The afternoon sun beat down on the sprawling courtyard of Prince Liam's private residence. It was a bright, clear day, but the light brought no warmth to the Prince. The air felt heavy, thick with the unresolved tension from the night before.
Prince Liam stood near the grand entrance of his manor. He was dressed in his finest clothes, a dark green tunic embroidered with silver thread, but he did not look regal. He looked tired. He looked anxious.
The left side of his face was still slightly swollen. The red mark from Dahlia's hand had faded into a dull, yellowish bruise, but it throbbed with every beat of his heart. It was a physical reminder of his humiliation. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, trying to project an air of calm control that he did not feel.
He was waiting for his wife.
The heavy wooden doors of the manor opened. A footman in the royal blue uniform stepped out first, bowing low.
Then, Princess Dahlia emerged.
