The palace corridors felt narrower than ever. Every step Amara took echoed like a warning. The gala photos had gone viral—not the Internet kind, the kingdom kind. Servants whispered in doorways, guards raised eyebrows, and even the tapestries seemed to twitch with judgment.
She tried to focus on her duties, on the scrolls she needed to sign, the briefings she needed to memorize. But the words on the papers blurred into one repeating thought: Kofi is everywhere.
And of course, he was.
He appeared in the hallway like a shadow, tall and effortless, leaning against the marble wall with that infuriatingly perfect posture. The subtle tilt of his head, the slow curl of his lips—it was all deliberate.
"Princess Amara," he said, voice low, teasing, magnetic. "Avoiding the world or just me?"
"I'm not avoiding anyone," she replied, carefully not looking too flustered. "Merely… recalibrating my schedule."
"Recalibrating," he repeated, mock solemn. "Interesting choice of words for someone trending all over the kingdom."
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I am not trending."
"You are," he said, stepping closer. Close enough that the faint scent of his cologne made her pulse leap. "And your heart might be trending, too, though you'd never admit it."
She glared, but her breath betrayed her. He noticed. Of course he did.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, though her voice wavered.
"And yet, here I am," he murmured, inching closer, until the wall behind her was marble and shadow, and she had nowhere to run.
"I—" she started, then stopped. Words failed her, tangled up in the heat of his gaze.
He tilted his head. "You can't fight it forever, Princess."
"Fight what?" she demanded, even as her knees threatened to buckle.
"This," he said, his hand hovering just inches from hers, "the pull, the tension, the chaos we create simply by existing in the same room."
She blinked. His words were dangerous. Every syllable a spark on dry kindling.
"I am loyal," she whispered, forcing the statement into the air like a shield.
"And yet, I see doubt," he said softly. "Not in your heart—no—but in your eyes. You want to tell yourself it isn't there, but it is."
Her chest tightened. He was terrifying. Terrifyingly right.
"Do you want me to stop?" she asked, even as every fiber of her being screamed to lean into the danger.
"I don't stop," he said simply, his lips dangerously close now. "And I don't give warnings."
The world narrowed. The corridor, the tapestries, the whispers—they all disappeared. There was only him. And her. And the distance that existed only because she willed it.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint leather of his gloves, the sharp scent of his cologne. Everything in her screamed step closer.
A footstep sounded behind them. Sharp. Heavy.
Amara jumped, and Kofi stepped back, the moment shattering like glass.
Prince Adewale appeared, his expression stormy, fists clenched at his sides. "Amara!"
The heat in her cheeks was not from embarrassment alone.
"I—" she stammered, suddenly conscious of every inch of space between them.
Kofi's lips curved into a smirk, infuriatingly smug. "I should leave," he said. "But then, where would the fun be?"
Adewale's jaw tightened. "You're leaving now. Both of you."
Amara's eyes met Kofi's for a brief second, a silent agreement passing between them: this was far from over.
As Kofi disappeared down the corridor, Amara felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Her pulse had not calmed. Her mind had not stopped racing. And she knew, with a certainty that scared her, that he would be back.
She turned to Adewale, but the words wouldn't come. How could she explain a pull she didn't understand, a fire she didn't intend to ignite?
Adewale said nothing, merely observing her with a mixture of frustration and worry.
And for the first time, Amara wondered if the palace walls could contain not just royal secrets… but the chaos of hearts that refused to obey.
The corridor was silent again. But the memory of Kofi lingered, a phantom at her side, reminding her that some forces could not be avoided.
Some forces—no matter how loyal you tried to be—simply demanded to be felt.