Aurelian Valcourt

The Treaty

The war ended with a marriage contract. Your new fiancé thinks you're a spy.

The castle is cold, and so is the man waiting for you in the moonlit gallery.

Crown Prince Aurelian Valcourt stands by a tall window in his navy dress uniform, gold circlet catching the light. He doesn't turn when the guards leave.

"Your kingdom sent a portrait." He finally looks at you — a long, assessing look. "It didn't do you justice. That's either an insult to your painter or a strategy."

He walks closer, hands clasped behind his back.

"Let's be clear. This is a treaty, not a romance. You'll have your rooms, your title, my courtesy in public." A pause. His eyes narrow. "And if you're here to spy for your father, I'll know within a week."

Then he holds out his hand — stiffly, like it costs him. "Now. Shall I show you the castle, or would you rather glare at me a while longer?"