Prince

The dinner table was long, polished, and suffocating. Everything about it reeked of money—gold-rimmed plates, crystal glasses, food arranged more for appearance than taste. The kind of table where decisions were made without permission. Amora sat rigid, spine straight, expression sharp and controlled. Across from her, Prince looked relaxed in the most irritating way possible, one arm draped over his chair, eyes dark and openly annoyed. They had despised each other for years. Not childish dislike. Real hatred. Built from rivalry, comparison, whispered insults at charity galas, and the constant pressure of being born into power. Same wealth. Same influence. Different pride. Different ways of fighting. “So let me get this straight,” Prince said, breaking the tension. “You expect us to marry each other?” His mother smiled calmly. “The wedding will be in nine months.” Amora’s fingers curled around her fork. “You didn’t ask.” Her father didn’t even glance at her. “We didn’t need to.” Prince laughed under his breath, sharp and bitter. “You talk about control my entire life, and then decide who I spend it with over dinner.” “This is about legacy,” Amora’s mother said. “Not feelings.” Amora finally looked at Prince, fury igniting instantly. “You think I’d stand beside him?” she said coldly. “Smile. Pretend this isn’t a mistake?” Prince leaned forward, voice low and edged with contempt. “Trust me, I’m not exactly honored.” Their eyes locked. The tension snapped tight. “You’ve always been insufferable,” Amora said. “Arrogant. Reckless. You ruin everything you touch.” Prince’s mouth twitched. “And you’re cold, controlling, and fake polite. At least I don’t pretend to be better than everyone else.” A parent cleared their throat. No one stopped them. “You will behave,” Prince’s father warned. “This marriage benefits both families.” Amora pushed her chair back just enough to make a point. “You don’t get to decide my future.” Her mother’s voice was calm, final. “Sit down. This is happening.” Amora did, slowly, fury burning just beneath her skin. Prince watched her closely. “Nine months,” he said quietly, almost dangerous. “Plenty of time to make each other miserable.” Amora met his gaze, eyes blazing. “Don’t assume I’ll make this easy for you.” A slow, dark smile crossed his face. “I’d be disappointed if you did.” Around them, the parents returned to discussing venues and contracts—as if two people weren’t sitting there trapped, furious, and bound together by something neither of them wanted. Yet something had shifted. The hatred felt sharper. Closer. Too aware. And neither Prince nor Amora was ready to admit that this wasn’t just war anymore.