. No smile, just assessment.

"Wait," you blurt out before anyone can speak. "Are we related?"

The room goes absolutely still. Charlotte makes a small choking sound behind you. Your grandmother's expression doesn't change, but her eyes widen slightly.

Prince Jongseong blinks, the only indication that your question has caught him off guard.

"I beg your pardon?" he asks, his voice deeper than you expected, his accent subtle but distinctive.

"Sorry, I just—I'm new to this whole royal thing, and apparently everyone's connected somehow, so I wanted to check if we're like, third cousins or something before this gets weird."

Your grandmother clears her throat. "Prince Jongseong's lineage and the Renaldi family have no direct connection for at least seven generations."

"Oh. Good." You feel your face heating up. "That's... good to know."

Prince Jongseong's expression remains absolutely neutral, but something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes briefly.

"Your Majesty," he addresses your grandmother first, bowing formally. "Thank you for your invitation."

When he turns back to you, you feel suddenly, intensely scrutinized.

"Your Highness," he says, bowing again. "It is an honor to meet the Princess of Genovia."

You're supposed to say something regal in response, but what comes out is: "I only found out I was a princess yesterday, so we're kind of in the same boat there."

Prince Jongseong does something unexpected. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost, but not quite, a smile.

"An unusual circumstance," he acknowledges, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes suddenly more interested. "Though I assure you, the honor remains."

Dinner is a masterclass in awkwardness. Your grandmother and an Astorian diplomat discuss trade agreements while you try to remember which fork to use for each course. Prince Jongseong watches you with those observant eyes but says little.

It's during dessert that he finally addresses you directly.

"I understand you were a university student before this... revelation."

You look up, surprised he's bothered to learn anything about you. "Yes. Political science, ironically enough."

"A useful background for your new role," he comments.

"I was planning to work for a non-profit," you admit. "Not rule a country."

"Few of us choose our destinies," he says, and something in his tone makes you wonder if he's speaking from experience.

After dinner, your grandmother suggests a "stroll through the East Garden" which is apparently royal code for "leaving you alone with your potential suitor while still maintaining proper supervision," as Charlotte and two guards follow at a discreet distance.

The garden is beautiful under the moonlight, with flowering trees and perfectly manicured hedges. You walk in uncomfortable silence until Prince Jongseong speaks.

"You seem overwhelmed."

You laugh, the sound sharper than intended. "What gave it away? The identity crisis or the third cousin question?"

"Both were... illuminating," he replies, and you think you detect a hint of humor beneath his formal tone.

"Sorry about that," you sigh. "This is all just... a lot."

"I can imagine," he says, though you doubt he can. He's probably been a prince his whole life, never wondering who he really is or where he belongs.

"No offense, but this isn't exactly how I planned to spend my week," you tell him honestly. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal college student with student loans and a part-time job. Now I'm having dinner with princes and learning how to curtsy."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges, which feels like the understatement of the century.

"Can I ask you something?" you say suddenly.

He inclines his head slightly. "Of course."

"Is it always this weird? Being royal, I mean. Does it ever feel... normal?"

The question seems to surprise him. He considers it seriously before answering.

"I cannot speak to your experience," he says carefully. "I was born into my role, prepared for it from childhood. But even so, there are moments when the weight of responsibility feels... alienating."

It's the most human thing he's said all evening.

"What do you do in those moments?" you ask, genuinely curious.

Something shifts in his expression—a momentary glimpse of a different person behind the perfect princely mask.

"I remember that even a gilded cage is still a cage," he says quietly. "But with the right mindset, it can also be a platform for meaningful change."

You study him more carefully. Maybe there's more to Prince Perfect than you initially thought.

"That's... surprisingly profound," you admit.

The hint of a smile touches his lips again. "You expected shallow platitudes?"

"I don't know what I expected," you say honestly. "Everything about today has been surreal."

"Including meeting a potential husband selected by parliament?" he suggests, and there's definitely a note of dry humor in his voice now.

You can't help but laugh. "Yeah, that's pretty high on the surreal list."

"If it helps," he offers, "I find the situation equally unusual, though perhaps less distressing as I've had longer to adjust to the concept."

"How generous of you," you say sarcastically before you can stop yourself.

To your surprise, a genuine smile briefly transforms his face, making him look younger, more approachable.

"You're very direct," he observes.

"Sorry. New to the royal filter thing."

"It's... refreshing," he admits. "Most people I meet have agendas carefully hidden beneath pleasantries."

"My only agenda is surviving this day without having a complete breakdown," you tell him truthfully.

He stops walking, turning to face you. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face, and for a moment, he looks like a real person rather than a perfect royal specimen.

"You're doing better than you think," he says, and it feels like the first completely genuine thing he's said all evening.

The moment stretches between you—something unnamed passing in the silence—before Charlotte clears her throat, reminding you of her presence.

"The Queen will be expecting us to return," she prompts.

Prince Jongseong straightens immediately, mask back in place. "Of course."

As you walk back toward the palace, your hand accidentally brushes his. A small touch, barely nothing, but something unexpected flutters in your stomach. His eyes meet yours briefly, and you wonder if he felt it too.

Back in the formal reception room, he bows over your hand. "It has been a pleasure, Your Highness."

"Likewise, Prince Jongseong," you manage, this time remembering the proper response.

As he prepares to leave, he hesitates, then adds quietly, "Perhaps when we meet again, you might be more accustomed to your title."

You wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, momentarily disoriented. The canopied bed, the ornate furniture, the distant sound of voices speaking a language you don't understand—where are you?

Then it hits you like a freight train. Genovia. Palace. Princess.

You groan and pull a pillow over your face. Maybe if you smother yourself with Egyptian cotton, you'll wake up in your cramped apartment with your psychology paper still due and your normal life intact.

A gentle knock at the door shatters that fantasy.

"Your Highness?" Olivia's voice calls. "Her Majesty requests your presence for breakfast in thirty minutes."

You remove the pillow with another groan. "Tell her I've fled the country."

There's a pause. "I... don't think I can say that to the Queen, Your Highness."

Despite everything, you laugh. Poor Olivia, stuck with an unwilling princess who doesn't know the first thing about royal protocol.

"I'll be ready," you call back, dragging yourself out of bed.

The "breakfast room" (because apparently regular dining rooms are insufficient for morning meals) is sunshine-bright and intimidatingly elegant. Your grandmother already sits at the table, reading documents while sipping tea.

"Good morning," she says without looking up. "I trust you slept well?"

"Not really," you admit, slouching into a chair before remembering Charlotte's lecture about posture. You straighten awkwardly, feeling like you're balancing a book on your head.

Your grandmother finally looks at you, one eyebrow arched. "Honesty before coffee. How refreshing."

A servant appears instantly with a cup of steaming coffee prepared exactly how you like it. You stare at it suspiciously.

"How did they know...?"

"Part of the job," your grandmother answers simply. "Knowing what people need before they ask for it."

You take a grateful sip. "At least that's one perk of this princess gig."

Your grandmother sets down her papers. "Your schedule today is quite full. We have much work to do."

"Schedule?" You didn't know you had a schedule.

"Charlotte will brief you after breakfast. But first," she slides a leather portfolio across the table, "Your Genovian citizenship papers, passport, and diplomatic credentials. You'll need to sign where indicated."

You flip open the folder. The first document declares you Princess Y/N Mignonette Renaldi of Genovia, Crown Princess and Royal Heir.

"Mignonette?" You look up, confused. "That's not my middle name."

"It is now," your grandmother says with finality. "A royal name."

You sign where indicated, feeling like you're signing away your old identity with each stroke of the pen.

"There's something else we need to discuss," your grandmother says once you've finished. "Your... public introduction."

"My what now?"

"The people of Genovia must meet their princess. There will be a press conference tomorrow, followed by a formal ball next week."

You choke on your coffee. "Tomorrow? A press conference? I can't—I don't—I'm not ready for that!"

"Which is why today is devoted to preparation," she says calmly. "Diplomatic protocol, Genovian history, public speaking..."

Your appetite vanishes. People—actual citizens of an actual country—are going to be judging whether you're fit to rule them. The thought is paralyzing.

"What if I mess up?" you ask quietly. "What if I embarrass Genovia? Or you?"

Something softens in your grandmother's expression. "You are more capable than you realize." She hesitates, then adds, "Your father was much the same way. Doubting himself, yet exceeding every expectation."

It's the first time she's voluntarily mentioned your father, and the comparison catches you off guard.

"I wish I'd known him," you say before you can stop yourself.

"As do I," she replies softly. "As do I."

The moment of vulnerability passes as quickly as it appeared. She's all business again, consulting her watch.

"Charlotte will meet you in the library in fifteen minutes. And this evening, Prince Jongseong will be joining us for the diplomatic reception."

Your stomach does a weird flip at the mention of his name. "Already? I just met him yesterday."

"He's requested to assist with certain aspects of your diplomatic training," your grandmother explains, a hint of something—amusement? satisfaction?—in her eyes. "The prince has excellent connections throughout Europe. His guidance will be valuable."

"I'm sure," you mutter, wondering what his real agenda is. Nobody volunteers for tutoring duty without an ulterior motive.

The dress fitting is endless torture. The royal stylist, Madame Aubert, fusses over fabrics and colors while treating you like a mannequin rather than a person.

"Perhaps the blue? It brings out Her Highness's eyes," she suggests to Charlotte, who nods seriously.

"I like the green one," you interject.

Both women look at you with surprise, as if they'd forgotten you could speak.

"The green is... less traditional," Madame Aubert says diplomatically.

"I'm not exactly a traditional princess," you point out. "Raised in America. Didn't know I was royal until two days ago. Let's embrace the unconventional, shall we?"

Charlotte's lips thin with disapproval, but she doesn't argue. "The green then. With appropriate accessories."

The "appropriate accessories" turn out to be your first tiara—a delicate silver creation with small diamonds that makes your heart skip despite your determination to remain unimpressed by royal trappings.

"This is from the royal collection," Charlotte explains as Madame Aubert carefully places it on your styled hair. "Traditionally worn by princesses at their first official appearance."

You stare at your reflection, this stranger with perfect hair and makeup wearing a genuine tiara. The disconnect between who you were days ago and who you're supposed to be now has never felt more stark.

"What if I can't do this?" you whisper, fear finally breaking through the sarcasm you've been hiding behind.

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "Everyone feels unprepared for significant change, Your Highness. Even those born to royal life."

"Even Prince Perfect?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

"Prince Jongseong?" Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "Especially him, I suspect. The burdens of Astoria's crown prince are considerable."

You turn to her, surprised by this insight. "What do you mean?"

"Astoria has undergone significant modernization in recent years," Charlotte explains. "Prince Jongseong has been at the forefront of many reforms, often against traditional factions. His reputation for perfectionism is... protective."

This new perspective on the prince is unexpected. You think back to his comment about gilded cages during your garden conversation.

"I misjudged him," you realize aloud.

"First impressions in royal circles are rarely accurate," Charlotte says with surprising gentleness. "We all wear masks of one kind or another."

The conversation is interrupted when your grandmother sweeps in to inspect the dress selection. She surveys you critically, then nods approval.

"The green is unexpected," she notes. "But it suits you. Bold without being inappropriate."

"Thank you," you say, genuinely pleased by her approval.

"Now," she continues briskly, "for this evening's diplomatic reception. There will be approximately fifty guests, primarily ambassadors and foreign dignitaries. You will be introduced formally, then circulate with me for the first hour."

Your momentary confidence evaporates. "Fifty people? Tonight? I barely know how to address half the titles Charlotte's been drilling me on!"

"Consider it practice for tomorrow's press conference," your grandmother replies calmly. "Prince Jongseong has offered to assist you. He knows most of the attendees personally."

Of course he does. Prince Perfect probably emerged from the womb networking with international dignitaries.

The diplomatic reception is held in yet another ornate room you haven't seen before. You're beginning to wonder just how many formal spaces one palace needs.

You stand beside your grandmother as Charlotte announces each arrival, desperately trying to remember their titles and countries while maintaining what you hope is a regal posture.

"His Excellency Antoine Dubois, Ambassador of France," Charlotte intones.

A distinguished older man approaches, bowing over your grandmother's hand. "Your Majesty, always a pleasure."

He turns to you with obvious curiosity. "And Your Highness, welcome to Genovia. France looks forward to a long and prosperous relationship with the future Queen."

You manage a decent curtsy. "Thank you, Your Excellency. I look forward to learning more about the historic ties between our nations."

The diplomatic phrase Charlotte drilled into you comes out smoothly, and you feel a small surge of triumph. Maybe you can do this after all.

