The next morning, a servant came with a formal message.
"Lady Beatrice requests the presence of her daughters."
That alone was enough to make Drizella suspicious.
All three of them entered their mother's chamber together. Lady Beatrice stood near the window, already dressed in rich but restrained colors. She looked composed, prepared, calculating.

"There will be a meeting today," she began. "The Queen and the King will discuss the structure of the marriage trials. How the future bride and queen will be selected."
Cinderella straightened slightly. Anastasia remained calm, though her fingers intertwined quietly.
"A stewardess has asked me to assist in preparing the hall," Lady Beatrice continued. "Seating, refreshments, order of entry. It is a delicate matter. Appearances will be noted."
She looked at her daughters carefully.
"I want you to accompany me. Help me with arrangements. Stand where you can be seen. Speak when spoken to. It will leave an impression. Such opportunities influence future proposals."
The meaning was clear.
Visibility.
Advantage.
Marriage.
Drizella inhaled slowly. Then she did something unexpected.
"I don't want to attend."
The room went still.
Lady Beatrice's brows lifted. "Excuse me?"
"I wish to learn poetry," Drizella said, voice steady though her heart pounded. "A poet has agreed to teach me. I want to try."
Her mother stared at her, unreadable.
"Poetry," she repeated.
"Yes."
A long silence followed.
Before Lady Beatrice could respond, Cinderella spoke gently. "She truly loves it, Mother."
Anastasia nodded. "She has talent."
Drizella glanced at her sisters, surprised by their immediate support.
Lady Beatrice studied Drizella carefully. "Do you understand what you are refusing? This is not a small gathering."
"I understand," Drizella said. "But I would rather stand somewhere I belong than somewhere I am pretending."
The words lingered in the air.
Lady Beatrice's gaze softened almost invisibly.
"Very well," she said at last. "If this is not a passing whim, then I will not force you."
Drizella blinked. "You agree?"
"I will not have a resentful daughter representing me," her mother replied coolly. "If you are to do something, do it properly."
Relief flooded Drizella's face.
Lady Beatrice turned to the other two. "And you?"
Cinderella smiled gently. "I will assist you, Mother."
Anastasia nodded as well. "I will come."
Lady Beatrice gave a small approving nod.
"Then prepare yourselves. Today, we stand before the throne."
Outside, the palace buzzed with anticipation.
Inside, three sisters quietly stepped closer to their own chosen paths.
The grand council hall shimmered with polished marble and careful ambition.
One by one, nobles entered, robes whispering against the floor. Advisors stood in clusters. Murmurs floated through the air like cautious birds.
Anastasia stood beside her mother, posture straight, expression composed. Cinderella remained calm at her other side. Lady Beatrice's face was elegant and unreadable.
Then the doors opened fully.
The King entered first, dignified and steady. The Queen followed, graceful and sharp-eyed. Behind them walked Prince Adrien.
Anastasia's breath caught for the smallest second.
He wore royal blue trimmed in silver. No disguise. No warmth of a guard's uniform. His movements were precise, controlled, almost distant.
Majestic.
Untouchable.
He looked like every painting ever made of a future king.
But when his gaze lifted briefly and found her across the hall, something flickered.
It was quick. Hidden. Almost invisible.
Almost.
Anastasia saw it.
Sadness.
A quiet ache beneath the polished surface.
He looked away immediately, taking his place beside the throne as if nothing had happened.
The meeting began.
Discussions moved from structure to tradition, from family alliances to public ceremonies. Words like legacy and stability filled the air.
Anastasia listened quietly, though her mind felt distant.
Then the Queen turned to Adrien. "Your thoughts?"
All eyes shifted to him.
The prince stepped forward slightly. His voice was calm. "If this trial is meant to choose a future queen, then it should measure more than grace and lineage."
A few nobles exchanged glances.
He continued. "A queen must understand the people. Their struggles. Their fears. I suggest that the candidates spend time outside the palace. Among villages. Hospitals. Markets. Let them be tested in compassion and judgment, not only etiquette."
