đź‘‘ "Are you serious?" The woman's voice sliced through the stillness of the room. "You would take a commoner as your wife? Do you think the people will accept that? Or the ones who want this country's throne for themselves?"
She stepped forward, anger trembling through her words. "The radicals are watching, waiting for us to make one mistake — one — and when we do, they'll have our heads served on a platter."
The luxury room seemed to shrink under her fury. Oil portraits of kings and princes, queens and consorts stared down from the walls, their painted eyes heavy with judgment. Gold frames glinted in the lamplight as if echoing her disdain.
Then she turned toward the young woman beside her son. The girl stood silently, clutching a sleeping baby in her arms.
"Don't get me wrong, young lady," the older woman said, her tone suddenly cold and precise. "I know exactly who you are. And I know what kind of man my son is — he's not someone you can trifle with. He's a prince, and you…" Her eyes swept over the girl with deliberate cruelty. "You are an actress. A face adored by millions, yes — the so-called Goddess of the Entertainment Industry. But fame does not make you his equal. It never will."
"Mother, stop," the young man said sharply. His voice cracked with emotion. "I don't care about status or nationality, or the world you think I belong to. What matters is that we love each other."
She let out a short, bitter laugh. "Love? Tell me, do you truly love him, or the crown he wears? Are you in love with my son — or with the idea of him?"
The young woman said nothing. She only held her baby tighter, eyes glistening.
The mother's voice hardened again. "You may have bewitched him — you are beautiful, I'll grant you that. But don't mistake enchantment for destiny. This country will never welcome a commoner as its princess."
"Enough!" The young man's voice rang through the chamber. His mother froze, startled.
He stepped closer, his jaw set. "Where she came from doesn't matter. Even if you can't accept it, we already have a daughter — your granddaughter. And I will not abandon them."
Silence fell. The baby stirred softly in her mother's arms, the only sound between them.
For a moment, something flickered across the woman's face — sorrow, regret, or perhaps the faint echo of love long buried beneath duty. Then it was gone. Her gaze turned to stone once more.
"If you walk this path," she said quietly, "you walk it without the crown's blessing. And when the world turns against you, don't expect it to shield you."
"You're such a naïve boy," the Queen said, her voice trembling between anger and sorrow. "Are you serious right now? Would you truly give up your life — your sons — and this country, all for her?"
Her tone sharpened like glass. "What kind of Crown Prince speaks with such irresponsibility? I did not raise a weak or foolish heir to sit upon this throne."
The room fell silent. Through the open doorway, two young boys laughed faintly in the next chamber, watched over by their father's retainer. The Prince glanced toward them, his heart tightening. They were his sons — the living proof of a marriage born not from love, but duty. He had married their mother for the good of the nation, and though affection had grown, love had never taken root. When she died, the nobles begged him to remarry, but he could not bring himself to. He would not bind his heart again to politics.
Until Cynthia.
He had met her years later, during a fashion week in Paris. She was radiant — poised yet warm, laughter shining in her eyes like light breaking through a long winter. They called her the goddess of the runway, and to him, she truly was. Cynthia made him forget the weight of his crown and remember that he was still a man — one capable of love, and worthy of being loved in return.
The Queen's voice broke through his reverie. "If you truly love my son," she said to Cynthia, her gaze piercing, "then you will do what is best for him. He is the future of this kingdom.
Do not destroy his life — or this country's future — for the sake of your desire. You are young. You have your career. You can raise your child in peace."
Cynthia's hands tightened around the sleeping infant in her arms. She said nothing. She didn't need to — she understood perfectly what the Queen meant.
Leave.
She knew she would never be accepted — not by the royal family, not by this proud little nation that guarded its traditions like treasure. She was a commoner, an actress, a woman of the public eye. Whatever love she shared with the Crown Prince, it would never be enough for the crown.
She had never thought about the challenges that would come with loving a man like Darius. All she knew was that she loved him — deeply, foolishly, completely. When they first met, she hadn't known who he truly was. To her, he was simply a kind, magnetic man who made her feel seen in a world that only cared about appearances.
They met at a fashion week in Paris. He had watched her from the front row, and afterward, he introduced himself — charming, soft-spoken, and curious about everything. They began seeing each other soon after. Darius was gentle and thoughtful in a way that made it easy to fall for him. With him, she felt safe, even when the world around her demanded perfection.
Months passed, and their love grew — private, unassuming, but real. When she discovered she was pregnant, fear gripped her. Her career was just beginning to rise internationally; the world's eyes were on her, and a pregnancy could end everything she had worked for. She hid it, smiling through photoshoots, pretending nothing had changed.
When Darius found out, he didn't leave. He stayed by her side — quietly, steadfastly — through every moment until their daughter was born. Then he told her the truth: he was not just Darius, the man she loved. He was Darius Auremont, Crown Prince of Valenor, soon to be crowned King.
Her world tilted. She hadn't fallen in love with a prince — just a man. But now she faced the truth that loving him meant stepping into a life she could never have imagined.
When he brought her and their child to Valenor to meet his mother, the Queen, she understood the weight of what her love had cost. The Queen ruled alone since the King's death, and Darius's coronation was near. Soon, he would take the throne.
Cynthia loved him still, but doubt began to whisper in her heart. Could she live in his world — a palace of rules and eyes and judgment? Could a woman like her, a model and actress, ever be accepted as Queen? She told herself she would try. For him. For their child. For the love that had once felt so simple — before crowns and countries came between them. His mother's fierce objections had left Cynthia shaken. For the first time, she understood that this country — his country — was not ready for her. Love alone could not bridge the distance between their worlds.
"I'm not saying this because I hate you," the Queen said, her voice low but firm. "I say it because I love my son. You will not survive life here at court. Save yourself — and your daughter — if you value her life. Decide what is best for both of you."
Without waiting for an answer, the Queen turned and gently took her grandsons by the hand. Darius watched her leave in silence, the heavy doors closing behind her.
He turned back to Cynthia. "I'm sorry," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face before his gaze fell to their sleeping child.
"You don't have to apologize," she said softly. "I never expected her to accept me — not right away. Or to accept this child."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry because I wasn't strong enough. I promised I'd protect you, but I—"
"No." She stopped him before he could finish. Her voice trembled, but her eyes were steady. "It's only natural for her to react that way. You're the next King. No one wants a monarch with a commoner for a wife. She just wants what's best for you — and for Valenor."
"Don't say that." His tone deepened with emotion. "You are everything to me, Cynthia. I'll do anything for you, and you know that. I'll make her understand. I'll make her accept you — both of you."
He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, then to the tiny hand of their sleeping daughter. Cynthia closed her eyes. She didn't doubt him — not his love, not his promises. But as she listened to the echo of the Queen's words in the silent room, fear crept into her heart. She knew the Queen would not yield easily. And love, no matter how true, had never been enough to change a kingdom.