As more guests arrive, you fall into a rhythm of greetings and basic pleasantries. Your nerves gradually settle—until Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

He enters looking even more striking than yesterday, dressed in formal evening attire with a subtle military influence. A row of medals decorates his chest, and a blue sash crosses his torso. The effect is both regal and undeniably attractive.

He bows to your grandmother first, then to you, eyes meeting yours with unexpected warmth.

"Your Highness," he says, and there's something almost like approval in his gaze. "You look magnificent."

The compliment catches you off guard. "Thank you. You look... very princelike yourself."

A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. "I try my best."

Your grandmother watches this exchange with interest. "Prince Jongseong, perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce Princess Y/N to some of our Eastern European allies? I believe the Latvian ambassador was hoping to meet her."

"It would be my honor," he replies smoothly.

Your grandmother leans closer to you. "Remember, diplomatic relations are built on personal connections as much as formal agreements," she murmurs. "Use this opportunity to establish yourself."

Great. More pressure.

Prince Jongseong offers his arm, and you take it, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the contact.

"Nervous?" he asks quietly as he leads you through the crowd.

"Terrified," you admit. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I have no idea what I'm doing."

"A secret of royal life," he replies, his voice low near your ear. "Most of us feel that way. We're just better at hiding it."

You look at him in surprise. "Even you?"

"Especially me," he says, and for a brief moment, his perfect façade slips, revealing something vulnerable beneath. Then it's gone, replaced by his usual composed expression as you approach a group of diplomats.

"Ambassador Petrov," Prince Jongseong greets an imposing man with a silver beard. "May I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N of Genovia?"

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and carefully navigated conversations. Prince Jongseong remains at your side, smoothly guiding interactions and occasionally rescuing you with well-timed interventions when you falter.

During a brief moment alone while getting drinks, you turn to him. "Thank you. For... all this." You gesture vaguely at the room.

"You're doing remarkably well," he says. "Most people would have fled the country by now."

"Don't think I haven't considered it," you mutter, making him smile.

"What's stopping you?"

You consider the question seriously. "I don't know. Maybe... responsibility? My grandmother needs me. Genovia needs me. Running away seems selfish."

He studies you thoughtfully. "That sense of duty will make you an excellent ruler someday."

"If I survive princess lessons," you joke weakly.

"You will," he says with surprising conviction. "And perhaps along the way, you might even find aspects of royal life to enjoy."

"Like what? The constant scrutiny? The lack of privacy? The arranged marriages?"

His expression shifts at that last point. "Not all royal marriages are purely political these days. There can be... compatibility considerations."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly, gesturing between you. "A 'compatibility assessment'?"

He doesn't answer immediately, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I would prefer to think of it as... getting to know each other without predetermined expectations."

"Except for the fact that my grandmother and your government clearly have expectations," you point out.

"True," he acknowledges. "But perhaps we could set those aside, temporarily. See if there's more between us than diplomatic advantage."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "And if there isn't?"

"Then we remain allies with mutual respect," he says simply. "No one can force a marriage in the modern era, regardless of constitutional requirements."

Before you can respond, Charlotte approaches. "Your Highness, the Prime Minister has arrived and wishes to pay his respects."

Prince Jongseong steps back slightly. "We should continue this conversation another time."

"I'd like that," you admit, surprised by your own honesty.

He bows formally, but his eyes hold something warmer. "Until tomorrow, Princess Y/N."

The press conference is a blur of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Despite your fears of public humiliation, you somehow manage to survive it—stumbling only twice over Genovian pronunciations and making just one awkward joke that, thankfully, the press seems to find charming rather than offensive.

"You were marvelous," your grandmother tells you afterward, her approval warming you despite your exhaustion.

"Really? Because I think I just agreed to visit a children's hospital tomorrow and I have no idea what a royal visit actually entails."

"Charlotte will brief you," she says dismissively. "The important thing is that you appeared genuine. The people responded to that."

You think back to Prince Jongseong's advice about authenticity over perfection. Maybe he was right after all.

"Speaking of Prince Jongseong," your grandmother continues, with that same hint of calculation in her eyes, "he's arranged for a tour of Genovia's historical districts tomorrow evening. The royal council believes it would be beneficial for you to be seen engaging with our cultural heritage."

"The royal council believes," you repeat skeptically. "Or you believe?"

Your grandmother's lips twitch. "Let's say our interests align in this particular matter."

You roll your eyes. "You're not exactly subtle about this matchmaking attempt."

"Subtlety is a luxury afforded to those with time," she replies. "We have precious little of that."

She's not wrong. The constitutional deadline looms over every decision, every interaction. Sometimes you forget that your grandmother faces the end of her life's work—the dissolution of a monarchy that has stood for centuries—if you don't step up to the challenge.

"Fine," you concede. "I'll go on the royal field trip. But don't expect me to fall madly in love just because he knows his way around old buildings."

"I expect nothing," your grandmother says innocently. "Though I would point out that an appreciation for history is an admirable quality in a potential consort."

That night, sleep remains elusive despite your exhaustion. Your mind keeps cycling through the day's events, replaying moments of triumph and embarrassment in equal measure. After tossing and turning for hours, you finally give up and slip out of bed.

The palace is different at night—quieter, less intimidating without the constant hustle of staff and royal obligations. You wrap a robe around your pajamas and venture into the hallway, nodding to the security guard who pretends not to notice your disheveled state.

Without any real destination in mind, you wander through dimly lit corridors, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. Somehow, you find yourself at a set of glass doors leading to the garden where you walked with Prince Jongseong that first night.

The garden is silvered with moonlight, the formal hedges casting complex shadows across manicured lawns. You step outside, breathing in the scent of night-blooming flowers, and follow a stone path deeper into the grounds.

You've just discovered a charming fountain featuring a mermaid when a voice behind you says, "You couldn't sleep either?"

You whirl around, startled, to find Prince Jongseong standing a few feet away. He's dressed casually—at least by his standards—in dark pants and a simple white shirt, open at the collar. With his hair slightly mussed and his perfect posture somewhat relaxed, he looks younger, more approachable.

"You scared me," you accuse, pressing a hand to your racing heart.

"My apologies," he says, taking a step closer. "I didn't expect anyone else to be out here at this hour."

"That makes two of us," you reply, suddenly conscious of your own appearance—hair hastily tied back, face bare of makeup, wearing palace-issued silk pajamas under a matching robe. Not exactly how you'd choose to encounter the frustratingly perfect prince.

"I watched the press conference," he says, changing the subject. "You did well."

"I stumbled over 'agricultural initiatives' and called the Finance Minister 'sir' instead of 'minister,'" you point out.

His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that's becoming familiar. "And yet, you were authentic. The people responded to that."

"That's almost exactly what my grandmother said."

"The Queen is a perceptive woman."

You study him in the moonlight, curious about this less formal version of the prince. "Do you always wander palace gardens at midnight?"

"Only when sleep proves elusive," he admits. He hesitates, then adds, "The demands of royal life can be... difficult to quiet."

"Tell me about it," you sigh, sitting on the edge of the fountain. After a moment's hesitation, he joins you, maintaining a respectful distance. "Two days ago, my biggest worry was my political theory midterm. Now I'm worried about constitutional crises and diplomatic incidents."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges.

"That's the understatement of the century," you laugh, but there's no real humor in it. "Everyone keeps acting like I should just accept all this—the title, the responsibility, the arranged marriage—like it's perfectly normal."

He's quiet for a moment, then asks, "May I speak candidly, Your Highness?"

"Please. And maybe drop the 'Your Highness' when we're alone? It's weird enough without the constant reminders."

He nods, then says, "Y/N, then." Your name in his voice, without the royal title, sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. "The truth is, none of this is normal. Not even for those of us raised in it. We're just better at pretending."

"You're saying you hate it too?" you ask skeptically.

"Not hate," he corrects. "But there are... challenges. Expectations. Sacrifices."

"Like what?"

He stares at the fountain, watching moonlight play across the water. "Privacy. Freedom to choose one's own path. The luxury of mistakes."

You study his profile, seeing something vulnerable in his expression that's never visible during daylight hours. "So why do it?"

"Duty," he says simply. "Family. The knowledge that privilege comes with responsibility."

"That sounds rehearsed," you observe.

To your surprise, he laughs—a genuine sound that transforms his face. "Perhaps because I've been repeating it to myself since childhood."

Your curiosity grows. "What would you have chosen? If you weren't born a prince?"

The question seems to catch him off guard. He considers it seriously. "I've never allowed myself to think about it. But perhaps... music."

"Music?" That wasn't what you expected.

"I play piano," he admits, sounding almost embarrassed. "Classically trained, of course, as all proper princes must be. But I find myself drawn to composing. It's... freeing."

You try to imagine Prince Perfect hunched over a piano, lost in music of his own creation, and the image is strangely compelling.

"Will you play for me sometime?" you ask impulsively.

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, certainly, but something else too. Something warmer. "If you wish."

"I do," you say, surprised by your own sincerity.

A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the gentle splashing of the fountain. Without the pressure of formal events and watchful eyes, you find yourself relaxing in his presence.

"What about you?" he asks eventually. "If you weren't suddenly thrust into royal life, what would you have chosen?"

"I was studying political science," you remind him. "I wanted to work in international development. Help people who are overlooked by traditional power structures."

"Noble aims," he observes.

"Now I sound like the one with rehearsed answers," you laugh.

"No," he says softly. "You sound like someone with genuine conviction." He pauses, then adds, "Someone who would make an excellent queen."

The compliment catches you off guard. "You barely know me."

"I'm a good judge of character," he replies. "It's a necessary skill in diplomatic circles."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly. "Diplomacy?"

His eyes meet yours, and something electric passes between you. "Not entirely," he admits.

"This is something unexpected," he says finally, his voice lower than before.

The air between you feels charged with possibility. You're acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight gap in his collar revealing a glimpse of collarbone, of the way moonlight catches in his eyes.

"Jongseong," you say, testing his name without the princely title. It feels intimate somehow, crossing an invisible boundary. "Why did you volunteer to help with my training?"

He doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his honesty surprises you. "Initially, for diplomatic reasons. An alliance between Genovia and Astoria would benefit both nations." He hesitates, then adds, "But after meeting you... my motivations became more personal."

"How personal?" you press, heart racing.

Instead of answering, he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingertips graze your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"Personal enough that I find myself in gardens at midnight, hoping for a chance encounter," he admits quietly.

You don't realize you've been holding your breath until you exhale shakily. "That's... quite personal."

His gaze drops to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. "May I..." he begins, then hesitates.

"Yes," you whisper, not needing him to finish the question.

He leans in slowly, deliberately, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is gentle, questioning, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You don't. Instead, you find yourself leaning into him, one hand coming to rest on his chest where you can feel his heart beating as rapidly as your own. The kiss deepens, becoming something more urgent, more honest than any interaction you've had since arriving in Genovia.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing unevenly. Jongseong rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment.

"That was..." he begins.

"Unexpected?" you suggest, echoing his earlier word.

He laughs softly. "Yes. Though perhaps inevitable."

"Is this going to cause an international incident?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Only if we let it," he replies, drawing back slightly to meet your eyes. "This... whatever is developing between us... it needs to be separate from politics. At least for now."

"Can it be?" you wonder aloud. "Everything about our lives is political."

"Not everything," he says firmly. "Not this." He takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "When we're alone, I'd like to just be Jongseong. Not Prince Jongseong of Astoria with all its attendant expectations."

The vulnerability in his request touches something in you. "I'd like that."

"My friends at school used to call me Jay," he admits, sounding almost shy. "No one here uses that name."

The nickname humanizes him instantly, creating a contrast with the formal prince everyone else sees.

"Jay," you repeat, testing it on your tongue. His eyes darken at the sound of his nickname in your voice. "I like it."

"May I kiss you again... Y/N?" he asks, your name without titles sounding intimate in his accented voice.

In answer, you close the distance between you, kissing him with more confidence this time. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands that are usually so perfectly styled.

You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his mouth against yours, his hands tracing patterns on your back through the thin silk of your robe. There's an urgency building between you, a heat that makes you forget your surroundings, your circumstances, everything but the feeling of being in his arms.

It's the distant sound of a guard's footsteps that finally brings you back to reality. You pull apart quickly, both breathing heavily. Jongseong's hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips slightly swollen, and there's a flush across his cheekbones that you've never seen before.

"We should probably go back inside," you say reluctantly, glancing toward the sound. "Before someone finds us."

He nods, though he looks as unwilling as you feel. "You're right." He stands, offering you his hand to help you up. "Though I find myself wishing for more midnight encounters."