Silence followed.
Then a low chuckle from one of the older councilmen.
"Your Highness speaks with… admirable sentiment," the man said slowly. "But such emotional measures are difficult to quantify."
Another advisor nodded. "Trials must remain dignified. Structured. Not driven by feelings."
Someone added lightly, "Perhaps His Highness has been reading too much poetry."
Soft laughter spread.
The words were polite.
The meaning was not.
They were dismissing him.
Anastasia felt her fingers curl into her palms.
The King remained quiet.
The Queen's expression did not change.
Adrien stood there, listening to the subtle erosion of his idea.
His jaw tightened briefly.
Then he smiled.
Calm. Controlled. Unbothered.
"As you wish," he said smoothly. "It was only a suggestion."
The discussion moved on as if nothing had happened.
But Anastasia's chest burned.
They had not only rejected his idea.
They had questioned his judgment. His capability.
And his own parents had not defended him.
She looked at him again.
He stood tall, nodding when appropriate, responding when required. Perfect prince. Perfect composure.
But now she saw it clearly.
That tightness around his eyes.
That slight delay before each answer.
The way his hands remained clasped behind his back as if restraining something.
Rowan's words echoed in her mind.
His freedom is limited.
His hands are tied by duty.
His feelings are locked in a bottle.
She watched him endure it all without protest.
Without reaction.
Without even the right to look hurt. A strange ache rose inside her. She was still angry. Still betrayed. But she could not ignore what she was seeing.
This was not the carefree Kit who laughed easily in corridors. This was Adrien the prince. Polished. Measured. Alone. And for the first time, Anastasia truly understood the weight he carried.
Not the crown.
The silence.
Lunch was served in the smaller banquet hall, though nothing about it felt small. Silver clinked. Laughter floated. Conversations overlapped in soft, careful tones.
Prince Adrien sat between two senior nobles who smiled too widely.
"One must be careful," one of them said lightly while cutting his meat. "A future king should avoid appearing… sentimental."
"Indeed," the other added. "Strength is steadiness. Not softness."
The words were wrapped in courtesy.
But they were aimed like arrows.
Adrien nodded politely. "I appreciate your guidance."
His voice did not waver.
Someone across the table commented, "Youth often mistakes compassion for policy."
A few amused smiles followed.
Anastasia watched from a short distance beside her mother. Every remark was indirect. Every suggestion disguised as advice.
And every time, he accepted it with grace. He even smiled. That calm, practiced smile. As if none of it touched him. As if he were made of marble and not flesh.
By the time the gathering ended and the nobles began departing, the palace felt heavier.
Lady Beatrice led her daughters back through the corridor. Their footsteps echoed softly against stone.
At the turn toward their guest wing, they nearly crossed paths with the prince.
He stopped immediately. "Lady Beatrice."
"Your Highness," her mother replied with a respectful bow. Polite words followed. Formal gratitude. Brief remarks about the success of the meeting.
Anastasia stood slightly behind, silent.
Cinderella, however, stepped forward a little. Her kindness was never cautious.
"Your Highness," she said gently, "are you tired?"
The question was simple.
Adrien blinked once, almost surprised.
Then he smiled.
"Not at all," he replied warmly. "It was a productive day."
His tone was bright. Reassuring.
But Anastasia saw it. The faint shadow beneath his eyes. The stiffness in his shoulders. The way his fingers pressed lightly into his palm before relaxing again.
He was tired. Not from the meeting. From enduring it. From holding himself together under watchful eyes. From swallowing every sharp comment with elegance.
He met Anastasia's gaze for the briefest moment.
There was no accusation in his eyes.
No anger.
Only something quiet. Something that hurt more than anger would have.
She looked away first.
Still betrayed.
Still confused.
But no longer blind.
As he excused himself and walked down the corridor alone, she felt it again. Not forgiveness. Not yet.
But understanding beginning to bloom in the cracks of her anger.
----------------------------------
SIDE NOTE: 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.