Layle

Tiernan’s graceful exit, complete with that infuriating sly grin, replays in my mind. How dare he leave such an impression on me? It’s maddening that even in his embarrassment—or lack thereof—he managed to maintain that air of effortless charm.

Jensen Bigby chuckles. His tall frame and handsome features—dirty blonde hair and striking green eyes—would normally be enough to capture any woman’s attention. But right now, all I can think about is how different he is from Tiernan.

“Your Highness,” Jensen says with a warm smile, showcasing perfect white teeth. “I hope that little incident didn’t cause you any distress.”

I force myself to focus on the man before me, pushing thoughts of Tiernan aside. “Not at all, Lord Bigby. Thank you for handling the situation so smoothly.”

Jensen’s eyes twinkle. “It was my pleasure. Always happy to come to the rescue of beautiful ladies in distress.” He punctuates his words with a wink.

Normally, such blatant flirtation would make me scoff, but I remind myself of my current predicament. I need to play this game, no matter how much it grates on me.

“You’re too kind,” I reply, mustering a coy smile. “I’d love to repay you for your kindness somehow.”

Jensen’s grin widens. “Well, if you insist, perhaps you’d allow me to take you to lunch? There’s a charming little bistro in the villa gardens I’ve been meaning to try.”

Ha! This is perfect. Take that, Tiernan. A chance to be seen with an eligible, respectable nobleman. Exactly what I need to secure my position and get my father off my back.

“That sounds wonderful!” I say with actual enthusiasm. “I’d be delighted to join you.”

I can’t help but glance toward the bathhouse entrance, half expecting to see Tiernan still lingering there. But he’s gone, and I’m left with a confusing mix of relief and disappointment.

Stop it, Layle. This isn’t about Tiernan. This is about securing my future, my throne. And if having lunch with Jensen Bigby helps me achieve that goal, then so be it.

Still, as I turn back to Jensen, forcing myself to focus on his charming smile and kind eyes, I can’t quite shake the memory of Tiernan’s sly grin. Why does he have to be so infuriatingly memorable?

Jensen takes my hand in his, his touch gentle but confident. “I’ll meet you at the bistro in three hours, Your Highness,” he says, his green eyes locked on mine. Then, to my utter surprise, he brings my hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles. “I’ll be counting down the minutes until then.”

I stand there, momentarily stunned as he turns and leaves. Did—did that really just happen? Did someone actually show genuine interest in me?

My shock is quickly drowned out by the excited shrieks of the women behind me in the bathhouse.

“Oh my goodness, Your Highness!” Alin squeals, clapping her hands together. “You have a date with Jensen Bigby!”

Marren grabs my arm, her eyes wide. “He’s so handsome! And did you see how he looked at you?”

I blink, still processing what just occurred. “I—yes, I suppose I did.”

The women immediately spring into action, redoubling their efforts on my makeover.

“We need to make you absolutely irresistible,” Sorel declares, reaching for a different shade of lip paint.

As they fuss over me, a cacophony of advice fills the air:

“Make sure to laugh at his jokes, even if they’re not funny,” one woman insists.

“No, no, be mysterious. Men love a challenge,” another counters.

“You should compliment his outfit,” Alin suggests.

“Absolutely not,” Marren argues as she hands a diamond necklace to a countess. “Let him compliment you first.”

My head spins with their contradictory counsel. “I. . . I’m not sure I can remember all of this,” I admit, feeling overwhelmed.

A woman with brown eyes pats my hand reassuringly. “Just be yourself, Your Highness. That’s what caught his eye in the first place.”

I nod, grateful for her calming words, even as I wonder if “being myself” is really the best strategy given my current predicament.

Before I know it, the three hours have flown by, and it’s time for my date. As I stand to leave, I’m surprised to find a flutter of nerves in my stomach. It’s not that I’m particularly excited about Jensen, but the idea that someone might actually be interested in me for me, not just my title, is . . . intriguing.

“Good luck, Your Highness!” Marren calls as the other women chorus their goodbyes.

As I leave the bathhouse, my mind inexplicably drifts to Tiernan. I remember the feel of his lips against my knuckles, the warmth of his touch, the mischievous glint in his blue eyes. . .

I shake my head forcefully. No. What is wrong with me? I will not think about Tiernan Northgard. This lunch with Jensen is a step toward securing my future, nothing more.

The bistro is nestled in a picturesque corner of the villa gardens. It’s a charming spot with wrought-iron tables and chairs scattered across a sun-dappled terrace. Climbing roses and wisteria drape over trellises, providing a romantic ambiance. The location is perfect for seeing and being seen, which I suppose is the point.

