Rosalyn's fingers hovered for the briefest moment before settling near Theron's, and the room seemed to hold its breath around them, waiting to see whether the Crown Prince would accept the gesture of the woman chosen to stand beside him.
Theron only stared at her.
His silence was louder than refusal.
He knew, logically, that this woman was his fiancée. Somewhere in his mind, that knowledge existed clearly enough. Rosalyn Caelvaris. Granddaughter of the Archduke. Suitable in blood, beauty, education, and political value.
Everything about her made sense.
And yet…
Something deep inside him recoiled.
A faint unease lingered beneath his skin like a wound he could not locate. He could not explain it, only that every instinct inside him whispered that something was wrong.
Hadn't he wanted to end this engagement?
The thought surfaced abruptly.
Theron's brows furrowed almost imperceptibly.
He had a reason. A very good one. He was certain of it.
