Once inside the glittering ballroom, Amelia decisively cast aside her gloomy thoughts. The cynicism of the young aristocrats should no longer trouble her. After all, they had made their choice. And strangely enough, their frankness had freed her hands. Their behavior opened her eyes: in this society, the appearance of virtue was valued far above the reality. That meant if she decided to have a little fun herself, hardly anyone would dare judge her—as long as she saved face.

  She had planned from the very beginning to live this life to the fullest, denying herself nothing. And handsome men were one of the main items on that agenda.

  Well then, where are you hiding, my rugged northern dukes and mysterious counts I’ve read so much about in novels? she thought with a thrill of anticipation, scanning the crowd of elegant aristocrats. The market is open, bidding has begun. Time to study the proposals.

  With these thoughts, she plunged headlong into the whirlwind of her first ball. She was a true diamond, just as her mother had wanted. She danced with ease and grace, her witty retorts charmed her partners, and a polite smile never left her lips. She flitted from one cavalier to another, maintaining light conversation while simultaneously conducting a ruthless audit—assessing their manners, intellect, and, of course, their physical specs on the good old ten-point scale.

  She was just waltzing with a pleasant but utterly nondescript baron when a page approached her, bowed low, and whispered:

  "Your Highness, Her Majesty the Queen wishes to see you. Immediately."

  Amelia's heart sank. Her intuition, honed over decades, wailed like a siren. She politely excused herself to her partner and followed the page into a small drawing room hidden behind heavy velvet curtains, where Isolde was waiting. The Queen’s face was serene as always, but an unshakable, crushing will could be read in her eyes.

  "Amelia, stop fluttering," her voice was calm, but the tone brooked no argument. "A significant moment has arrived."

  "Isn't that what balls are for, Mother? To flutter?" she tried to joke, feeling her fingertips go cold.

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  "Balls are for concluding alliances," the Queen cut her off, shattering the illusion of celebration. "And your father and I have reached a decision regarding yours. Your future husband has been chosen."

  The world tilted beneath Amelia's feet. Her entire plan, her audit, her confidence that she would participate in the "board meeting" as a partner—all of it crumbled to dust. She knew this day would come, but she hadn't thought it would be so soon. And certainly not like this—without her knowledge, without a single question asked.

  "A betrothal? Today?!" Amelia blurted out, forgetting etiquette. "And... you didn't want to ask me? I thought I would have at least a consultative voice!"

  "Your voice is the voice of the Crown, and it speaks only what is profitable for the State. Come."

  The Queen gripped her daughter's hand with a cold, commanding hold that was impossible to break without causing a scandal.

  "Let us go. It is time to announce your happiness."

  She led her across the entire hall. For Amelia, this procession felt like a walk to the scaffold. The noise and music merged into one unbearable drone; the glow of chandeliers and the sparkle of jewels blurred before her eyes, turning into blinding, aggressive spots of light.

  The only thing she saw clearly was a group of aristocrats at the far end of the hall toward which they were heading. In the center of this group stood old Marquis Garrick Hawke, looking like an ancient vulture. And beside him—his son, Tristan.

  Anything but that... please not them...

  The Princess felt truly sick. Tristan. Of course. His father had been in active correspondence with the King lately; his courtship had become even more brazen and possessive. And now he stood there with a smug, triumphant smile, clearly anticipating the reward for years of humiliating rejections. He had won.

  That look... He knew everything, the Princess's thoughts beat like a bird in a cage. All these years, he wasn't courting me to win me over. He was simply marking his territory, knowing the merchandise would be delivered to the address sooner or later anyway...

  She wanted to stop, to run, to scream, but her mother's iron grip pulled her forward, toward the inevitable.

  Queen Isolde led her daughter to the group, never releasing her hand for a second. She took a glass of champagne from a passing servant and tapped it lightly with a knife. The thin, piercing ring of crystal cut through the air, drawing everyone's attention. The music died down. Hundreds of eyes turned to them.

  "Dear guests!" the Queen's voice rang out loud and clear, echoing from the vaulted ceiling. "Tonight is a special evening, an evening when our young flowers step out into society for the first time! I congratulate all the debutantes on this wonderful occasion!"

  She made a theatrical pause, her gaze dropping to the frozen Amelia, who was pale as a sheet.

  "And on this momentous day, with the blessing of His Majesty the King, it is my greatest joy to announce the betrothal of Princess Amelia to..."