The next morning, Anastasia still felt the heaviness in her chest, but it no longer crushed her ribs.
The sleepover had not erased her pain, yet it had softened its sharpest edges. Laughter had stitched tiny threads through the tear in her heart.
She dressed quietly, braided her hair, and joined her sisters for breakfast. She was still quieter than usual, but when Cinderella accidentally spilled tea and Drizella dramatically accused the cup of betrayal, Anastasia managed a small smile.
Drizella noticed.
That was enough.
Without warning, Drizella grabbed Anastasia's wrist. "Come with me."
"Where?" Anastasia asked.
"Adventure," Drizella declared.
They walked through the palace gardens until they reached a shaded corner near the courtyard. A small crowd had gathered at a polite distance. At the center stood the visiting poet.
He was practicing aloud, reciting verses into the morning air. His voice carried gently, like wind moving through tall grass. The words were about longing, about choices, about courage hidden in quiet hearts.
Drizella stopped walking.
Her eyes shone.
Anastasia looked at her sister instead of the poet. The way Drizella leaned slightly forward. The way her fingers tightened unconsciously at beautiful lines. The way her lips moved as if memorizing each word.
Anastasia felt something firm settle inside her.
If not her… then at least her sister.
She stepped forward before Drizella could stop her.
"Excuse me," Anastasia called politely.
The poet paused, surprised. The small crowd turned.
Anastasia bowed slightly. "Sir, my sister admires your work. Would you consider teaching her?"
Drizella nearly choked behind her.
The poet blinked. "Teaching?" His gaze shifted to Drizella. "Her?"
"Yes," Anastasia said calmly.
He gave a small, awkward laugh.
"My lady, no woman, especially a noble lady, has ever studied poetry formally."
Anastasia tilted her head. "Why?"
The poet hesitated. "It is simply… tradition."
"Tradition is not law," Anastasia replied evenly. "Talent does not ask about gender. Nor does creativity care for status."
A few people nearby exchanged glances.
The poet frowned slightly. "I do not know a single female poet."
Anastasia met his eyes steadily. "Then make her the first."
Silence.
Drizella stared at her sister in disbelief.
The poet studied Drizella more carefully now. "Do you write?"
Drizella swallowed. "Yes."
"May I hear something?"
Drizella hesitated. Her confidence wavered under the attention. She glanced at Anastasia.
Anastasia gave her a small nod.
Drizella took a breath and recited one of her own poems. It was not perfect. A few lines stumbled. But it was sincere. It carried warmth and imagination and quiet strength.
When she finished, the courtyard was silent.
The poet's expression had changed.
"You have potential," he admitted slowly. "Raw. Untamed. But real."
Drizella blinked.
He looked at Anastasia again. "Very well. I will teach her. Privately. If she is willing to work hard."
Drizella looked overwhelmed.
"I… I need to think about it," she said honestly.
The poet nodded. "Think carefully. Poetry demands devotion."
He returned to his practice.
Drizella turned to Anastasia. "You ambushed him."
"You needed a push," Anastasia replied gently.
"What if I fail?"
"Then you fail," Anastasia said simply. "And try again. Or stop. Or write only for yourself. Do what your heart wants, not what others expect."
Drizella stared at her sister for a long moment.
Anastasia's own heart still ached. But as she watched Drizella stand at the edge of something new, something bright, she felt a quiet kind of peace.
Even if she was unsure of her own path…
She could help light someone else's.
Anastasia was arranging folded linens in the outer hall when she nearly walked straight into Rowan.
He stepped aside quickly. "Anastasia."
She stiffened but gave a polite nod. "Sir Rowan."
She tried to pass.
"Please," he said quietly.
She stopped, but did not look at him.
Rowan's voice was steady. "I know you are hurt. And you have every right to be. But I am asking you to listen for a moment."
Anastasia's fingers tightened around the cloth in her hands. "If you are here to defend him, there is nothing to say."
"I am here to explain," Rowan replied calmly. "Not to excuse."
She let out a short, bitter laugh. "You are asking me to forgive a lie."
"I am asking you to see the whole picture."
She turned to face him now, anger flashing in her eyes. "What picture? That I was entertainment? A secret pastime before he returns to being prince?"
Rowan did not flinch.
"It was never a game," he said. "Not for him."
"Then what was it?"