"Is that a royal request?" you tease, accepting his help.

"A personal one," he corrects, bringing your joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

The historical districts of Genovia are charming beyond your expectations—cobblestone streets, centuries-old architecture, and views of both mountains and sea that take your breath away. But if you're being honest, you're far more aware of your tour guide than the sights.

Jongseong—or Jay, as you've begun to think of him in your private thoughts—appears perfectly princely today, back in formal attire with his public mask firmly in place. If not for the occasional heated glance when no one is watching, you might think you dreamed last night's encounter.

"This cathedral dates back to the 14th century," he explains as you enter a soaring space of stained glass and ancient stone. "The Renaldi family has traditionally been crowned here since 1523."

"Where I'll be crowned," you murmur, the reality of your future suddenly pressing in.

His expression softens briefly. "Yes. Though not for many years, one hopes."

The palace security detail keeps a discreet distance, but they're ever-present, along with several photographers approved to document your cultural education for the Genovian press. Every movement, every interaction is observed, recorded, analyzed.

"How do you stand it?" you ask quietly as you move between exhibits in a historical museum. "The constant scrutiny."

"You develop a public self," he explains, maintaining a proper distance as he guides you through a display of royal artifacts. "A version that can withstand examination."

"And the real self?"

His eyes meet yours briefly, intensely. "That remains private. Shared only with those who have earned trust."

The implication isn't lost on you. Last night, he showed you something real—something beyond the perfect prince facade. The knowledge feels like a precious secret.

The tour concludes with dinner at a historical restaurant overlooking the harbor. Security has cleared the establishment of other patrons, creating an illusion of privacy that you both know is false. Still, sitting across from him as sunset paints the water gold, you find moments of genuine connection between the formal conversation about Genovian history and culture.

"You've memorized a remarkable amount about Genovia," you observe as he explains the significance of an ancient trading route.

"I studied your country extensively after learning of your existence," he admits. "I wanted to be prepared."

"For what?"

"To meet you," he says simply.

Something warm unfurls in your chest. "That's... thorough."

"I prefer to be informed," he replies, but there's a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone. "Though I confess, no amount of research prepared me for the reality."

"Disappointed?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Quite the opposite." His gaze is steady, sincere. "You continually surprise me, Y/N. It's... refreshing."

The way he says your name, without titles or pretense, sends a thrill through you despite the public setting.

After dinner, as you're escorted back to the palace, the car's privacy partition offers a brief moment of seclusion from watchful eyes. Jongseong's hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining.

"I wish we could have a normal evening," he says quietly. "Without guards and photographers. Just the two of us."

"Is anything about our lives ever going to be normal?" you wonder aloud.

He squeezes your hand gently. "Probably not. But we might find moments of normalcy in the chaos."

The car slows as you approach the palace gates, and reluctantly, he releases your hand. The mask of royal propriety falls back into place with practiced ease.

"Thank you for the tour, Prince Jongseong," you say formally as the car stops at the palace entrance. "It was most educational."

"The pleasure was mine, Your Highness," he replies with equal formality, though his eyes convey a very different message.

Later that night, you find yourself drawn once again to the garden, hoping for a repeat of the previous evening's encounter. The fountain beckons with memories of his kiss, but the garden remains empty save for the ever-present palace guards.

Disappointed, you turn to head back inside when you notice something on the bench by the fountain—a folded piece of paper tucked partially beneath a small stone. Looking around to ensure no one is watching, you retrieve it, unfolding it quickly.

Inside, in elegant handwriting: Piano room, east wing, midnight. —J

Your pulse quickens. The east wing houses several music rooms, according to Charlotte's exhaustive palace tour. It would be simple enough to find your way there.

It would also be reckless, improper, and potentially scandalous if discovered.

You fold the note carefully, tucking it into your pocket, and head back inside, decision already made.

The palace at midnight is a labyrinth of shadows and silence. You've changed from your formal evening attire into something more comfortable—dark jeans and a simple blouse that feels like armor after days of princess couture. With your hair loose and face scrubbed of makeup, you almost recognize yourself again.

You navigate the corridors carefully, grateful for Charlotte's detailed palace tour. The east wing is older, with fewer guards patrolling its halls. The music room isn't difficult to find—soft piano notes guide you to a partially open door.

Inside, lit only by a single lamp, Jongseong sits at a grand piano. He's shed his formal attire for dark pants and a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair falls loose across his forehead as he plays, eyes closed in concentration.

The melody is hauntingly beautiful—melancholy yet hopeful, complex yet accessible. You stand in the doorway, transfixed by this version of him you've never seen before—completely unguarded, lost in his music.

When the piece ends, his eyes open and find you immediately, as if he sensed your presence all along.

"You came," he says simply.

"I came," you confirm, stepping fully into the room and closing the door quietly behind you.

He remains seated at the piano, watching as you approach. "Did anyone see you?"

"Just the guard outside my room. I told him I was going to the library."

He nods, satisfied. "That was beautiful," you add, gesturing to the piano. "What was it?"

"Something I've been working on," he admits, looking almost shy. "It's not finished yet."

"You composed that?" You're genuinely impressed.

"Music has always been... an escape," he explains. "Somewhere I can express things I can't say aloud."

"What was that piece saying?" you ask, perching on the edge of the piano bench beside him.

He considers this, fingers ghosting over the keys without pressing them. "It's about living between worlds. Belonging fully to neither." His eyes meet yours. "I started it the night we met."

The admission sends warmth flooding through you. "Play more?" you request softly.

Instead, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I'd rather talk. Without titles or expectations or diplomatic considerations."

"What should we talk about... Jay?" His nickname feels intimate on your tongue.

His eyes darken at your use of the name. "Anything. Everything. Who you were before Genovia. Who you hope to become."

So you talk—really talk—in a way you haven't been able to since arriving in Genovia. You tell him about college, your friends, your dreams of working in international development. He shares stories of his childhood in Astoria, the weight of expectation, the moments of rebellion carefully hidden from public view.

"I crashed a motorcycle when I was seventeen," he admits, and you try to reconcile this image with the perfect prince you first met. "Snuck out of the palace, borrowed a security guard's bike, ended up with three broken ribs and a lecture from my father I still haven't forgotten."

"I can't imagine you being that reckless," you laugh.

"I'm not, usually," he acknowledges. "But sometimes the pressure builds until something has to give."

You understand that feeling all too well. "What happened after?"

"I was sent to military academy to 'channel my energies appropriately,'" he says with a wry smile. "It actually helped. Gave me structure, purpose beyond simply being the crown prince."

As you talk, the distance between you gradually diminishes. His hand finds yours again, thumb tracing patterns on your palm that send shivers up your arm. Your shoulders touch, then your knees. The air between you grows charged with possibility.

"I haven't stopped thinking about last night," he admits, voice dropping lower. "About kissing you."

"Neither have I," you confess.

This time, there's no hesitation. He leans in, capturing your lips with his, one hand coming up to cup your face. The kiss deepens immediately, as if you're both making up for lost time. You shift closer on the bench, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm.

His kisses are more confident than the night before, exploring rather than questioning. Your fingers thread through his hair, marveling at its softness. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open to him without hesitation, a small sound of pleasure escaping you.

The bench is awkward, limiting movement, so when he pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, you stand, tugging him with you. He follows willingly, but instead of returning to your kiss, he guides you to a small sofa in the corner of the room.

"More comfortable," he explains, settling beside you.

This new position allows for closer contact. When his lips find yours again, his arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against him. Your bodies align perfectly, and heat builds between you with each passing moment. His kisses move from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, discovering sensitive spots that make you gasp.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your skin.

"More than okay," you assure him, tilting your head to give him better access.

Your hands explore hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the firm muscles of his chest, the surprising warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. His own explorations become bolder, one hand sliding up your side, thumb brushing the outer curve of your breast.

Even this innocent touch sends electricity through you. You arch into his hand, silently encouraging more. He obeys your wordless request, cupping you fully through your blouse, thumb circling in a way that makes you bite your lip to stay quiet.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, eyes dark with desire. "From the moment I saw you..."

You silence him with another kiss, not trusting yourself with words. Your body is taking control, wants overwhelming rational thought. When his hand slips beneath the hem of your blouse, warm against your bare skin, you shiver with anticipation.

His fingers trace patterns up your ribcage, hesitating at the edge of your bra. "May I?" he asks, ever the gentleman even in this moment.

"Yes," you breathe, beyond caring about propriety or consequences.

The first touch of his hand against your bare breast draws a soft moan from you that he captures with his mouth. His thumb circles your nipple through the thin lace, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You press closer, wanting more, needing more.

Your own hands grow bolder, tugging his shirt from his waistband, slipping beneath to explore the warm skin of his back. You feel the subtle ridge of a scar near his shoulder blade, a humanizing imperfection that makes him even more attractive somehow.

"What's this from?" you ask, fingertips tracing the mark.

"Fencing accident," he murmurs against your neck. "Age twelve. Opponent didn't pull his strike."

You press your lips to his jaw, then his neck, enjoying the way his breath catches. "Any other scars I should know about?"

His laugh is low, slightly uneven. "Several. But discovering them might require more privacy than a music room allows."

The reminder of your surroundings is like a splash of cold water. Anyone could walk in—a guard, a staff member, your grandmother. The scandal would be immediate and irreparable.

Reluctantly, you pull back slightly, though your body protests the loss of contact. "You're right. This isn't the place."

His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "I got carried away," he admits. "You have a... significant effect on me."

"Likewise," you assure him, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips before putting slight distance between you. "But you're right. We should be careful."

He helps you straighten your clothes, then adjusts his own, running a hand through his disheveled hair in a futile attempt to tame it. The sight of him—rumpled, flushed, looking nothing like the perfect prince the world knows—fills you with a secret satisfaction.

"When can I see you again?" he asks, taking your hand. "Like this, I mean. Just us."

"I don't know," you admit. "My schedule is packed for the next few days. Royal duties and all that."

"I have to return to Astoria briefly," he tells you, disappointment evident in his voice. "Diplomatic matters requiring the crown prince's attention. But I'll be back for the royal ball."

The royal ball—your official introduction to Genovian society. The thought fills you with anxiety, but now also anticipation at the prospect of seeing him again.

"Dance with me at the ball?" you request.

"Every dance they'll allow," he promises. He hesitates, then adds, "Though propriety will demand you dance with other suitable candidates as well."

"Other suitors, you mean," you clarify, the political reality of your situation reasserting itself.

His expression tightens slightly, but he nods. "Yes. The royal council will expect you to consider all options."

"And what do you expect?" you challenge softly.

His answer is immediate and sincere. "Only that you follow your heart, wherever it leads." He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Even if it's not to me."

The selflessness of this statement catches you off guard. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

"What did you expect?"

"Something more possessive, maybe," you admit. "More princelike."

He smiles, that real smile that transforms his face. "I'm trying very hard not to be the prince with you, remember? Just Jay."

"Well, Just Jay," you say, returning his smile, "I can't make any promises about where my heart will lead. But right now, it seems rather fixated on a certain piano-playing prince with surprisingly skilled hands."

The next few days pass in a blur of preparations. There are fittings for your ball gown (a process that involves no fewer than seven people and countless discussions of hemlines and necklines and something called "appropriate royal décolletage"). There are dance lessons with Monsieur Laurent, who seems personally offended that Prince Jongseong isn't there to partner you. There are briefings about every guest who will attend, complete with flash cards for memorizing names and titles.

"The Duchess of Wellington prefers to discuss her charitable foundation, not her recent divorce," Charlotte instructs as you review the guest list. "And under no circumstances ask the Spanish ambassador about Gibraltar."

"This is worse than finals week," you grumble, flipping through the stack of cards. "At least then I was only tested on one subject at a time."

"Society is judging you on everything simultaneously," Charlotte confirms cheerfully. "Appearance, knowledge, grace, diplomacy..."

"Thanks. That's very reassuring."

The night before the ball, you find yourself restless, missing both Jay's presence and the calming effect of your midnight conversations. Over the past month, you've grown accustomed to his company, to having someone who understands both your old world and your new one. This week without him has left you feeling strangely adrift.

You wander down to the music room, hoping to recapture some of that peace, but the room feels empty without him. You sit at the piano, pressing random keys, creating nothing like the beautiful melodies he coaxed from the instrument. On impulse, you check under the bench, then inside the piano itself, hoping for another note, but find nothing.

It's silly to feel disappointed. He's a crown prince with actual responsibilities, not a lovestruck teenager leaving notes for his crush. Still, you can't help wishing for some connection, some indication that he's thinking of you too.

