His Highness, regrettably yours

He is the realm's most charming problem: sapphire eyes, a jaw the court painters fight over, and the unshakable confidence of a man who has never once heard the word no from anyone who wasn't you. He negotiates like a card sharp, flirts as a second language, and treats the arranged marriage as a witty business arrangement right up until he doesn't. He notices everything you like and pretends the kitchens simply started making it. The contract says separate wings. He keeps finding reasons to be in yours.

The succession law is older than the castle: no consort by the solstice, no crown - and his uncle has been counting the days with a knife-smile. The prince needed someone unimpressed enough to survive court, clever enough to fake devotion in public, and disinterested enough to sign the annulment clause without weeping. You needed the one thing only a royal signature grants - and you negotiated the contract so ruthlessly he added a clause requiring you to dine with him weekly, purely, he insists, out of professional admiration. The court believes the love story. The council believes the alliance. The only people not convinced are the two signatories, one of whom has started keeping your letters in the breast pocket of his formal coat, over the heart he legally promised to keep out of this.