I tied my hair back with a blue band, smoothed my gloves over my fingers, and stared at my reflection. The blue gown cut out my figure well — it complemented my slightly tanned skin and ginger hair in a way I almost appreciated. Almost. Because I didn't want to be here. Not in this gown. Not in this building. Not on this day.
But my father had made his decision, and in our world, a father's decision was law.
The court reading hall was full when I stepped in. Heads turned — they always did. I was Tatiana, Princess of Greece, and I had learned early that being looked at and being seen were two very different things. Nobody in this room truly saw me. They saw a crown. A flag. A bargaining piece.
I sat beside my mother and kept my expression neutral, letting the discussions wash over me. When they asked for my opinion on the trade agreements, I gave it honestly. It was accepted, and I felt a small flicker of pride — until the Chief Adviser rose to his feet.
"This country is on the right path," he said, his voice carrying across the hall. "And with this young Princess, we have a clear future. But we also need a competent King. And so — the wedding will be held."
The room nodded. I froze.
My eyes cut to my father. He was already looking at me — wearing a smile I had never seen before. Foreign. Practiced. Political.
"She will be married," he said calmly, "on her eighteenth birthday. To the third Prince of Britain."
The words hit me like cold water.
"What nonsense." The words left my mouth before I could stop them. "It's not possible. Dad, you told me I could—"
But his expression didn't change. And that was when I understood. This had already been decided. Long before today. Long before this room. I was simply the last to know.
I walked out before the ceremony ended. I didn't want to see their faces — not my father's satisfaction, not my mother's guilt, not the strangers who had just traded my future over a conference table.
Matilda, my mother, found me in my room later. "I'm sorry, my princess. Your parents want to see you — you should let them in."
"Go away." My voice was steady. Controlled. "I don't want to talk to you. You betrayed me. And I'm powerless to stop you."
I heard her sigh as she led my father away. Good.
My maid tried to console me. I stared at the ceiling until her words became background noise and sleep finally pulled me under.
I dreamed of an outstretched hand and a voice saying "I'll love you forever" — and then cold water hit my face.
"Wake up, miss. You have lessons to take."
I sat up slowly. The events of yesterday flooded back in full colour. Fresh tears burned behind my eyes but I refused them. I pressed them down, deep and hard, until they disappeared.
I have to be strong, I told myself. That is the only way to go through this and survive.
The lessons were dreadful.
How to walk as a wife. How to speak as a wife. How to sit, smile, defer, and disappear as a wife. I sat through every session with my jaw tight and my hands folded, learning a language I despised — and I was a linguist. Language was my birthright, my gift, my weapon. But this language? This quiet submission? It sat in my mouth like ash.
My father visited one afternoon, his apology rehearsed and hollow.
"Baby girl, how are the lessons? I'm sorry, but I tried my best to stop this — just manage. You could always divorce when we get the alliance."
I laughed. Hard. Until my stomach hurt.
"Dad — no offence, but I never knew you were a comedian. I didn't want to get married in the first place, so just leave me and stop apologising."
My smile vanished the moment he left. I got back to my studies.
Days turned into months.
On my eighteenth birthday, I stood before the mirror again. This time the gown was white — royal, majestic, and beautiful in a way that made me furious. It would have been the most stunning thing I had ever worn, if I wasn't being forced to wear it.
I picked up the scissors.
I cut slowly at first — deliberate, precise — removing sections of the skirt in jagged lines. Then I found the red paint. Then the black. I poured both across the fabric and stepped back to look at what I had made.
It felt like the first honest thing I had done in months.
My maids saw but knew better than to stop me. I walked down the aisle in it — late, unhurried, with not a single trace of royalty in my steps. Let them stare. Let them whisper. I was done performing.
The hotel room was dim and quiet.
I had barely stepped inside before the tears came — not soft, polite tears, but the kind that shake your whole body. The kind you've been holding for months. Derek — my husband, a stranger, the third Prince of Britain — didn't say a word. He simply took my hand gently and led me to the edge of the bed, and we both sat down.
I gathered myself slowly. Wiped my face. Breathed.
"Thank you," I murmured.
"You see," he said quietly, "I managed to stay away from girls — not to get married — but then I closed my eyes and opened them and I'm a mister." He paused. "I'm Derek. And you are..."
I raised my head and met a smiling face. Not cruel. Not pitying. Just... real.
I burst out laughing. Properly, unexpectedly, the kind of laugh that surprises even you.
"Funny enough, well — my story isn't any different. I'm Tatiana."
He sat beside me and I could see he was sad. I couldn't console him because I was equally broken. We sat in the silence of two people who understood each other without explanation.
"So what's your plan?" he asked finally.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Do you have one?"
He smirked. "Not with my attitude."
I closed my eyes. The room was quiet. My mind moved quickly, sorting through everything — the alliance, the advisers, the chess pieces we had been made into, the languages I spoke, the things I had noticed, the things people assumed I hadn't.
And then — clarity.
I opened my eyes.
"I have a plan."