Back in your room, you're about to climb into bed when there's a soft knock at your door. Olivia enters with a small silver tray.

"This just arrived for you, Your Highness," she says, presenting what appears to be a letter sealed with dark blue wax.

Your heart skips as you recognize the crest pressed into the seal—the royal emblem of Astoria. You wait until Olivia leaves before breaking it open with trembling fingers.

Inside, written in that now-familiar elegant handwriting:

Y/N, Diplomatic obligations keep me in Astoria longer than anticipated, but I'll return tomorrow in time for the ball. Save a dance for me—preferably more than one. This week has felt like an eternity. I've missed our conversations, our moments away from public scrutiny. I find myself at my piano each night, working on the piece I started after we met. It's nearly complete now. Perhaps I'll play it for you soon. The past month has been unexpected in every way. When I first agreed to my father's request to help with your royal transition, I never imagined... Some things are better said in person. Until tomorrow, J P.S. I still feel your touch on my skin.

The day of the royal ball arrives with military precision. Your schedule is planned down to the minute—when you'll bathe (9:15 AM), when your hair will be styled (11:30 AM), when makeup will be applied (2:45 PM). It's as if you're a product being assembled rather than a person preparing for an event.

"I can bathe myself, you know," you inform Charlotte when she reviews the schedule over breakfast. "I've been doing it successfully for two decades."

"Today is not about efficiency, Your Highness," Charlotte replies. "It's about tradition. The royal ball has marked the formal introduction of new members of the royal family for generations."

You think about Jay's letter, tucked safely under your pillow. Tonight isn't just about tradition for you. After a month in the palace, you've reached a turning point—not just in your royal journey, but in whatever is developing between you and Jay.

The day progresses according to schedule, each hour bringing you closer to the evening's festivities. By the time you're finally dressed, you hardly recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your ball gown is a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that seems to change colors as you move—now sapphire, now indigo, now almost black. The bodice is fitted, adorned with subtle crystal beading that catches the light like stars, while the skirt flows outward in graceful folds. Your hair has been swept up in an elegant style that manages to look both regal and youthful, and atop it all sits a delicate tiara—platinum vines intertwined with small diamonds.

"You look every inch a princess," your grandmother declares when she sees you, genuine approval warming her voice.

"I feel like I'm wearing someone else's life," you admit.

She approaches, adjusting your tiara slightly. "It is your life now. You've taken to it more naturally than anyone expected—including yourself, I suspect."

There's a knowing look in her eyes that makes you wonder how much she's guessed about your feelings for Jay. Your grandmother misses little, and your increasingly frequent "diplomatic discussions" with Prince Jongseong over the past month have hardly been subtle.

"Remember," she continues, "tonight you represent not just yourself, but Genovia. Every interaction matters."

"No pressure," you mutter.

"Considerable pressure," she corrects, but with a hint of a smile. "That's the nature of our position."

The ball is being held in the palace's Grand Ballroom, a space so opulent it makes even the other royal rooms seem understated in comparison. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Massive floral arrangements perfume the air. A full orchestra plays softly as guests begin to arrive.

You stand with your grandmother at the entrance, greeting each person as Charlotte announces them. Your hand is kissed so many times it begins to feel like a separate entity from your body. You cycle through the diplomatic phrases you've memorized, trying to match names to faces to countries to appropriate topics of conversation.

You continue greeting guests, anxiety gradually giving way to a strange confidence. After a month of intensive training, you're actually doing this—being a princess, representing Genovia, handling diplomatic small talk without major incident. The realization is both surprising and empowering.

And then finally, after what feels like hours, Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

Your heart stutters as he appears, resplendent in formal attire—a midnight blue military-style jacket with silver accents that perfectly complements your gown, as if coordinated. (Knowing your grandmother's attention to detail, it probably was.) He looks every inch the crown prince, and yet all you can see is Jay—your Jay—hidden beneath the formal facade.

His eyes find yours immediately, warming in a way that feels intimate despite the crowded room. He bows formally to your grandmother, exchanging pleasantries, before turning to you.

"Your Highness," he says, taking your hand. Instead of the customary kiss to your knuckles, he turns your hand gently and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, just above your pulse point.

The gesture is technically within the bounds of protocol but charged with meaning only you understand. You feel your heartbeat quicken beneath his lips, and know he can feel it too.

"Prince Jongseong," you manage, your voice steadier than you expected. "Welcome back to Genovia."

"I understand congratulations are in order," he says smoothly. "The press has been most favorable regarding your public appearances this week."

"The princess has exceeded expectations," your grandmother agrees, watching this interaction with interest.

His eyes never leave yours. "I'm not surprised."

The moment stretches between you, full of unspoken feelings built over these past weeks, before Charlotte's announcement of the next guest breaks the spell. Jay bows again and moves into the ballroom, but not before one last glance that promises more to come.

Once all guests have arrived, the formal dancing begins. Your grandmother opens the ball with the Prime Minister, and then it's your turn. Tradition dictates that your first dance be with the highest-ranking unmarried nobleman present—which happens to be Jay.

He approaches as the orchestra begins a stately waltz, extending his hand. "May I have this dance, Your Highness?"

You place your hand in his, grateful for all those practice sessions over the past month. "You may."

His hand settles at your waist, familiar yet different in this public setting. You move together perfectly, your earlier clumsiness long gone, replaced by a confidence born of compatibility and practice.

"You look breathtaking," he says quietly as he guides you through a turn. "That color suits you."

"Thank you. You look..." You search for a word that encompasses how he affects you without being inappropriate for public consumption. "Regal."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is that a compliment or a complaint?"

"Both," you admit. "I miss Jay. Prince Jongseong is very impressive, but..."

"But not who you want to be with," he finishes, understanding immediately. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. "He's still here. Just... constrained by circumstance."

"Can he break free later?" you ask boldly. "Perhaps after the ball?"

His eyes darken. "He'll find a way."

The orchestra's final notes signal the end of your dance, forcing you to separate. Jay bows formally, though his eyes convey much more intimate thoughts.

"Until later, Princess," he says, voice low with promise.

The rest of the evening becomes an exercise in diplomatic multitasking. You dance with Prince Nikolai, finding his conversation refreshingly direct. You dance with the French ambassador's son, the Duke of Wellington, and several other names from your grandmother's list of suitable candidates.

Each dance, each conversation, feels like a performance—you playing the role of princess, potential bride, future queen. Only your brief interactions with Jay feel real, though these are limited to passing glances and the occasional comment as you move in the same diplomatic circles.

During a momentary respite, you find yourself near a set of French doors leading to a terrace. Needing air and solitude, you slip outside, grateful for the cool night breeze after the stuffiness of the ballroom.

You've only enjoyed the peace for a moment when a familiar voice says, "Escaping your own ball?"

You turn to find Jay stepping through the doors, looking concerned.

"Just taking a short break," you assure him. "It's a lot to process."

He glances back at the ballroom, then joins you at the stone balustrade. "We shouldn't be alone together," he says, though he makes no move to leave. "Not where anyone might see."

"Yet here you are," you point out.

"Here I am," he agrees. "Unable to stay away despite knowing better."

You study his profile in the moonlight, drinking in the details you've missed during his week away. The strong line of his jaw, the perfect posture that somehow looks less rigid tonight, the subtle way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

"I missed you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

His expression gentles. "And I you. Far more than I anticipated."

You glance back at the ballroom, where hundreds of guests dance and mingle, all potential witnesses to this private moment. "A week felt longer than I expected."

"I composed three new pieces," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Music seems to flow more easily when I'm... feeling something intensely."

"Is that your princely way of saying you thought about me?" you tease.

He turns to face you fully, close enough that you can see the subtle variations of color in his eyes, even in the dim light. "I thought about little else."

Your heart skips at the naked honesty in his voice. Over the past month, you've learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression, to understand what lies beneath his carefully controlled exterior. Tonight, he's making no effort to hide his feelings.

"The ball is beautiful," you say, changing the subject before you do something reckless like kiss him where anyone might see. "I'm surprised I haven't completely embarrassed Genovia yet."

"You could never," he assures you. "You've taken to royal life with remarkable grace."

"I've had a good teacher," you reply, holding his gaze meaningfully.

He steps closer, close enough that the skirt of your gown brushes against his legs. "There's a small courtyard beyond this terrace," he says, his voice low. "More private than here. Would you walk with me? Just for a moment?"

You know you shouldn't. You're the guest of honor at a ball being held in your honor. People will notice your absence. And yet...

"Lead the way," you decide, throwing caution aside.

He offers his arm with perfect formal correctness, as if you're simply taking a proper turn around the terrace. But once you're beyond the sight of the French doors, his hand covers yours where it rests on his arm, a much more intimate touch.

The courtyard is small and enclosed, lit only by the moonlight and a few distant lanterns. A fountain burbles quietly at its center, surrounded by hedges that provide welcome privacy. The music from the ballroom is muffled here, creating the illusion that you've stepped into another world.

The moment you're properly hidden from view, Jay turns to you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek.

"I've been waiting to do this all evening," he murmurs, before his lips find yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, a reacquaintance after a week apart. But it quickly deepens, a month of growing desire making you both less cautious than you should be. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands settle at your waist, respectful even in passion.

"I missed this," you breathe against his mouth. "Missed you. The real you."

"I'm most real when I'm with you," he confesses, forehead resting against yours. "Everywhere else, I'm playing a role."

"Even in Astoria?"

"Especially there," he sighs. "My father has... specific expectations about how the crown prince should behave."

You pull back slightly to study his face. "You never talk about your father."

A shadow crosses his expression. "There's little to say. He is a traditional ruler with traditional views."

"About Astoria? Or about who you should marry?" you ask, cutting to what you suspect is the heart of the matter.

Jay's silence answers your question.

"He doesn't approve of me," you realize. "Of us."

"He doesn't know you," Jay corrects gently. "He sees only the diplomatic equation—a princess with an uncertain claim versus more established alliances."

The reality of your situation crashes back. No matter how genuine your feelings, how perfect this stolen moment, politics surrounds you both like the walls of this courtyard.

"And what do you see?" you ask, steeling yourself for his answer.

His hands frame your face, his gaze unwavering. "I see you. Not the princess, not the diplomatic opportunity. Just you—stubborn, honest, intelligent, beautiful you."

The sincerity in his voice melts your defenses. You reach up to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone with your fingertips.

"When did this happen?" you wonder aloud. "When did you become so important to me?"

He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I don't know. Somewhere between your first disastrous curtsy and the moment you called me Jay instead of Prince Jongseong."

"It was the piano playing," you decide with a small smile. "I'm a sucker for musicians."

He laughs softly, the sound warming you from within. "I'll compose symphonies for you, if that's what it takes."

"Takes for what?" you challenge gently.

His expression grows serious. "To convince you that what's between us is worth fighting for, regardless of politics or convenience or royal expectations."

The weight of his words settles over you. A month ago, you were a college student worrying about midterms. Now you're a princess with constitutional responsibilities, standing in a moonlit courtyard with a prince who's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.

"Jay," you start, not sure what you're going to say.

"Don't answer now," he interrupts softly. "There's still time. Still much we both need to consider."

He's right, of course. The constitutional deadline looms, but it's still weeks away. Tonight isn't the time for final decisions.

"We should return," he says reluctantly. "Your absence will be noticed."

"Yours too," you point out. "The dashing Crown Prince of Astoria is quite popular, I've noticed."

A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Jealous?"

"Should I be?"

His answer is another kiss, deeper than before, his arms pulling you flush against him. When he finally releases you, you're both breathing heavily.

His eyes darken. "Meet me in the music room. One hour after the ball ends."

Your breath catches. "That's... quite direct."

"You asked," he reminds you, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Will you come?"

The music is drawing to a close, your time together nearly over. "Yes,"

Once alone, you change from your nightgown into something less formal but still respectable—dark pants and a simple blouse. You check the clock. Forty minutes until you're supposed to meet Jay in the music room. Enough time to let the palace settle, for guards to assume their night positions, for suspicion to fade.

The music room is dark when you arrive, only a single lamp burning low near the piano. For a moment, you think you've arrived first—then you spot him, standing by the window, looking out at the gardens below.

"Jay," you say softly.

He turns, and the expression on his face makes your heart skip. He crosses the room in a few long strides, and then his arms are around you, his lips on yours, and all pretense of formality evaporates.

This kiss is different from those that came before—less hesitant, more certain. A month of growing feelings, a week of separation, an evening of pretending indifference—all of it culminates in this moment of honesty between you.

When you finally part, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "I've been wanting to do that all night."

"Even during our dances?" you tease.