"Fate," Rowan answered softly. "And poor timing."
Anastasia shook her head. "That is a baseless request, Sir Rowan. You want me to forgive him because he is a prince and life is difficult?"
"I want you to understand that his freedom is limited," Rowan said.
"From the day he was born, his path was drawn by others. His hands are tied by duty. His feelings are locked in a bottle and sealed with expectation."
She looked away, jaw tight.
"He did not disguise himself to mock you," Rowan continued.
"He disguised himself because it was the only way he could breathe. The only way he could meet people without titles standing between them."
Anastasia's voice dropped. "He should have told me."
"Yes," Rowan agreed. "He should have. And he tried."
She said nothing.
Rowan's tone softened. "Let me ask you something honestly. If he had approached you as Prince Adrien from the beginning… would you have spoken to him the same way?"
Her silence answered for her.
Would she have teased him? Argued? Confessed?
Or would she have bowed and built walls?
Rowan stepped back slightly. "You did not fall in love with a crown. You fell in love with the man who stood beside you when no one was watching."
Anastasia's chest tightened.
"He never betrayed you," Rowan said gently. "You fell in love with the most original version of Adrien. Not the prince. Just Adrien."
The words lingered in the air.
For a moment, the anger inside her wavered. Not gone. Not healed. But shaken.
Rowan bowed his head slightly. "Think about it."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"He has never looked at anyone the way he looks at you."
And then he walked away.
Anastasia stood still in the corridor, the folded linen forgotten in her hands.
Adrien.
Not prince.
Not Kit.
Just… him.
And despite herself, she felt it.
The truth in Rowan's words.
Night wrapped the palace in silver quiet.
Drizella was sitting at her desk, staring at a blank page, when two familiar arms slipped around her waist from behind.
She gasped softly before relaxing into the embrace.
"Rowan," she whispered.
He rested his chin lightly on her shoulder, his breath warm near her ear.
"You look like you're plotting something dangerous."
"Maybe I am," she replied, though her voice lacked its usual mischief.
He smiled against her hair, holding her closer. "I spoke with Anastasia today."
Her body stiffened slightly. "And?"
"I told her the truth as much as I could," he said gently.
"About the prince. About Kit. About choices and cages."
Drizella nodded slowly, but her mind seemed elsewhere.
Rowan noticed. He always did.
"What storm is passing through that head of yours?" he asked quietly.
Drizella hesitated. Then, carefully, she said, "What do you think about a noble woman becoming a poet?"
Rowan lifted a brow. "A poet?"
"Yes."
He pretended to think deeply. "Hmm. Aren't male poets dramatic enough already? Do we really need more verses floating around?"
Drizella's expression fell almost instantly.
"Oh," she said softly. "I see."
Rowan immediately turned her around to face him. "Hey. Look at me."
She avoided his eyes.
He sighed lightly, then smiled in that way he only used for her. "I don't mind if you become that female poet."
Her head snapped up.
"In fact," he continued, brushing a strand of hair from her face, "I think the world might need one."
Drizella blinked.
"Whatever you choose," he said firmly, "whoever you decide to become, I will stand beside you. Even if we are the only two standing."
Her eyes filled instantly.
"You mean that?" she whispered.
"I always mean what I say to you."
Tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them. Not sad tears. Not weak tears. Just relief. Just being seen.
"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling. "Thank you, thank you…"
He chuckled softly and wiped her tears with his thumbs. "You don't have to thank me for loving you."
She laughed through her tears. "You're too good."
"I'm practical," he corrected lightly. "If my future wife writes poems, I get to hear them first."
Drizella nudged him. "Future wife?"
He shrugged playfully. "I like planning ahead."
She shook her head, smiling brightly now. "My sisters will always be my first supporters."
"And I will compete for second place," Rowan replied.
They both laughed.
Then the laughter faded into something quieter.
They looked at each other, eyes steady, no teasing left.
Rowan leaned down slowly.

This kiss was not playful. It was not rushed. It was deep and certain. A promise without words. A vow made in breath and heartbeat.
Whatever storms waited.
Whatever trials came.
They would face them together.
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SIDE NOTE: I had second hand embarrassment while writing the Rowan and Drizella scenes. They are so cute. 😍
If you like my story then give it a star and share it with your friends, this will help me to keep motivated and write new stories.