I never wanted the crown. I was raised in the basement suites of my father’s estate, taught to disappear in plain sight. My name isn’t in any ledger, my face not in any photo. But when the truce was called, they needed a symbol—pure, unseen, untainted. They needed me.

Now I stand across from Dante Draco at the engagement gala, surrounded by enemies wearing tuxedos and smiles. He doesn’t know who I really am. Not yet. But his eyes linger too long, his voice drops too low when he says, 'You’re not what I expected.'

Later, on the balcony, the city sprawled beneath us like a circuit board, he turns to me. 'You’re hiding something. I can see it in the way you hold your knife.'

My pulse spikes. Do I confess everything? Do I lie and deepen the game? Or do I pull him into the shadows and kiss him—just to see what burns first?