Heather did not run. She did not cry. She did not dramatically faint like the pri-ti socialites who wanted headlines to docunt their humiliation. She simply retreated with as much dignity as a fifteen-year-old whose heart had just catastrophically attached itself to the wrong royal man could manage.
Which ant she disappeared behind a marble column, opened her clutch, and sulked at the universe while actively ignoring the fifteen unread ssages from advisors demanding she stop being seen in public imdiately.
A very expensive sulk, wrapped in couture fabric, monarchy, and theatrical outrage at the laws of reality.
Marianne stood beside Dax like a crisis manager, ntally composing ten different press statents and a civil apology to Rohan’s PR departnt.
"Well," she muttered. "That could’ve gone worse. Nobody cried, scread, or livestread it. Yet."
Dax humd.
He didn’t look displeased. There was a small curl at the corner of his mouth, the relaxed amusent of a man who was choosing to enjoy the chaos instead of preventing it.
"She left ," he said calmly, like this was a deeply personal betrayal instead of a public relations miracle.
Marianne blinked. "She is fifteen."
"She pledged lifelong loyalty three hours ago," he continued pensively. "Talked about destiny. Practiced looking tragic for it. I believe she even rehearsed angles for photographers."
"Yes," Marianne repeated with patience that had been carved. "Because she is fifteen."
"And then," Dax went on, "she spoke to Christopher once. He was kind. Reasonable. Non-threatening. And suddenly I am ancient history, and he’s her future."
He arched a brow. "Christopher is not."
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please don’t make this worse."
Rowan’s earpiece buzzed once. He turned slightly, murmured sothing back, and relaxed only marginally.
"dia caught none of it," Rowan reported quietly. "Everyone saw it, but there were no phones."
"Small blessings," Marianne muttered.
That was precisely the mont Heather re-erged.
She didn’t stumble out dramatically. She didn’t pretend she’d been doing anything respectable, like checking emails or calling her mother.
She walked out with the posture of royalty who refused to let humiliation trend on social dia.
Her chin was high. Her eyes were bright. Her dignity had been stitched back together with sheer teenage stubbornness.
She stopped in front of them, took a breath, and declared, "He’s not that impressive."
Half the room nearly died trying not to laugh.
Chris blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Heather pointed at Dax like she was filing an official complaint.
"You are still too old. Too terrifying. And emotionally irresponsible."
Dax inclined his head thoughtfully.
"That sounds correct."
Heather faltered for half a beat, because agreeing was cheating.
"And you," she turned to Chris, eyes shining, voice wobbling despite her iron posture, "are... very unfair."
Chris softened. "Heather..."
"No," she said firmly. "You were kind. And sane. And normal. You talked to like I wasn’t a Rohan heir or a political bargaining chip or a walking headline waiting to be marketed. You talked to like I’m... a person. And that is deeply inconvenient."
Her jaw tightened.
"Because now I cannot hide behind pretending this is only duty or strategy. Now I actually have to think about what I want. Which is rude, honestly. Highly inconsiderate."
For a mont the ballroom felt less like politics and more like a very expensive therapy session.
Chris smiled warm, gentle, and devastating in its kindness.
"Good," he said quietly. "Welco to being fifteen. You’re allowed to just be a teenager for a while."
Heather swallowed hard. Looked away. Looked back.
"So. I’m postponing any talk of marriage. Not because I’m scared. Not because anyone lectured . And not because your terrifying king boyfriend intimidated ."
"Husband," Rowan corrected automatically.
She ignored him.
"I’m doing it because I want ti to figure out who the hell I am before I decide whose life I want to ruin by existing next to them forever."
Sahir actually applauded once before regaining dignity.
Marianne exhaled.
"That is... remarkably responsible."
Heather nodded once, like she’d just signed a treaty.
Then she pointed at Dax again. "And you owe compensation."
Marianne nearly fainted. "Heather..."
"For what?" Dax asked, already amused.
"For false advertising," she said coldly. "You were supposed to be an untouchable, emotionally frozen tyrant. Instead, you’re disgustingly human and clearly in love. I demand reparations."
And Dax laughed.
A real laugh. Low. Warm. Startling in a man whose existence usually made nations nervous.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Heather considered. Then lifted her chin, confident again.
"A tour of the Palace with... him." She pointed at Chris, absolutely unapologetic. "He seems the nicest one here."
Chris only blinked, confused.
There was a sound sowhere between a cough and a strangled prayer, and Rowan had to turn away because, of course, the most politically explosive option was the one chosen by a fifteen-year-old with freshly rediscovered self-awareness.
And beside Dax, Marianne thought about ejector seats, sky combat, anti-missile systems, and how none of them prepared a human soul for navigating the emotional decisions of a fifteen-year-old heir.
Dax glanced at Chris.
Chris t his eyes calmly. He didn’t need words. The shared look said enough.
’Are you comfortable with this?’
’I’ll handle it.’
Dax turned back to Heather. "Fine," he said.
Heather blinked like she had not actually expected to win.
"You will have your tour," he continued, tone steady and impossibly calm. "With proper security. Within approved areas. Supervised. And without you using it to stage coups, dramatic romantic gestures, or... interpretive political theater."
Heather narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Define ’interpretive."
"No," Rowan said instantly.
She huffed, which in Heather-language translated roughly to ’I accept these terms but will resent them later.’
Chris exhaled, slow and a little resigned, but he smiled at her anyway, softer than anything this room deserved.
"We’ll make it a good one," he promised.
Heather’s shoulders, for the first ti all night, actually dropped from her ears.
"That would be... nice," she admitted reluctantly, like "nice" was a dangerous weakness she had to handle with protective gloves. "I have never actually seen anything without soone narrating what it should an for ."
"Then we’ll start there," Chris said warmly. "With things that don’t have to an anything."
For a sixteen-second miracle, the ballroom fell silent due to the deeply uncomfortable realization that a teenage girl had been given sothing she should have had all along: permission to breathe.
Heather looked at Chris one last ti, swallowed everything she could not quite na, and nodded.
"Very well," she said, dignity stitched firmly back into place. "I accept."
Then she turned, chin high again, but the sharpness had dulled into sothing more human, and strode away with the careful grace of soone who intended to control her narrative before the narrative controlled her.
Rowan blew out a long breath.
Marianne sagged like a soldier who had survived yet another theater of war that made far less sense than any battlefield.
Sahir, utterly unashad, looked pleased.
Dax finally turned his head toward Chris.
"Can I kiss you now?" he murmured. "I think I deserve it for my restraint."
Chris didn’t even pretend to consider it.
"No."
Dax sulked almost instantly, irritation glinting briefly in his eyes like an offended deity denied worship. "Why not? I just survived an attempted political kidnapping of my spouse by a catastrophically romantic child. I think that earns at least one kiss."
"Because," Chris replied patiently, "Adonis Malek is still watching. Let him believe Heather is their chance. Let him believe he can use her to get to ."
Dax’s gaze slid lazily across the ballroom, found Adonis with insulting ease, and t his eyes with the slow, unblinking interest of a predator deciding whether the thing breathing in front of it counted as prey.
Adonis looked back. Almost smug.
Dax’s mouth curved faintly.
"Let him believe, then," he murmured. "It will make the disappointnt exquisite."
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