The morning sun poured into the royal chambers, painting everything in gold. Amara, however, felt none of it. Her phone had become a burning device of doom overnight.
Headlines screamed louder than a royal trumpet:
"PRINCE KOFI AND CROWN PRINCESS AMARA: TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT?""A DERANGED LOVE STORY OR POLITICAL SABOTAGE?"
Even the palace staff were whispering. A footman tripped over a carpet and muttered, "I just… I can't even," before disappearing.
Amara groaned and shoved the phone under her pillow. She needed air. Space. A wall. Anything.
The balcony seemed perfect. Quiet. Untouched. Until… a shadow fell beside her.
Kofi.
He looked impossibly calm for someone who had just set an entire kingdom talking. Hands in his pockets, hair slightly mussed, and a grin that made her want to throw something—ideally something heavy.
"Good morning, Princess," he said. "I hope I didn't startle you."
"You did."
"And yet, here you are. On your balcony. Star-crossed princess style. Very dramatic."
"I'm not dramatic. You're just… everywhere," she snapped.
He raised an eyebrow. "Everywhere is exactly where I should be."
Amara's breath caught. He had the audacity to look almost… heroic in the sunlight, even though he was absolutely trouble. She hated that she noticed.
"I don't want to be part of this scandal," she muttered. "I'm trying to maintain dignity, and the internet is already mocking me."
"You're trending," Kofi said casually, "and honestly? You're handling it terribly."
She whirled on him. "I'll have you know I am fuming silently. That counts as dignified!"
He chuckled. "Fuming silently. I like it. Subtle rage suits you."
Amara felt heat creep up her neck. "Do you always have to be insufferable?"
"Only when someone looks like they might ruin my carefully curated reputation," he said, leaning a little closer. The space between them shrank, tension thickening like a storm cloud.
Her pulse betrayed her. She tried to step back. He mirrored her movement, just enough to keep that dangerous proximity.
"Stay away from me," she said, though her voice wavered.
"You're impossible," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. "And somehow… irresistible."
She wanted to argue, to remind him of duty, family, loyalty. But all that energy fizzled under the weight of his gaze.
"Don't—" she started.
"Amara," he interrupted gently, "look around you. The palace. The gilded ceilings. The endless rules. You're trapped in a life someone else wrote for you."
She swallowed. He was right. Every fiber of her body wanted to argue, to pull away, to insist she was stronger than this magnetic chaos standing beside her. And yet…
"I don't need your sympathy," she said, trying to sound firm.
"I'm not offering sympathy," he said. "I'm offering reality. And maybe… the chance to defy it."
The wind picked up, tugging at her hair and the hem of her gown. He brushed it back from her face—not quite touching, but close enough to make her heart stutter.
She had to step back this time, breaking the invisible chain between them.
"You're insane," she said.
"And yet, perfectly memorable," he replied, giving her that infuriating grin before he finally turned away.
Amara watched him disappear down the palace steps, her chest tight, her mind racing, and one undeniable thought burning hotter than the morning sun:
He is trouble. And I am already hopelessly caught.