"Especially then," he admits. "Having you so close, yet having to maintain proper distance... it was excruciating."

You laugh softly. "Poor prince. Such diplomatic hardship."

"You have no idea," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "The things I wanted to say to you..."

"Say them now," you encourage, pulling back slightly to see his face.

He studies you in the dim light, his expression serious. "I don't want to overwhelm you."

"Try me," you challenge.

He takes a breath, then leads you to the small sofa where you've sat during previous late-night conversations. Once you're settled side by side, he takes your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm.

"When my father first suggested I assist with your royal transition, I saw it as a diplomatic assignment," he begins. "Astoria helping Genovia, building goodwill, assessing a potential alliance. Very... political."

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

"Then I met you," he says with a small smile. "This defiant, overwhelmed, utterly genuine person who didn't fit any diplomatic template I'd prepared for."

"I was a mess," you remind him.

"You were authentic," he corrects. "Do you know how rare that is in royal circles? How precious?"

His sincerity catches you off guard. "I just didn't know how to be anything else."

"Exactly," he says, squeezing your hand. "And over these past weeks, watching you navigate this new world while somehow maintaining that authenticity... it's been remarkable."

"I find myself thinking about you constantly," he continues. "Looking forward to our conversations. Composing music inspired by your laugh. Wondering what you're doing when we're apart."

"I know it's fast," he acknowledges. "Barely a month since we met. But I also know that when I'm with you, I feel more myself than I ever have. Like I don't have to choose between the crown prince and the person beneath it."

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I'm falling in love with you, Y/N. Not the princess. You."

The confession hangs in the air between you, honest and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"Say something," he urges when you remain silent, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

Instead of answering with words, you lean forward and kiss him, trying to convey through touch what you're not sure how to express aloud. Your feelings for him have grown so gradually yet so intensely that putting them into language feels impossible.

When you finally break the kiss, you keep your face close to his. "I don't know what this is," you admit. "Everything in my life has changed so completely in the past month. But the one thing that feels real, that feels right, is you."

His eyes search yours. "But?"

"But I'm scared," you confess. "Of feeling this much. Of making decisions based on emotions when the stakes are so high. Of disappointing my grandmother, Genovia, everyone counting on me to make the right choice."

"What if the right diplomatic choice and the right personal choice are the same?" he asks quietly.

"Are they?" you challenge. "Your father doesn't seem to think so."

His expression tightens slightly. "My father sees alliances in terms of historical connections and military strategy. But a union between Astoria and Genovia makes sense on multiple levels—economic, cultural, geographic."

"Very romantic," you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He smiles, recognizing your deflection. "I'm trying to address your concerns about duty. The personal reasons are..." His voice drops lower. "Well, I think I've made those clear."

Heat blooms in your cheeks at his implication. "Crystal clear."

"We don't have to decide anything tonight," he assures you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "The constitutional deadline is still weeks away."

"And until then?" you ask.

"Until then," he says, shifting closer, "we continue getting to know each other. Without pressure from our families or royal councils or diplomatic expectations."

"Can we really separate those things from who we are?"

"Perhaps not entirely," he admits. "But we can try. Starting with this."

He kisses you again, and for a while, the complications of royal life fade into the background. There's only this moment, this connection, this growing certainty that whatever path you choose, you want him beside you.

Much later, as you reluctantly prepare to return to your separate rooms before the palace awakens, Jay pulls you into one last embrace.

"We should go," he murmurs against your hair, though his arms tighten around you instead of letting go.

"Not yet," you whisper, unwilling to break the spell between you.

Jay studies your face in the dim light, something shifting in his expression. "Come with me," he says suddenly, taking your hand.

"Where?"

"Somewhere more private," he answers, leading you toward the door. "The guards change rotation in five minutes. We'll have a window."

Heart racing with equal parts excitement and nervousness, you follow him through the shadowed corridors. He moves with practiced ease, clearly familiar with the palace's nocturnal rhythms. After several turns, he stops before an ornate door you don't recognize.

"The royal library," he explains, producing a small key. "It's never guarded at night. No one will look for us here."

The library is vast and silent, moonlight streaming through tall windows, illuminating shelves that stretch toward the ceiling. A small fireplace holds the remnants of embers, casting a faint glow across a single chaise longue and a smaller, more intimate piano than the grand one in the music room.

Jay locks the door behind you, then crosses to stoke the dying fire. The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the room. When he turns to face you, something has changed in his expression—something darker, hungrier.

He approaches slowly, giving you every chance to step away, to maintain the careful boundaries you've observed until now. But you don't move, don't want to move, transfixed by the intensity in his gaze.

Now, his breath is warm against your lips, fingers brushing your cheek with a reverence that makes your chest ache. The only light comes from the dying fire in the hearth, flickering shadows across the lone chaise and the grand piano beside it. The rest of the palace sleeps, unaware of the two figures standing too close in the quiet of the library, the air between them thick with something forbidden.

"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, voice wrecked with restraint.

"I won't," you whisper.

And then he kisses you.

It's slow at first, a gentle press of lips meant to savor, to test, to give you one last chance to stop this before it spirals beyond control. But when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, something breaks.

Jay groans softly, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding to your waist, gripping you like he's afraid you'll disappear. He backs you up until you collide with the piano, your hips pressing against the polished wood, a soft creak echoing through the empty library.

"God," he breathes against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Then show me," you whisper, tilting your chin up to capture his lips again.

That's all it takes.

Jay's hands slip beneath the fabric of your blouse, fingers finding bare skin, warm and wanting. He lifts you onto the edge of the piano in one smooth motion, the wood cool against your thighs as he steps between them, fitting his body between yours like you were carved for each other.

His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, trailing down your throat, slow, deliberate. Your breath hitches when he reaches the curve of your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, leaving heat in his wake.

He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking with yours as his fingers skim higher up your thigh. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice strained.

Instead, your fingers tangle in his hair, your breath unsteady as you part your legs just a little wider, inviting him in.

His chest rises and falls sharply as his hand slides higher, fingertips brushing over the heat of your core, teasing through the thin lace.

"Fuck," he exhales, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his fingers press against you, feeling just how wet you already are.

You tremble beneath his touch, hips shifting forward, seeking more friction, more of him.

Jay lets out a soft, desperate laugh against your skin. "So eager," he teases, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

"Shut up and do something about it," you whisper, voice wrecked.

His control snaps.

His fingers slide beneath the lace, parting you with a slow, torturous stroke that has your head falling back, mouth parting on a silent gasp.

"Jay," you whimper, your hands clenching his shoulders as his fingers dip lower, circling, teasing, never quite giving you enough.

"Patience," he breathes, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. He's just as wrecked as you are.

Then, finally, he sinks a finger inside you.

Your body clenches around him, a sharp inhale breaking the silence of the library.

"That's it," Jay murmurs, lips brushing your temple, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. "Let me hear you, my love."

His fingers work you open slowly, curling, pressing, stroking in time with the shallow thrusts of his hips against your thigh. His mouth never stops—kissing, biting, sucking at your skin, leaving marks that will be hidden beneath your clothes come morning but burn with the memory of him.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, his thumb circling exactly where you need him most.

"Fuck," he groans when you roll your hips into his touch, chasing the friction. "You're so wet for me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"Jay—" Your voice catches as he strokes deeper, his fingers curling just right, white-hot pleasure spreading from your core outward.

He presses a soft kiss to your parted lips, swallowing every moan, every gasp, his pace slow and purposeful, like he wants to memorize the way you fall apart beneath him.

"Say my name," he whispers against your mouth, his voice shaking.

"Jay—"

"Louder."

"Jay," you gasp, body trembling as the pleasure coils tighter, too much and not enough all at once.

"Good girl," he breathes, curling his fingers one last time, pressing his lips against yours just as you shatter around him, your back arching against the piano, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He keeps working you through it, slow, lazy strokes that make you shudder, pressing kisses to your throat, your jaw, everywhere he can reach.

And when your breathing slows, his forehead rests against yours, his fingers still buried inside you, the taste of your pleasure still on his lips.

"I should let you go," he murmurs, but his hands don't move, his body still pressed against yours, hard and wanting.

You cup his face, pulling him back down for another kiss, deep and slow and full of everything you can't say.

"Not yet," you whisper.

And just like that, Jay groans, dragging you down from the piano and onto the chaise, his mouth and hands promising you're nowhere near done.

The palace is quiet as you slip through the corridors, heart still racing from the evening's events. You pause at a window overlooking the gardens, watching moonlight silver the paths where you first kissed Jay weeks ago. How much has changed since then—how much you have changed.

You're so lost in thought that you don't hear the approaching footsteps until it's too late.

"Your Highness?"

You turn, startled, to find your grandmother standing a few feet away, wrapped in a dressing gown that somehow manages to look regal despite the hour.

"Grandmother," you manage, hoping the dim lighting hides your flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. "I was just... getting some air."

Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes miss nothing. "A common need after such an eventful evening."

You wait for questions or accusations, but instead, she joins you at the window, both of you staring out at the moonlit garden.

"I couldn't sleep on the night of my first royal ball either," she says unexpectedly. "Too much excitement. Too many decisions looming."

You glance at her, surprised by this rare personal revelation. "Was your ball also for... matchmaking purposes?"

A small smile touches her lips. "Of course. Royal balls have rarely been simply for dancing."

"Did it work?" you ask, genuinely curious. "Did you find someone suitable?"

"I did." Her voice softens with memory. "Though not whom my parents expected."

"Grandfather?"

She nods. "He was considered politically inconvenient. The third son of a minor royal house with more titles than fortune. My parents had their sights set on a neighbor with stronger military forces."

You absorb this information, struggling to reconcile it with the pragmatic queen you've come to know. "But you chose him anyway."

"Love is not a luxury afforded to royalty," she says, her tone measured. "But sometimes, if one is very fortunate, duty and affection may align."

The implication hangs between you. She knows. Perhaps not the details, but enough.

"Is that what happened with you and Grandfather?" you ask.

Her smile deepens. "We built something real from an arrangement that began as political. Not love at first sight, perhaps, but a deep and abiding partnership that grew into something... essential."

You think of Jay—of the way he looks at you when no one else is watching, of his hands on your skin just hours ago, of his confession in the music room.

"I'm not sure what to do," you admit quietly.

Your grandmother turns to face you fully. "You've grown quite... fond of Prince Jongseong."

It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "Yes."

"And he of you," she observes. "That much has been evident for weeks."

Your head snaps up. "You've known?"

"I have eyes, my dear. And considerably more experience with clandestine palace romances than you might imagine."

For a moment, you glimpse a different woman beneath the queenly facade—younger, perhaps, with her own secrets and desires.

"I don't want to choose wrong," you confess. "For myself or for Genovia."

"The choice is rarely wrong or right," she replies. "Merely different paths, each with its own challenges and rewards."

"That's not very helpful," you point out.

To your surprise, she laughs—a genuine sound rarely heard in palace corridors. "I'm afraid that's the most honest counsel I can offer. But I will add this: I have been watching you these past weeks, Y/N. You have taken to royal life with remarkable adaptability. You have won the respect of the council, the diplomatic corps, and, most importantly, the people of Genovia."

"Have I?" You find this hard to believe.

"Indeed. Which means you have earned the right to make this choice for yourself, with Genovia's interests in mind but not at the expense of your own happiness."

Her hand touches your cheek briefly—a rare gesture of affection. "Besides, I have not spent thirty years preserving this monarchy only to see its next ruler miserable in a politically expedient marriage."

With that cryptic statement, she turns to leave. At the end of the corridor, she pauses.

"One more thing, Y/N."

"Yes, Grandmother?"

"The southeast wing has far fewer night patrols than the east wing." Her eyes twinkle momentarily. "For future reference."

She disappears around the corner, leaving you speechless in the moonlight.

The next morning, a note arrives with your breakfast tray.

Meet me in the rose garden at noon. There are matters we must discuss before the council meeting tomorrow. —J

The formality of the message concerns you, so different from his usual warmth. You spend the morning distracted during your language lesson, earning several pointed looks from your Genovian tutor as you massacre conjugations.

By noon, you're a bundle of nerves as you make your way to the garden. You find Jay seated on a stone bench, his posture rigid, his expression guarded. He stands when he sees you, bowing formally.

"Your Highness."

The title and distance hurt more than you expected. "Are we back to that now?"

His expression softens momentarily before the mask returns. "I've received a summons from my father. I'm to return to Astoria immediately."

Your stomach drops. "For how long?"

"That's what we need to discuss." He gestures to the bench, and you sit, carefully maintaining space between you. "My father has learned of... our connection."

