The new day arrived bright and golden, as if the sun itself approved of reckless hearts. Anastasia walked through the palace garden with a softness in her step that could not be hidden. The air felt lighter. Even the roses seemed less dramatic.
Across the courtyard, Adrien watched her from a distance. Not with secrecy. Not with hesitation. Simply with quiet certainty.
They did not need stolen kisses this morning. A single glance held entire conversations.
Drizella, meanwhile, had declared herself reborn. She carried parchment instead of complaints, ink smudges instead of impatience. Somewhere between palace corridors and moonlit confessions, she had discovered her calling.
"I refuse to be remembered as ornamental," she announced proudly to anyone within earshot. "I shall be a poet. A great one. Possibly tragic. Definitely brilliant."
And beside her, a certain young guard from the Royal palace listened to her verses with shining eyes.
Cinderella's story had also unfolded gently, but differently than the old tale whispered by fate. She did not chase crowns or glass illusions. She had found something steadier. A family who cherished her not for beauty or mystery, but for warmth and resilience. The palace no longer felt like her escape. It felt like a chapter she had outgrown.
And yet. The trial still loomed like an unfinished sentence. Inside the prince's private study, Adrien paced while Rowan leaned against the window.
"We cannot simply announce cancellation," Rowan said thoughtfully. "The noble families would feel insulted. Some traveled for weeks."
Adrien exhaled. "I will not string them along."
"I know." Silence settled.
"The king expects results," Rowan continued. "The queen suspects something, but suspicion is not declaration."
Adrien stopped pacing. "I will tell them."
Rowan raised a brow. "Directly?"
"Yes."
"And the candidates?"
"I will address them personally," Adrien replied firmly. "With respect. No humiliation. No false hope. I will take responsibility."
Rowan studied him carefully. The hesitation that once clouded Adrien was gone. In its place stood resolve.
"You have changed," Rowan observed.
"I have chosen," Adrien corrected.
Rowan smiled faintly. "Love makes dangerous men brave." Adrien did not deny it.
"We will plan carefully," Rowan said. "Timing matters."
Adrien nodded. "I will not hurt Anastasia. And I will not insult those who came in good faith."
Rowan pushed away from the window. "Then we move with precision." He paused at the door. "And for what it's worth," he added lightly, "this is far more interesting than a predictable royal wedding."
Adrien allowed himself a small laugh.
As Rowan left to attend his duties, the prince stood alone for a moment. The trial was still on. But its ending had already changed.
Rowan had every intention of walking directly to his duties. Truly. But fate, or perhaps simple curiosity, tugged him toward the east corridor where voices echoed softly against the marble. He slowed.
Drizella stood near an arched window, sunlight catching in her hair, parchment held with dramatic conviction. Before her sat her poetry mentor, an elderly scholar whose expression carried something rare and radiant. Pride.
"And though the rose bears thorns," Drizella recited, voice steady but vibrant, "it does not apologize for blooming."
Rowan nearly smiled at the coincidence.
Her voice was no longer sharp or restless. It flowed. Measured. Alive. The mentor nodded slowly. "You have found your rhythm, Lady Drizella. Continue."
She finished with a soft exhale, lowering the parchment. The scholar rose. "Tonight, you will stand beside me at the celebration. You are ready."
Drizella blinked. "Truly?"
"Truly."
Rowan leaned casually against the stone pillar, arms crossed, listening like a thief stealing sunlight. When the mentor finally excused himself, Rowan did not waste time. He stepped forward, caught Drizella's wrist gently, and steered her into a quiet alcove tucked behind heavy velvet drapes.
"Rowan!" she gasped, startled. "What are you—"
He did not answer with words. He kissed her. Not reckless. Not hesitant. Simply deliberate. She froze for half a heartbeat, then relaxed against him, fingers gripping his coat as though grounding herself. When he pulled back, her eyes were wide but shining.
"You eavesdrop now?" she teased softly.
"Only when art demands it," he replied.
Still keeping her within the circle of his arms, he tilted his head slightly. "Tonight's celebration. You will recite alongside your teacher?"
