"...it is with the greatest joy that I announce the betrothal of Princess Amelia..." Queen Isolde's voice rang out in the ensuing silence, "...to the loyal defender of our kingdom, the hero of the Northern War, Marquis Garrick Hawke!"

  The name struck Amelia like a physical slap.

  For a moment, the world lost all sound. She saw the mouths of courtiers opening and closing, but heard not a single word. Time stretched, becoming viscous as molasses. Hundreds of gazes—curious, gloating, sympathetic—bored into her, but all she could do was stand there, maintaining a frozen, porcelain smile.

  The absolute, deafening silence exploded in a barely audible, collective gasp that swept through the hall like a serpentine whisper.

  Her gaze, like that of a broken marionette, slowly darted from her mother to Tristan. She watched as his smug, triumphant smile didn't just vanish—it cracked, shattering into shards to reveal pure, unclouded bewilderment. The flush of humiliation flooded his face, and his eyes, filled with horror, darted from her to his own father.

  The old Marquis, on the contrary, stepped forward. He moved slowly, with the confidence of an ancient predator who knows the trap has snapped shut and the prey has nowhere to run. Amelia saw his approach in minute, repulsive detail: the web of wrinkles around his predatory eyes, the liver spots on the back of his hand, the yellowish tint of the teeth in his satisfied smirk.

  He took her pale, limp hand. His fingers were dry and cold as old parchment, their grip weak but tenacious. He leaned in to kiss her hand, and a heavy, sickly-sweet scent of expensive cigars and old wine, mixed with the smell of withering, wafted over her. His thin lips left an unpleasant, sticky residue on her snow-white glove.

  "It is the greatest honor for me, Your Highness," he rumbled, not releasing her hand. "I shall take care of you."

  Nausea rose in a lump to Amelia’s throat.

  The father... They chose the father. Not the son, but the father! a panicked thought battered against her skull. He's eighty! Yes, in my past life I was older, but physically... God, physically this is necrophilia!

  But years of training took over. She forced herself to smile with just her lips.

  "I thank you, Marquis Hawke. Pray excuse me, I must step away for a moment to... compose myself after such excitement."

  Executing a perfect, deep curtsy, she turned on her heel. She felt truly ill. Darkness began to creep into the edges of her vision. With a calm but rapid, almost running pace, she moved toward the saving grace of the balcony doors. On her way, with a sharp gesture, she snatched two stunned people from the crowd—Lady Clara and Captain Leon.

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  "Follow me. Let no one in," she hissed through gritted teeth, stepping out into the cool night air.

  Once in the darkness, she held back no longer. With one hand, she carelessly grabbed a heavy porcelain vase of roses standing on the balustrade, splashed the water and flowers onto the flowerbed below with a violent motion, and, doubling over, began to cough spasmodically, retching all her humiliation, horror, and consumed champagne into the empty vessel.

  A panic attack washed over her completely. Clara immediately ran to her side, supporting her mistress and holding back her hair. Leon stood with his back to them, shielding this unsightly scene with his body and blocking the entrance.

  "Tristan... I had almost resigned myself that it might be Tristan!" she practically screamed through tears, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the cold porcelain. "But this! An eighty-year-old man! How could she?! How could Mother sell me to this... this fossil?!"

  She railed against fate, against the futility of all her plans and audits, against the cruelty of this world.

  "I prepared for a merger of capital, and they pawned me off!" she wailed. "Like an item! Like a pretty brooch on the lapel of an old jacket!"

  And she knew: the announcement made by the Queen before the entire court was a sentence. A decision that could no longer be changed without the Crown losing face.

  At that very moment, beneath the balcony, in the dense shadow of the rose bushes, stood a tall young man.

  Crown Prince Rhys Montclair of the Kingdom of Arden had escaped the stifling ball to smoke a cigar forbidden by etiquette in the silence. Because of this, he had missed the official announcement, but he had now become an involuntary listener to the most candid and furious tirade he had ever heard.

  He was dazzlingly handsome: a statuesque figure, refined, aristocratic features, a shock of bright red hair styled in a modern cut with shaved temples, and piercing, mocking emerald-green eyes.

  He listened to the girl's desperate curses above, mixed with very specific, far-from-secular profanities she had likely picked up in the slums.

  "Pawned me off"? "Fossil"? he repeated mentally, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk. What... colorful vocabulary for a young lady.

  He couldn't help but note to himself: Debutantes these days have become terrifying. At my own debut five years ago, all the girls were so gentle, modest, and quiet... This one, judging by the sounds, is ready to burn the palace to the ground.

  On the balcony, having vented all her anger and despair, Amelia calmed down slightly. Clara, like a caring mother hen, dabbed her face with a damp handkerchief, gave her mint water to rinse her mouth from a vial she always carried, and helped her put on fresh, clean gloves.

  Amelia straightened up. Tears still stood in her eyes, but her gaze had become cold and calculating once more. She exhaled slowly and restored the flawless image of "The Diamond."

  They returned to the ballroom as if nothing had happened.

  Below, under the balcony, Prince Rhys finished his cigar. He noticed a solitary rosebud on the flowerbed, miraculously intact after being thrown from the vase along with the water. He picked up the wet flower and twirled it thoughtfully in his fingers.

  Cruel, he thought of the fate of the "old man's" unknown bride. But, perhaps, instructive.

  He decided then and there that he would not rush into marriage himself. And he would certainly get to know the candidate thoroughly before allowing himself to be bound by the ties of matrimony.