"How?" You've been so careful.

"It seems Prince Nikolai mentioned to his father how taken you and I seemed with each other. The Danish king mentioned it to the Austrian ambassador, who informed my father's adviser."

"That's..."

"Royal gossip," Jay supplies with a grim smile. "It travels faster than light."

You process this information, anxiety building. "What does your father want?"

"He believes our association has progressed beyond diplomatic utility," Jay says carefully, clearly choosing each word. "He reminds me that Astoria's interests lie in stronger alliances with certain Eastern European powers, not with a... 'newly discovered princess of questionable legitimacy.'"

The words sting, though you know they're not his. "I see."

"No, you don't," he says firmly, his composed facade cracking. "Those are his words, not mine. Never mine."

"But you're still leaving."

He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of frustration. "He's the king. I cannot simply ignore a direct summons."

"And when you return to Astoria?" you press. "What then?"

Jay's eyes meet yours, conflict evident in their depths. "He expects me to begin formal courtship proceedings with Princess Elena of Belgravia."

The name hits you like a physical blow. Princess Elena—beautiful, accomplished, born and raised royal, and the daughter of one of the wealthiest monarchs in Eastern Europe.

"I see," you say again, because what else is there to say?

"I've requested a private audience with my father before any announcements are made," Jay continues. "I intend to make my case for... an alternative arrangement."

Hope flickers faintly. "What kind of alternative?"

"My own choice," he says simply.

You both know what that means. Who that means.

"When do you leave?" you ask.

"Tomorrow morning."

So soon. Too soon.

"The council meets tomorrow afternoon," you tell him. "To discuss my... suitors. To begin formalizing the process."

"I know." His hand twitches as if to reach for yours, but he restrains himself. You're in plain view of the palace windows. "My timing could not be worse."

You laugh, though there's no humor in it. "When has timing ever been on our side?"

He smiles sadly. "Perhaps just once, when a certain princess couldn't sleep and wandered into a garden at midnight."

The memory warms you despite everything. "What should I do about the council?"

"Stall," he suggests. "Ask for more time to consider. The constitutional deadline is still three weeks away."

"And if you don't return by then? If your father refuses your 'alternative arrangement'?"

The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. Jay's jaw tightens.

"Then you must do what's best for Genovia," he says finally. "As I must do what's best for Astoria."

"Even if that means..."

"Even then," he confirms, though the words clearly pain him.

You sit in silence, the carefully tended roses blooming around you in vibrant contrast to your darkening mood.

"Tonight," Jay says suddenly. "Meet me in the library. Midnight."

Your heartbeat quickens at the memory of your last library encounter. "The guards—"

"Will be occupied with a minor disturbance in the north wing," he finishes. "I've arranged it."

You raise an eyebrow. "How very un-princely of you."

A hint of his real smile appears. "I thought you preferred me un-princely."

"I prefer you," you correct softly.

His eyes darken, and for a moment you think he might forget propriety entirely and kiss you right there in the sunlight. Instead, he stands, straightening his jacket with a deliberate motion that reestablishes distance.

"Until tonight, Your Highness," he says formally, loud enough for any listening ears.

The library is bathed in moonlight when you slip inside at midnight. Jay is already there, pacing between the tall shelves.

The moment the door closes behind you, he crosses the room in swift strides, gathering you into his arms. His mouth finds yours with desperate intensity, and you respond in kind, clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach.

"I can't bear the thought of leaving you," he murmurs against your lips.

"Then don't," you reply, knowing it's impossible even as you say it.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands framing your face. "If there was any other way..."

"I know," you assure him. "I understand duty. Better than I did a month ago, anyway."

He smiles at that, though sadness lingers in his eyes. "You've become quite the princess."

"A reluctant one," you remind him.

"The best kind," he counters, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "The kind who questions, who challenges, who sees beyond tradition to possibility."

His faith in you is staggering. "What if I can't do this without you?"

"You can," he says with certainty. "You already have been. I've just been fortunate enough to witness it."

He leads you to the chaise where you lost yourself in him just nights ago. This time, though, he simply sits, pulling you close against his side.

"I've been thinking," he begins, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "About us. About what happens after I speak with my father."

"And?"

"There are several possibilities," he says, the diplomat in him emerging. "He may agree to consider an alliance with Genovia through... us. It's not without precedent or merit, despite his current reservations."

"But you don't think he will," you observe.

Jay sighs. "He is... traditional. Set in his views. Convinced of certain alliances' superiority."

"So what happens if he refuses?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "Then I have a decision to make. One I've been contemplating for some time."

Your heart quickens. "What decision?"

"Whether my duty to Astoria's future must follow the exact path my father envisions," he says carefully. "Or whether I might serve my country better by following my own judgment."

The implications of this statement hang between you.

"You would defy him?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"I would reason with him first," Jay clarifies. "With every diplomatic skill I possess. But if he remains unmoved..." He takes a deep breath. "Then yes, I would consider... alternatives."

"What kind of alternatives?"

He turns to face you fully. "I will be king one day, regardless of whom I marry. My father's insistence on certain alliances reflects old thinking—military might and territorial advantage. But Astoria's future lies in economic partnership, cultural exchange, technological advancement. Areas where Genovia has much to offer."

"That sounds very rational," you observe. "Very diplomatic."

A smile touches his lips. "I'm trying to frame my personal desires in terms my father might respect."

"And what are your personal desires?" you ask boldly.

His eyes darken. "I think I've made those quite clear." His hand comes up to cup your cheek. "But if you need me to be more explicit..."

His kiss leaves no doubt, deep and claiming and full of promise. When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily.

"I love you," he says simply. "I want a future with you. As Prince of Astoria, as future king, but most importantly, as Jay—the man I can only truly be when I'm with you."

Tears spring to your eyes at the raw honesty in his voice. "I love you too," you whisper, the words feel both terrifying and inevitable. "I don't want to lose this. Lose you."

"Then trust me," he urges. "Trust that I will find a way back to you. Trust that what we've found is worth fighting for."

"What should I tell the council tomorrow?"

"The truth," he says. "That you're still considering your options. That you need the full three weeks to make your decision."

"And if they press me?"

"Then you might mention that one option includes a harmonious union between Genovia and Astoria that would benefit both nations for generations to come." A hint of mischief enters his expression. "Be vague on the details."

You laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. "Very diplomatic."

"I've had excellent training," he reminds you.

You lean your head against his shoulder, savoring the solid warmth of him. "How long will you be gone?"

"A week. Perhaps two. I'll send word when I can, but communications may be... monitored."

The reminder of your precarious situation sobers you. "And if you don't return before the deadline?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Then you must do what you believe is right. For yourself and for Genovia."

"That's not the answer I wanted," you admit.

"It's the honest one," he replies. "I will do everything in my power to return to you with a path forward for us. But I would never ask you to risk Genovia's stability on my promise alone."

It's painful, but you understand. The weight of nations rests on both your shoulders. Your wants cannot be the only consideration.

"How did we get here?" you wonder aloud. "Two months ago I was worried about midterms and student loans."

"And I was dutifully attending diplomatic functions, playing the perfect prince," he adds. "Never imagining that a reluctant American princess would upend everything I thought I knew about duty and desire."

You smile at his characterization. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

"Indeed we are," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "And I intend to keep it that way, regardless of what my father or your council might prefer."

The conviction in his voice bolsters your courage. "So what now?"

"Now," he says, pulling you closer, "we have approximately five hours before dawn. I can think of several ways to spend them that don't involve diplomatic strategy."

"How scandalous, Your Highness," you tease, though heat pools in your core at his implication.

"You bring out my rebellious side," he murmurs, lips finding the sensitive spot below your ear that makes you shiver. "Among other things."

Words give way to touch as you lose yourselves in each other one last time before duty calls you back to separate worlds. Every kiss, every caress feels weighted with significance—a promise, a memory to sustain you through the uncertainty ahead.

Hours later, as dawn threatens the eastern sky, you lie tangled together on the chaise, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"I should go," he whispers, though his arms tighten around you. "I'm expected at the airfield in three hours."

"Five more minutes," you plead, not ready to relinquish this moment.

He presses a kiss to your hair. "Five more minutes," he agrees.

The council chamber feels cavernous and oppressive as thirteen pairs of eyes study you with varying degrees of interest, skepticism, and calculation. Your grandmother sits at the head of the long table, her expression carefully neutral as the Prime Minister outlines the constitutional requirements yet again.

"The deadline approaches, Your Highness," he concludes, peering at you over his spectacles. "The council requires your decision regarding a suitable match so that proper arrangements can be made within the constitutional timeframe."

You take a deep breath, remembering Jay's advice and your grandmother's unexpected counsel.

"I understand the urgency," you begin, your voice steadier than you expected. "And I appreciate the council's diligence in presenting suitable candidates for consideration. However, I believe the constitution allows me the full three weeks to make my decision, and I intend to use that time."

Murmurs circulate around the table. The Minister of State leans forward, his bushy eyebrows drawing together.

"Your Highness, while technically correct, it would be prudent to announce your intentions sooner. Diplomatic arrangements require time, wedding preparations must be made, public announcements coordinated..."

"And all of that will happen," you assure him, "once my decision is final. But this is not merely a diplomatic arrangement—it is a marriage. One that will affect not only my life but the future of Genovia. I believe such a decision deserves careful consideration."

Your grandmother's lips twitch—almost a smile—before her expression returns to regal impassivity.

"Perhaps," offers Lady Rothschild, the only female council member besides your grandmother, "Her Highness might share which candidates she is most seriously considering? To allow for preliminary preparations?"

All eyes return to you, expectant. You think of Jay, likely in the air now, flying back to face his father and an uncertain future.

"I am considering several options," you say carefully. "Including the possibility of a union that would align Genovia's interests with Astoria, combining our complementary strengths in trade, technology, and cultural influence."

The Foreign Minister straightens in his chair. "Astoria? Has Prince Jongseong made an official overture?"

"Prince Jongseong and I have discussed the potential benefits of such an alliance," you reply, technically truthful while omitting the nature of those discussions. "While nothing is formalized, I believe the possibility warrants serious consideration."

This sets off another round of murmurs, more animated than before. You catch your grandmother watching you with something like approval in her eyes.

"Astoria has historically sought alliances eastward," the Defense Minister points out. "King Min-hyuk is known for his traditional leanings."

"Traditions evolve," you counter. "And wise rulers adapt to changing circumstances."

The Prime Minister clears his throat. "While an Astorian alliance would indeed offer significant advantages, we must be prepared for all outcomes. I suggest the council continue preparation for multiple possibilities while Her Highness completes her... deliberations."

It's a reasonable compromise, and you nod agreement. "I appreciate the council's patience and wisdom in this matter. I assure you that my decision will prioritize Genovia's interests while honoring the constitutional requirements."

The meeting concludes with formal pleasantries, though you feel the weight of speculation following you as you exit the chamber. Your grandmother falls into step beside you in the corridor.

"Well played," she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Though I believe you've given Lord Pallimore indigestion with the suggestion of Astorian negotiations he knew nothing about."

You can't help but smile. "I merely stated facts. Prince Jongseong and I have indeed discussed the potential benefits of such an arrangement."

"I imagine you have," she replies dryly. "Quite thoroughly."

Heat rises to your cheeks. "Grandmother!"

"I may be old, my dear, but I'm not oblivious." She pats your arm. "Now we wait. And prepare for all possible outcomes, as the Prime Minister so diplomatically suggested."

"Do you think there's a chance?" you ask, unable to keep the vulnerability from your voice. "For Jay and me?"

Your grandmother considers this carefully. "I think Prince Jongseong is more resourceful than his father realizes. And I think King Min-hyuk, for all his traditional bluster, is a pragmatist at heart." She glances at you with unexpected gentleness. "But most importantly, I think you have discovered something genuine in each other. Such connections are rare in royal circles, and not easily broken—even by kings."

Her words offer comfort as the days stretch into a week, then ten days, with no word from Jay. You go through the motions of royal duties—charity visits, diplomatic receptions, cultural events—while your thoughts remain fixed on Astoria and the man fighting for your shared future.

On the eleventh day, when hope begins to falter, a small package arrives. No return address, no accompanying note, just a small box wrapped in simple brown paper.

Inside, nestled in velvet, lies an antique key on a delicate silver chain. You recognize it immediately—the library key Jay used on your last night together. Attached is a small card bearing only a date: three days hence, exactly one day before the constitutional deadline.

The message is clear: He's coming back. He's found a way.

For the first time in eleven days, you breathe fully.