Her excitement flickered through her nerves. "Yes. For the successful completion of the first trial. I'm… terrified."
"You did not look terrified just now."
"That was rehearsal," she protested. "Tonight there will be nobles. Judges. The king."
"And me," Rowan added quietly.
She met his gaze.
"That makes it worse," she admitted.
He laughed under his breath. "Why?"
"Because I care what you think."
His expression softened. "You will not fail," he said firmly. "You have something none of them possess."
"And what is that?"
"Truth." Her lips parted slightly.
"You do not recite to impress," he continued. "You recite because you feel. That cannot be taught. It cannot be purchased."
She swallowed, emotion stirring unexpectedly.
"I am lucky," she said suddenly. "Lucky to have you. Lucky to have my sisters. We were once scrambling for survival and approval. Now…" She gestured vaguely. "Now we are choosing who we want to become."
Rowan looked at her as though she had just recited her finest line. "You are not lucky," he corrected gently. "You are brave."
She smiled, then leaned into him without hesitation. He kissed her again, softer this time, sealing the quiet promise between them.
"I will always support you," he murmured against her hair. "On stage. Off stage. In triumph. In doubt."
She laughed lightly. "You speak like a vow."
"Perhaps it is."
He finally released her, though reluctantly. "Oh," he added, almost casually. "Do visit your room before tonight."
Her eyes narrowed with curiosity. "Why?"
"I may have prepared something."
"Rowan."
"A small encouragement."
"What kind of encouragement?"
He stepped back, adopting an infuriatingly calm expression. "You will see."
Her excitement immediately overpowered her nerves. "Is it a book? Jewels? A scandal?"
He smiled. "Go and find out."
With dramatic impatience, she hurried off down the corridor, nearly tripping over her own anticipation. Rowan watched her disappear around the corner, shaking his head fondly.
In her room, carefully laid across the bed, waited a dress. Not extravagant. Not ostentatious. But crafted in deep midnight blue, embroidered subtly along the hem with delicate silver thread.

Elegant. Confident. Like her. And somewhere down the hall, Drizella was about to discover just how much someone believed in her bloom.
Drizella pushed open her door with dramatic impatience. She stopped mid-step. Laid across her bed like a quiet declaration was the dress. Midnight blue, rich as ink spilled across the sky. Silver embroidery traced the hem in delicate patterns, not loud, not boastful, but precise. Thoughtful. Intentional.
Her breath caught.
She walked toward it slowly, fingertips brushing the fabric as if it might vanish. It was soft, fluid, dignified. Not a princess costume. Not an attention-seeking spectacle. It was a poet's armor.
"He chose this," she whispered to herself, a smile blooming uncontrollably. The color would deepen her eyes. The silver threads shimmered like starlight trapped in cloth. He had not chosen something to make her look fragile. He had chosen something to make her look powerful.
Her heart swelled so suddenly she had to sit down.
Anastasia and Cinderella burst in moments later, summoned by her excited gasp.
"What happened?" Cinderella asked, then froze. "Oh."
Anastasia stepped closer, assessing the dress with careful admiration. "Rowan."
Drizella nodded, trying to appear composed and failing miserably.
"It's perfect," Cinderella breathed.
"Try it on," Anastasia commanded. Soon the room transformed into a whirlwind of ribbons, laughter, and nervous anticipation. Anastasia adjusted sleeves with steady hands. Cinderella fixed Drizella's hair with gentle precision. When Drizella finally stood before the mirror fully dressed, silence filled the room.
She did not look like the girl who once competed for approval. She looked like someone who had found her voice.
"And you?" Drizella turned, eyeing her sisters. "You two cannot let me steal all the brilliance."
Anastasia wore soft elegance, composed yet glowing. Cinderella chose warmth and grace, effortless as ever. Three sisters. Not rivals. Not shadows. When evening approached, they stepped into the corridor together.
Tonight was a celebration of the trial.
But for them, it was something far greater. It was proof they were no longer surviving a story.
They were writing their own.
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SIDE NOTE: There is going to be a suprise in next chapter. 😁
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