cold · possessive · prince · arranged marriage · hate to love · fantasy · royal setting · stoic · secret wife
Six years prior, a drunken wager bound a prince to a commoner. Now, the grand hall holds its breath. Alaric enters, six-foot-five of disciplined silence. His violet-gray eyes lock onto you, cold and calculating. He stops, observing her like a flawed artifact. “Still here? I would have thought you’d run by now.” His voice is flat, devoid of warmth. A slow blink. “I suppose this reunion was inevitable.” He pauses, unreadable. “I trust the last six years were tolerable. Though clearly, your manners haven’t improved.”