The palace gardens are awash in golden late afternoon light as you pace the gravel path. You've changed outfits three times, settled on a simple blue dress that Jay once said brought out your eyes, then second-guessed that choice a dozen times since.

The sound of approaching footsteps has you turning, heart in your throat.

Jay stands at the garden entrance, still in traveling clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the journey. He looks exhausted but determined, his eyes finding yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the weight of eleven days' separation and uncertainty holding you in place. Then you're running, propriety forgotten, and he meets you halfway, catching you in an embrace that lifts you off your feet.

"You're here," you breathe against his neck, inhaling his familiar scent. "You came back."

"I promised I would," he reminds you, setting you down but keeping you close. "Nothing could have prevented it."

You pull back just far enough to see his face, searching for clues about his meeting with his father. "What happened? What did he say?"

Jay glances around—you're in plain view of several palace windows. "Not here. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"

You think for a moment, then smile. "Follow me."

You lead him through the palace to a small sitting room in the southeast wing—the area your grandmother so casually mentioned has fewer night patrols. It's a cozy space with comfortable furnishings and, most importantly, a lock on the door.

Once inside, Jay pulls you into his arms again, his kiss desperate and relieved and full of eleven days' worth of longing. You respond with equal fervor, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, reassuring yourself that he's really here.

When you finally separate, both breathing heavily, he presses his forehead to yours. "I missed you. Every minute of every day."

"I missed you too," you whisper. "The waiting was... unbearable."

He leads you to a small sofa, sitting close, your hands still intertwined. "I have much to tell you."

"Your father?" you prompt.

Jay takes a deep breath. "It was... complicated. Initially, he was immovable. He had already drafted an announcement of intentions between Astoria and Belgravia."

Your heart sinks. "Oh."

"However," he continues, "I convinced him to hear me out before making anything official. I presented a detailed analysis of Genovia's strategic value as an ally—our complementary economies, technological innovations, cultural significance."

"Very diplomatic," you observe with a small smile.

"I was extraordinarily diplomatic," he agrees, a hint of humor in his eyes. "For five days straight. I enlisted support from progressive council members, provided economic projections, cultural impact studies..."

"And he remained unmoved," Jay admits. "Until I played my final card."

"Which was?"

His eyes lock with yours, unwavering. "I informed him that I would pursue this alliance with or without his blessing. That while I respect his wisdom and experience, my future reign would be guided by my own judgment. And that judgment sees clearly that you—both as princess and as yourself—represent the future Astoria needs."

You absorb this, staggered by the implied defiance. "You threatened to go against his wishes?"

"I made clear that my commitment to Astoria's prosperity is unwavering, but my choice of partner is non-negotiable." His fingers tighten around yours. "I also reminded him that he married for love, against his own father's wishes, and that Astoria has thrived under his reign nonetheless."

"And?" you press, heart pounding.

A smile breaks across Jay's face, transforming his features. "And three days of hostile silence later, he conceded that perhaps Genovia deserves 'further consideration' as a potential ally."

"That's... good?"

"From my father, it's the equivalent of enthusiastic approval," Jay assures you. "Especially with this."

He reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a small velvet box. Your breath catches.

"My grandmother's ring," he explains, opening it to reveal an exquisite sapphire surrounded by diamonds. "Given to her by my grandfather when they formalized their engagement after months of diplomatic negotiation. My father presented it to me this morning before I left."

"Jay," you whisper, staring at the ring. "Does this mean...?"

"It means that I have my father's grudging consent to pursue an alliance with Genovia through marriage," he confirms. "Assuming, of course, that Genovia's princess finds such an arrangement acceptable."

Despite the formal wording, the vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. This is not merely a diplomatic proposition.

"The council meets tomorrow for my final decision," you tell him. "The constitutional deadline is the day after."

"Convenient timing," he observes with a small smile.

"Almost as if someone planned it that way," you agree, returning his smile.

He shifts from the sofa to one knee before you, the ring box open in his palm. All traces of the diplomatic prince fade away, leaving only Jay—your Jay—looking up at you with naked hope and love.

"Y/N," he begins, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "These past weeks have transformed my understanding of duty, of purpose, of love. You've challenged me, surprised me, and shown me a version of myself I never knew existed. I cannot imagine a future—royal or otherwise—without you in it."

Tears blur your vision as he continues.

"I know our beginning was unconventional. I know our path forward will have challenges. But I also know, with absolute certainty, that what we've found together is worth fighting for—worth building a life, a partnership, and two kingdoms around."

He takes your hand, his touch steadying your trembling fingers.

"Will you marry me? Not just as princes and princesses fulfilling constitutional requirements, but as Jay and Y/N, building something real within the framework of our royal duties?"

The question hangs in the air, though your heart already knows the answer. You think of your journey—from reluctant princess to woman standing in her power, from diplomatic arrangement to genuine love, from fear of losing yourself to finding a partner who sees and values all of you.

"Yes," you say simply, your voice thick with emotion. "Yes to all of it—the duty, the challenge, the love. Everything."

He rises, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. "I love you," he murmurs against your lips. "The princess, the diplomat, the woman who still occasionally trips over her formal gowns... all of you."

You laugh through your tears. "And I love you—the perfect prince, the midnight pianist, the man who sees me clearly when I'm still learning to see myself."

His kiss is a pledge, a promise of the future you'll build together—one that honors duty while making space for love.

Tomorrow will bring announcements and celebrations, diplomatic strategies and constitutional requirements fulfilled. But tonight belongs to the two people who found each other beneath the crowns and titles—a connection neither of you expected but both now recognize as the most precious of diplomatic achievements.

A love powerful enough to bridge kingdoms while remaining, at its heart, deeply, uniquely your own.

and they lived happily ever after

the end.

fin.

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltiloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @m3wkledreamy @inlovewithningning @vveebee @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @fancypeacepersona @yunjiiin @adoredbyjay @wheretheheckis-ssaki @flawlessapollo6 @stwrlightt @jaeyunsbimbo @fateismoonstruck @kiikiisblog @bbsantc @xeee334 @cherrybeomm @merwdusa @urmomdotcom5678

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amateurvoltaire · 7 months ago

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Exhibition 1793-1794 at the Carnavalet Museum (Part I)

For anyone interested in the French Revolution, a visit to the Carnavalet Museum is essential. Though the museum covers the history of Paris from its very beginnings to the present, it’s also home to the world’s largest collection of revolutionary artefacts. Which makes sense, given that Paris was the epicentre of it all.

Frankly, if you plan to explore it all, you’ll want to set aside a good 3–4 hours. For those focused solely on the French Revolution, head straight to the second floor, where you can get through the collection in under an hour. Best of all, the permanent collection is free, making it a brilliant way to spend an afternoon in the city on a budget.

Currently, though, there’s a special treat on offer. Running from 16 October 2024 to 16 February 2025, the museum is hosting an exhibition dedicated to my favourite (and arguably the most chaotic) year of the revolution: Year II (1).

Now, since the family and I were in Reims for a long weekend, I somehow managed (possibly after too much Champagne) to convince my husband to drive 150 kilometres to Paris just so I could see Robespierre’s unfinished signature. It helped that the kids were on board, too. Yes, the four-year-old fully recognises Robespierre by portrait. The one-year-old is, predictably, indifferent.

So, slightly worse for wear after a ridiculous amount of Champagne tastings, off we went to the museum.

1. Why Year II?

Because it was a catastrophe. No. Really. Let me explain, in a very overly-simplified summary:

In Year II, France was plunged into an unparalleled storm of internal and external crises that would define the Revolution’s most radical year and ultimately mark its turning point.

Internally, the government was riven by factional divides, economic collapse, and civil war. The Jacobins (2) took control of the Convention, sidelining the federalist Girondins (3), aligning themselves with the sans-culottes (4), and arguing that only extreme measures could preserve the Revolution. Meanwhile, the more radical Enragés (5) demanded harsh economic policies to shield the poor from spiralling inflation and food shortages. The Convention introduced the Maximum Général (6) to placate them, which capped essential prices; however, enforcement was haphazard, fuelling discontent across the country. At the same time, the Indulgents (7) called for a reduction in violence and a return to clemency.

Externally, France’s situation was equally dire, encircled by the First Coalition—a formidable alliance of Britain, Austria, Prussia, Spain, and the Dutch Republic, all intent on crushing the Revolution before it spread further. With the execution of Louis XVI, France found itself diplomatically isolated, and the army was, frankly, a shambles. Most officers were either nobles or incompetent (8), and the soldiers were inadequately trained and equipped. In a desperate bid to defend the Republic, the Convention issued the Levée en Masse (9) in August 1793, sparking revolts in many cities and outright civil war in the West.

Confronted with this barrage of existential threats, the Convention dialled up its response in spectacular fashion, unleashing what we now know as the Terror—a period of sweeping repression backed by some rather questionable legislation. As you can likely guess from the name alone, this was a brilliant idea…

Put simply: by the end of Year II, nearly all the key figures who had spearheaded the Revolution up to that point were dead. And no, they didn’t slip away peacefully in their sleep from some ordinary epidemic. They met their end at the guillotine.

In short, Year II wasn’t just the Revolution's most radical and defining phase—it was also the year the Revolution itself died. Yes, the Revolution, in its truest, purest, most uncompromising form, met its end the moment the guillotine's blade struck Robespierre’s neck.

2. Overview of the exhibition

The visit opens with the destruction of the 1791 Constitution and closes with Liberty, an allegorical figure of the Republic depicted as a woman holding the Declaration of the Rights of Man in her right hand. In between, the experience is structured around five main themes:

A New Regime: The Republic

Paris: Revolution in Daily Life

Justice: From Ordinary to Exceptional

Prisons and Execution Sites

Beyond Legends

More than 250 artefacts are featured, including paintings, sculptures, decorative arts, historical items, wallpapers, posters, and furniture. The layout is carefully structured around these themes, with a distinct use of colour to set the tone: the first three sections have a neutral palette, while the final two glow in vivid red, creating a very nice change in atmosphere.

What I appreciated most was how the descriptions handle the messy legacy of Year II. The texts actually admit that, while some Parisians saw this year as a bold step towards equality and utopia, for others it was an absolute nightmare. This balance is refreshing, even if things are a bit simplified (because how could they not be?), and it gives a well-rounded view of a wildly complicated time.

In this first part, I'll focus on the first two sections, as the latter three fit together neatly and deserve a deep dive of their own. Besides, there's so much to unpack that I'll likely exceed Tumblr's word limit (and the patience of anyone reading this).

3. A New Regime: The Republic

The first section covers the shift from the Ancien Régime to the First Republic, and, fittingly, it starts with a smashed relic of the old order: the Constitution of 1791. After the monarchy’s fall and the republic’s proclamation in September 1792, the old constitution was meaningless. Though it technically remained in force for a few months, it was replaced by the Constitution of Year I in 1793, marking the end of France’s brief experiment with a constitutional monarchy. In May 1793, the old document was ceremonially obliterated with the “national sledgehammer”—a bit dramatic, perhaps, but Year II was nothing if not dramatic.

This section zeroes in on the governance of the new republic, featuring the Constitution of Year I, portraits of convention members, objects from the Committee of Public Safety and the National Convention (including a folder for Robespierre’s correspondence), and national holiday memorabilia. There’s even a nice nod to Hérault de Séchelles (10) as a principal author of the republican constitution.

3.1 Martyrdom as a political tool

Interestingly, the exhibition places a heavy emphasis on the concept of martyrdom. A significant portion of this first area is dedicated to the Death of Marat (11) and, to a lesser extent, the assassination of Le Peletier (12). It’s a clever angle since martyrs—whether well-known figures or nameless soldiers—have always been handy for rallying public opinion. The revolutionary government of Year II understood this all too well and wielded the concept to its full advantage.

In this spirit, the middle of this section features a reproduction of David’s Death of Marat, several drawings from Marat’s funeral, Marat’s mortuary mask, a supposed piece of his jaw, and more. Notably absent are any issues of L’Ami du Peuple, as though the display suggests Marat’s death was more impactful to the Republic’s narrative than his actual writings. I’d agree with that—the moment he died, he was elevated to a mythic status, and his legacy as a martyr of Year II took on a life of its own.

4. Paris: Revolution in Daily Life

While the first section focuses on the workings of governance, this part delves into Year II’s impact on ordinary Parisians. This period stands out for two reasons: France was in economic and political turmoil (wars, both internal and external, aren’t exactly budget-friendly), yet it also managed to introduce some remarkably forward-thinking legislation aimed at improving the lives of the common people.