As I approach, I spot Jensen already seated at a prominent table. He stands as I near, but something about his demeanor has shifted. The confident charm from earlier seems to have evaporated, replaced by an air of smug entitlement.

“Your Highness,” he says with a simpering smile, “you look ravishing. Please, allow me.” He pulls out my chair with an exaggerated flourish.

Umm, what? Who is this man? And what happened to the debonair man from the bathhouse?

I sit, forcing a polite smile. “Thank you, Lord Bigby.”

He settles across from me, puffing out his chest. “You know, my family’s estate is one of the largest in the kingdom. We have over a thousand acres of prime farmland and three summer homes.”

I nod, trying to mask my growing distaste. “How—impressive.”

“Indeed,” he preens. “Of course, I’m not just looking for any wife. I need a woman who knows her place. Someone obedient, who can manage the household and bear me many strong sons. I’m thinking of at least six children to start.”

I choke on my water, appalled by his presumption. Before I can respond, a waiter approaches our table.

“Ah, excellent timing,” Jensen declares, a broad smile on his face. “We’ll have two orders of the cockatrice, my good man. Ladies always prefer the lighter fare, isn’t that right, Your Highness?”

I hate cockatrice.

Unable to contain myself, I retort, “Actually, I prefer my meals with a bit more. . . substance. Much like my conversation.”

Jensen blinks, clearly not registering my sarcasm. “Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about that. I’m sure you’ll develop a taste for it. Now, as I was saying about my family’s illustrious history—”

As he drones on, I feel my irritation mounting. This is awful. This is exactly why I never put myself out there in past Seasons. There’s now way I could ever allow someone like Jensen to be king. He’d be impossible to manipulate, too self-absorbed to even notice my subtle attempts at guidance.

“—and of course, once we’re married, you won’t have to worry your pretty little heads about all those tedious royal duties. I’ll handle everything,” Jensen says, patting my hand condescendingly.

Is he serious? Does he think I—the crowned princess of Lorcia—would ever step back from ruling to allow a man to do so? Especially when I’ve been trained to be a ruler? Absolutely not. He would run my kingdom into the ground.

I pull my hand away, unable to hide my disgust. “How thoughtful of you,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “And here I was, thinking I might want to have some say in ruling the kingdom I’ve been trained for since birth.”

Once again, my words sail right over his head. “Oh, you’re so adorable when you try to be clever,” he chuckles. “Now, let me tell you about the time I single-handedly saved my father’s prized stallion from a pack of dire wolves. . . ”

As Jensen launches into yet another self-aggrandizing tale, I find myself longing for the sharp wit and challenging conversation I’ve come to expect from—no. I will not think about him. Not now.

When the waiter approaches with our meals, I force myself to maintain a polite facade. But when I see the cockatrice on my plate, my stomach churns. The bird-like creature, with its scaly dragon-like legs still attached, looks utterly unappetizing.

Before I can say anything, Jensen reaches over and takes my plate. “Allow me, Your Highness. A delicate lady such as yourself shouldn’t have to trouble herself with serving.”

He proceeds to cut the meat into tiny, bite-sized pieces, as if I were a child. “There you are,” he says, sliding the plate back to me. “Perfect for your dainty appetite. Wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself with all that cutting and chewing, would we?”

That’s the final straw. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the stone terrace. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well, Lord Bigby. I must excuse myself.”

“Shall I escort you back to your quarters? Perhaps a gentle stroll would settle your delicate constitution.”

I’m going to punch him out.

“That won’t be necessary,” I snap, beyond caring about politeness at this point. “Good day, Lord Bigby.”

My anger and disgust threaten to overwhelm me as I storm away. How can men like Jensen even exist? The thought of being married to someone so patronizing, so eager to stifle my very essence, makes me feel physically ill.

I may be on a timeline, but I refuse to lower my standards to this degree. The man I choose–if I must choose one at all—needs to accept me for who I am. He needs to understand that I am Layle first, and a wife second. I won’t be put under anyone’s thumb, crown or no crown.

As I walk, my mind drifts unbidden to Tiernan and his unexpected proposal. Could it be that his offer wasn’t the worst idea in the world?

I shake my head, trying to clear these traitorous thoughts. But they persist, nagging at me. If my choices are between a man like Jensen and Tiernan. . .

No. I won’t entertain that thought. There must be other options, other men who could see me as a partner, not a possession.

But I can’t quite shake the image of Tiernan’s knowing smirk, or the memory of his lips against my hand. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve been too hasty in dismissing his proposal entirely.