Lucien yanked off his formal jacket the moment he stormed back into his chamber. The gold-trimmed coat landed across a velvet armchair with disdain. His thoughts were boiling over, his pulse racing as the echo of his father's words slammed into his skull over and over again. You will marry who we choose… It is your duty…
He stripped out of his royal attire and changed into a plain black T-shirt and dark jeans, grabbed a hoodie, and shoved it over his head. For once, he wanted to look like a normal man—not a prince or a future king. Just Lucien. Just Lucas.
As he zipped up his hoodie, there was a knock on the door.
It was Eduardo, his best friend and personal advisor. Dressed smart as always in a slate-gray turtleneck and slacks, Eduardo leaned against the doorframe with arms crossed, a knowing brow raised.
"What are you up to?" Eduardo asked with suspicion.
"I need to breathe, Eduardo," Lucien muttered. "I'm going out. Just for a while. I need to see what the world is like without bodyguards or bows or bloody silver spoons."
Eduardo frowned. "Lucien, this isn't safe. You're the heir to the most powerful throne in Europe."
"That's exactly why I need to go," Lucien snapped. Then softer: "Please. I'm not asking you to let me—I'm asking you to come with me."
Eduardo hesitated for a beat before sighing. "Fine. But we go in disguise. If anyone recognizes you, we're toast."
Within the hour, they were out of the palace—hoods up, tinted glasses on, slipping through a quiet service gate like shadows into the streets of Edevora.
---
Meanwhile, across the island, Jahzara was standing by her floor-length window, staring at the sea from her mansion room. Her mind spun. Her father's words haunted her like a slow, deliberate curse.
Next week shall be your wedding…
She needed air. She needed out.
She pulled out her phone and called the one person who always managed to ground her—Grace Olamide.
Within the hour, a sleek red convertible pulled up outside the estate.
"Get in, runaway bride!" Grace called, her glossy curls bouncing in the breeze.
Grace was everything fire and freedom could look like—vanilla-skinned with a body sculpted like art. Her laughter was wild, her confidence unmatched. She was untouchable, and she liked it that way.
Jahzara slid into the passenger seat, sunglasses covering her tired eyes.
They sped off into the city, music blaring, wind messing up Zara's Afro—but for the first time in days, she smiled.
---
At a rooftop restaurant, they sipped mocktails and devoured fries.
"Can you imagine me married to some prince I've never met?" Zara groaned.
"Honestly," Grace said, licking salt from her fingers, "that sounds like the dream."
Zara gave her a look. "Of course it does. You want a man to worship you and pay your bills."
Grace flipped her curls. "Exactly. And if he's hot, I'll bear him five golden children. What's not to like?"
Zara chuckled weakly. "I just want to be free. Is that so much to ask? To choose who I love… if I even want love at all."
"You don't want love?" Grace asked.
"I've never really had it. Not from my father. Not from my mother. My brothers? Please. I don't want someone else controlling me. Not even a charming prince."
Grace leaned over the table, tilting her sunglasses down. "Zara… you're more powerful than you think. Don't let anyone write your story."
---
Later, they found themselves at a large park filled with life—people jogging, laughing, couples kissing under trees, kids chasing balloons. It was like a painting. A piece of peace.
Jahzara sat on a bench, arms wrapped around her knees, watching Grace flirt with every guy who smiled at her.
She was mesmerizing—her curvy figure, her confidence, her glow.
And yet, Jahzara sat quietly, her caramel-honey skin glowing under the fading sun, her Afro like a crown. She had the beauty of stillness, the depth of a storm that had not yet broken.
Once, she used to feel insecure next to girls like Grace. But now, she wasn't even sure who she was becoming. A wife? A puppet? A pawn?
No, she told herself. I'm a queen in the making. They just don't see it yet.
She closed her eyes briefly. Then—
Thud!
"OW!" she yelped as something struck the back of her head.
She turned sharply to see a frisbee rolling beside her foot.
A man was rushing toward her. Tall, in a hoodie, sunglasses, panting slightly.
"I'm so sorry—are you okay?" he asked breathlessly.
She looked up at him—and froze.
Something in the way he paused. The way his breath caught in his throat.
"You…? I know you," he whispered, taking off his glasses.
Zara's eyes widened.
That voice.
"It's you. From the garden," he said softly.
Her lips parted, stunned.