4.1 The Paris Commune & Paranoia

To understand life in Paris during Year II, we can’t overlook the role of the Paris Commune (13). Rooted in the revolutionary spirit of the Estates General of 1789 and officially formalised by the law of 19 October 1792, the Commune was the governing body responsible for Paris. Divided into forty-eight sections, each with its own assembly, it gave citizens a strong voice in electing representatives and local officials. Led by a mayor, a general council, and a municipal body, the Commune handled essential civic matters like public works, subsistence, and policing.

From 2 June 1793 to 27 July 1794 (the height of Year II), the Commune implemented the policies of the Montagnard (14) Convention, which aimed to build a social structure grounded in the natural rights of man and citizen, reaffirmed on 24 June 1793. This social programme sought to guarantee basic rights such as subsistence (covering food, lighting, heating, clothing, and shelter), work (including access to tools, raw materials, and goods), assistance (support for children, the elderly, and the sick; rights to housing and healthcare), and education (fostering knowledge and preserving arts and sciences).

All this unfolded in an atmosphere thick with paranoia and intense policing; enemies were believed to lurk everywhere. The display does a solid job of capturing this side of the Paris Commune, featuring various illustrations that urged people to conform to new revolutionary norms—wear the cockade, play your part in the social order, fight for and celebrate the motherland, and so on.

One of my favourite pieces was the record of cartes de sûreté (safety cards) from one of the 48 Parisian sections. Made compulsory for Parisians in April 1793, these cards were meant to confirm that their holders weren’t considered “suspects” in a climate thick with paranoia. This small, seemingly random document—issued or revoked at the discretion of an equally random Revolutionary Committee—had the power to decide a person’s freedom or the lack of it.

At the risk of sounding sentimental, in the study of history, we often focus on broad events and overlook the "little guy" who lived through them. But here, this record reminds us that behind each document was, in fact, a real person. And that this very real person was trying to make their way through a reality that, 230 years ago, must have felt stifling and, at times, terrifying.

4.2 Education

A significant spotlight is rightly placed on education in this exhibition section, given the sweeping changes it underwent during the Revolution.

Before 1789, Paris was well-supplied with educational institutions. Eleven historic colleges and a semi-subsidised university offered prestigious studies in theology, law, medicine, and the arts, drawing students from across France. Inspired by Enlightenment ideals, boarding schools and specialised courses in subjects like science and mathematics had sprung up, mainly catering to the middle class, while working-class children attended charity schools. Private adult education also provided technical and scientific training. The catch? Most of these were church-operated.

Revolutionary policies targeting the Church caused a mass departure of teachers, financial difficulties, and restrictions on hiring unsalaried educators. Military demands, economic turmoil, and protests added to the strain on schools. Even the Sorbonne (15) was shut down in 1792, and by late 1793, nearly all Parisian colleges were closed except for Louis-le-Grand (16), which was renamed École Égalité. With the teacher shortage and soaring inflation, a handful of institutions struggled on.

This left the Convention and the Paris Commune scrambling to find new ways to educate the young, and they rose (or at least attempted to rise) to the occasion. On 19 December 1793, the Bouquier Decree aimed to establish free, secular, and mandatory primary education—a remarkable move, though it never fully materialised due to lack of funding.

With France at war, the Convention turned public education towards the needs of a nation in crisis. Throughout 1793 and 1794, new scientific and technical programmes sprang up to meet urgent demands, combat food shortages, and push social progress. Thousands of students were trained in saltpetre refinement (vital for gunpowder), and scientific knowledge spread beyond chemists to artisans and tin workers. In the final months of Year II, a saltpetre refinement zone was set up, the École de Mars was founded to rapidly train young men in military techniques, and the École Centrale des Travaux Publics (future École Polytechnique) was established to develop engineers in military-technical fields.

The education display features a fascinating array of educational degrees, lists of primary school students, and instructor rosters. Although a bit more context on the educational upheaval would have been helpful, the artefacts themselves are intriguing. Placed in the context of the rest of the exhibit, it’s clear that the new educational system wasn’t just about breaking away from the Ancien Régime; it was also very deliberately and openly crafted to instil republican ideals. Nothing illustrates this better than the way Joseph Barra(17) was promoted as a model for students at the École de Mars.

And, of course, this section also showcases one of the most enduring legacies of the Revolution: the introduction of the metric system and modern standardised measurements.

4.3 The (lack of) Women in Year II

The women of Year II were not real women. They were symbols—or so the imagery from the era would have us believe. There is shockingly little about the actual experiences of women in the collective memory of Year II.

Women played active roles in the Revolution. They filled the Assembly’s tribunes as spectators, mobilised in the sections, founded clubs, joined public debates, signed petitions, and even participated in mixed societies. In many cases, they worked side by side with men to bring about the Republic of Year II. So where are they?

Well, they’re certainly not prominent in this exhibition—but that’s not the fault of the organisers. It’s a reflection of how the time chose to represent them. In revolutionary imagery, women became allegories: symbols of Liberty, wisdom, the Republic, or the ideal mother raising citizens for the state, often reduced to stereotypes and caricatures. Rarely were they depicted as part of the public sphere.

The absence of a serious discourse on women’s rights in this part of the exhibition speaks volumes and is true to the period itself. At the time, there was no cohesive movement for women’s rights, and while specific individuals pushed for aspects of female citizenship, these efforts lacked unity or a common cause. Eventually, being perceived as too radical, all women's clubs were closed in 1973.

4.4 Dechristianisation

In my view, dechristianisation was perhaps the greatest misstep of the various governments from 1789 onwards. Not because I think religion should be central to people’s lives—not at all—but because, in 18th-century France, it simply was essential for most. The reasoning behind this attack on religion was sound enough: no government wants to be beholden to a pope in Rome who had heavily supported the deposed king. But in practice, the application of this principle was far from effective.

By Year II, Parisian authorities were still grappling with the fallout from the Civil Constitution of the Clergy (1790), which had left Catholics split between two competing churches: the constitutional church, loyal to the Revolution, and the refractory church, loyal to Rome. Patriotic priests suspected refractory priests of using their influence to fuel counter-revolutionary sentiment—a suspicion that only intensified the general atmosphere of paranoia.

As tension mounted, it devolved, as these things often do, into outright destruction. On 23 October 1793, the Commune of Paris ordered the removal of all monuments that "encouraged religious superstitions or reminded the public of past kings." Religious statues were removed, replaced by images of revolutionary martyrs like Le Peletier, Marat, and Chalier (19), in an effort to supplant the cult of saints with the cult of republican heroes.

The exhibition presents this wave of destruction with artefacts from ruined religious statues, the most striking being the head of one of the Kings of Judah from Notre-Dame’s facade. These 28 statues were dragged down and mutilated in a frenzy against royalist symbols in 1793. . Ironically, they weren’t even French kings; they were Old Testament kings, supposedly ancestors of Christ—a fact that most people at the time were probably blissfully unaware of. But hey, destruction in the name of ignorance is nothing new, is it?

Many in the Convention and the Commune were atheists and enthusiastically supported the secularisation of public life. Unfortunately, they didn’t represent the majority of the French population. To bridge this gap, Robespierre proposed a "moral religion" without clergy, a way for citizens to unite and celebrate a shared, secularised liberty. In December 1793, the Convention passed a decree granting "unlimited liberty of worship," leading to the Festival of the Supreme Being, held in Paris and throughout France on 8 June 1794.

As with so much in Year II, the "Supreme Being" affair was a logical solution to a pressing problem that ended up blowing up in Robespierre’s face—by now, you might detect a pattern. But that’s a story for Part II of this already very long post.

5. Conclusion to Part 1

Overall, the exhibition presents the first two themes—A New Regime: The Republic and Paris: Revolution in Daily Life—in a balanced way, which I really appreciate. I was expecting a bit more sensationalism, given that Year II is known for its brutality, but instead, it provides a thoughtful overview of how the Republic was structured and the impact this had on Parisians.

The range of media and text offers a good dive into key points, especially on everyday life during the period. I didn’t listen to everything, but from what I saw, the explanations were well done. Naturally, since the exhibition is aimed at the general public, many aspects are simplified.

For younger audiences (pre-teens, perhaps?), the exhibit includes 11 watercolour illustrations by Florent Grouazel and Younn Locard. These two artists attempt to fill the gaps by depicting events from the period that lack contemporary representation (like the destruction of the Constitution with the “national sledgehammer” on 5 May 1793—an event documented but unillustrated at the time). For each scene, they created a young character as an actor or observer, sometimes just a witness to history, to make the scene more immersive. It’s a nice touch, though easy to overlook if you’re not paying close attention.

In Part II, I’ll share my thoughts on the remaining themes: Justice, Prisons and Execution Sites, and Beyond Legends. And yes, a lot of that will involve Thermidor—how could it not?

In the meantime, if you made it this far… well, I’m impressed!

Notes

(1) Year II: Refers to the period from 22 September 1793 to 21 September 1794 in the French Revolutionary calendar.

(2) Jacobins: A political group advocating social reform and, by 1793, strongly promoting Republican ideals. Most revolutionaries were, or had once been, members of the Jacobin club, though by Year II, Robespierre stood out as its most prominent figure.

(3) Girondins: A conservative faction within the National Convention, representing provincial interests and, to some extent, supporting constitutional monarchy. Key figures included Brissot and Roland.

(4) Sans-culottes: Working-class Parisians who championed radical changes and economic reforms to support the poor. The name “sans-culottes” (meaning "without knee breeches") symbolised their rejection of aristocratic dress in favour of working-class trousers.

(5) Enragés: An ultra-radical group demanding strict economic controls, such as price caps on essentials, to benefit the poor. Led by figures like Jacques Roux and, to some extent, Jacques Hébert, the Enragés urged the Convention to fully break from the Ancien Régime.

(6) Maximum Général: A 1793 law imposing price caps on essential goods to curb inflation and aid the poor. Though well-intended, it was difficult to enforce and stirred resentment among merchants.

(7) Indulgents: A faction led by Danton and Desmoulins advocating a relaxation of the severe repressive measures introduced in Year II, calling instead for clemency and a return to more moderate governance.

(8) Incompetence: At the Revolution’s outset, military positions were primarily held by nobles. By Year II, these noble officers were often dismissed due to mistrust, and their replacements—particularly in the civil conflict in the West—were frequently inexperienced, and some, quite frankly, incompetent.

(9) Levée en Masse: A mass conscription decree of 1793 requiring all able-bodied, unmarried men aged 18 to 25 to enlist. This unprecedented mobilisation extended to the wider population, with men of other ages filling support roles, women making uniforms and tending to the wounded, and children gathering supplies.

(10) Hérault de Séchelles: A lawyer, politician, and member of the Committee of Public Safety during Year II, known primarily for helping to draft the Constitution of 1793.

(11) Jean-Paul Marat: A radical journalist and politician, fiercely supportive of the sans-culottes and advocating revolutionary violence in his publication L’Ami du Peuple. Assassinated in 1793, he became the Revolution’s most famous martyr.

(12) Louis-Michel Le Peletier de Saint-Fargeau: A politician and revolutionary who voted in favour of the king’s execution and was assassinated in 1793 shortly after casting his vote, becoming a symbol of revolutionary sacrifice.

(13) Paris Commune: Not to be confused with the better-known Paris Commune of 1871, this Commune was the governing body of Paris during the Revolution, responsible for administering the city and playing a key role in revolutionary events.

(14) Montagnard Convention: The left-wing faction of the National Convention, dominated by Jacobins, which held power during the Revolution’s most radical phase and implemented the Reign of Terror.

(15) Sorbonne: Founded in the 13th century by Robert de Sorbon as a theological college, the Sorbonne evolved into one of Europe’s most respected centres for higher learning, particularly known for theology, philosophy, and the liberal arts. It was closed during the Revolution due to anti-clerical reforms.

(16) Louis-Le-Grand: A prestigious secondary school in Paris, temporarily renamed École Égalité during the Revolution. Notable alumni include Maximilien Robespierre and Camille Desmoulins.

(17) Joseph Barra: A young soldier killed in 1793 during the War in the Vendée, whose death was used as revolutionary propaganda to inspire loyalty and martyrdom among French youth.

(18) Civil Constitution of the Clergy: A 1790 law that brought the Catholic Church in France under state control, requiring clergy to swear allegiance to the government. This split Catholics between “constitutional” and “refractory” priests, heightening religious tensions.

(19) Joseph Chalier: A revolutionary leader in Lyon who supported radical policies. He was executed in 1793 after attempting to enforce these policies, later becoming a martyr for the revolutionary cause.

#history #frev #french revolution #paris #marat #carnavalet #museum #robespierre #saint just #amateurvoltaire’s travel diary

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