The palace hummed with careful order. Courtiers moved quickly, servants whispered endlessly, and every corner was polished to perfection. The engagement was no longer a distant thought—it was very real, very close.
And there was Khalid.
He arrived punctually, confident, composed, carrying the kind of calm that demanded respect. His bow was perfect, his smile polished, his words careful.
"Princess Ria," he said, voice steady. "It is an honor to see you this morning."
"Good morning, Khalid," I replied, my tone polite and measured. I offered a smile, the kind required of me, but it didn't reach my heart.
We walked through the gardens together, speaking of the ceremony, the guests, the arrangements. His voice was warm, courteous, steady—but it carried none of the tenderness I craved. It was the sound of duty.
Fahad was not in the palace, as he never was. Our conversations happened in private, away from prying eyes, business-driven but threaded with unspoken understanding. He remained outside the walls, the calm I retreated to in moments I could be alone with my thoughts. He was not part of this world—but somehow, his presence lingered in memory, in heartbeats, in quiet corners of my mind.
Khalid smiled, spoke politely, made no mistake. Everything about him was perfect, and yet, perfection did not touch me. It did not reach the parts of me that longed for warmth beyond duty, for understanding beyond obligation.
When the garden walk ended, Khalid bowed lightly. "I look forward to seeing you at the rehearsal."
"I will be there," I said.
I watched him leave, and I let myself exhale. Calm, controlled, duty-bound. And somewhere far from the palace, Fahad carried a gentleness in his messages and meetings that reminded me I could still feel.
The engagement was approaching, the palace was alive with expectation, and my heart quietly remembered what it already knew:
some things could not be tamed, no matter how careful I was.