The morning arrived with noise.
Every morning is filled with chaos, it's a different matter that it keeps increasing each day.
Servants rushed down the corridors, their arms full of parchment, ribbons, and unfamiliar gifts that looked suspiciously like chamber-sized vases no one ever needed. Someone barked for more wax and another for the Queen's red seal, while three footmen argued whether peach ribbon looked too cheerful for someone not chosen.
"Three days!" the steward wailed as he flapped his ledger. "We only have three days to write, pack, wrap, and send. Who even invented courtesy gifts?"
"Probably someone who hated efficiency," Rowan muttered as he tried to wrestle a crate of fruit preserves away from the pantry maids. "These do not count as refined gifts!"
"But the Duke of Marlow liked them—!" a maid argued.
"He also likes boiled cabbage," Rowan shot back.
Meanwhile, the scribes began drafts of the letters. One read loudly: "Dear Candidate—"
"Too cold," the Queen corrected, gliding past with the force of a calm hurricane.
"She gave us three days of her time. Try again."
"Dearest Candidate—"
"Too familiar."
"Esteemed Candidate—"
"Mmm… continue."
In another corner, Drizella and Anastasia were sorting fabrics by request. Anastasia worked quietly, half listening and half thinking of a certain prince-guard-boy, while Drizella somehow picked fights with ribbon colors.
"No, not green," Drizella snapped, snatching it from a servant. "This is result, not gardening."
The palace breathed frantic politeness. Even the kitchen chimed into the madness, preparing refreshments for ladies who would likely not eat them but would judge them later.
By noon, Rowan was drowning in tasks. He ran between florists, scribes, and the Queen, his hair loosening and coat halfway buttoned.
At some point, Drizella intercepted him, hands on hips and eyebrows raised high.
"You look ridiculous," she said.
"I feel ridiculous," Rowan answered, breathless.
She plucked a stray feather stuck in his shoulder. "You are being attacked by gifts. Very tragic."
He laughed — a tired but real laugh. "I've organized hunts with less chaos."
Drizella softened. "This is result. Result requires dignity. Result requires presentation. Result—"
"Requires ribbons with complicated opinions," Rowan teased.
"Yes," she said proudly, then paused before adding quieter, "and kindness."
She noticed his hands trembling slightly — not from nerves, but exhaustion. Without announcing it, she guided him to a chair and pushed his shoulder until he sat. He blinked up at her.
"What are you—"
"Saving the kingdom from a dead deputy steward," she said lightly, but her movements were gentle as she poured him water.
Rowan watched her — really watched.
Drizella was sharp, dramatic, and occasionally terrifying, but she noticed things. Things others ignored.
"You're good at this," he said.
"At bossing people?"
"At caring," Rowan corrected.
Drizella froze for a second, visibly confused, visibly pleased, visibly trying not to show either.
"Well," she sniffed, "someone has to."
Then, as chaos swirled around them — ribbons flying, seals melting, letters forming — Drizella stayed by his side, ready to fight any fruit preserves, cabbage gifts, or poorly written result announcement that dared to challenge him.
And Rowan felt… lighter.
As if result announcement preparations were not only about endings, but beginnings quietly threading themselves through morning noise.
By afternoon, the palace chaos had developed distinct stages—
denial "We can finish this in time",
negotiation "Fine, three days is enough if no one breathes",
and despair "Why are there so many ribbons? Why?".
Rowan, somehow, was assigned to all departments at once.
"Sir Rowan! Approve the gifts!"
"Sir Rowan! The wax seals cracked!"
"Sir Rowan! Someone labeled Lady Marigold as Lady Maripold!"
Rowan's eyes glazed for a moment, and Drizella, looming beside him with the authority of someone who refused to be ignored, clapped loudly.
"Everyone stop! No one speaks to him until he finishes breathing!"
Silence fell for a single glorious second.
Then chaos resumed, louder than before.
Drizella dragged Rowan behind a stack of crates, like a general rescuing a soldier.
"Sit. Drink water. Pretend you are useful again when you stand."
Rowan, too tired to argue, sat. "I'm not fragile," he muttered.
"You're made of paperwork and stress. You could crumble at any second."
That earned a small laugh. Drizella lived for those—half smiles, startled chuckles, the accidental softness Rowan never realized he gave.
Before she could enjoy her victory, the Queen's secretary appeared, scribbling furiously. "Sir Rowan! The Queen needs confirmation on the arrangements."
Rowan made a weak motion that might have been a nod or a plea for mercy.
Drizella glared so fiercely at the secretary that he backed away without finishing his sentence.
When the secretary disappeared, Rowan sighed. "I appreciate the rescue, but intimidation may not be strictly—"
"Oh please," Drizella cut in. "You prefer I let them drag you around like a dead goose?"
"I would prefer not being compared to poultry."
"No one gets everything they want."
She crossed her arms with self-satisfaction, though Drizella's eyes softened as she studied his face—carefully, like memorizing. Rowan had a habit of overworking until nothing in him stayed upright except duty. It was both admirable and entirely stupid.
"You do not know how to rest," she declared.
"I rest," Rowan argued.
"When?"
He opened his mouth—then closed it.
Drizella grinned. "Exactly."
He should have scolded her, but Rowan found himself smiling instead—small and warm, the kind that made her chest feel like someone had shaken a bottle of champagne inside it.
For a brief moment, the chaos outside muted. Only the scratching of quills and distant footsteps lingered. Drizella's heart beat loud enough she wondered if Rowan could hear it over parchment noise.
Rowan cleared his throat. "Thank you… for looking after me."
She waved it off. "Someone has to. And you're quite bad at asking."
Rowan looked down at his hands—hands that organized hunts, coordinated security, and somehow managed to remain gentle when touching breakable things.
The sight made Drizella's thoughts sprint straight past caution.
She blurted, "I like you."
Rowan jerked upright, staring as if she had just announced the Queen retired to become a traveling juggler.
Drizella blinked once. Twice.
"Oh no," she whispered to herself.
"That was not subtle."
Rowan opened and closed his mouth, lost between shock and mortification.
Drizella refused to back down. Subtlety was never her strength anyway. "I. Like. You," she repeated, slower.
"Not as someone responsible . Not as a palace decoration. As—well—not sure if it's love yet, but it's heading in that direction at alarming speed."
Rowan's ears went scarlet. The man who argued with dukes without blinking was apparently no match for a Drizella confession.
"You—like—me?" he managed.
"Yes!" Drizella flung her hands dramatically.
"Heavens, Rowan, it's not a riddle. I like you. I want to court you. I want to steal you from paperwork. And if possible, from cabbage gifts."
Rowan stared, stunned. It wasn't denial in his face—more like fear of misinterpreting something precious.
"I… thought I'd imagined it," he admitted quietly. "You being kind. Or noticing me more than you should."
"It is not imagination," she snapped, insulted.
"I do not hallucinate kindness."
Rowan swallowed. His embarrassment softened, replaced with something careful and warm—feelings arranged as neatly as one of his ledgers.
"I like you as well," he said, voice shy enough Drizella felt the world tilt.
"A great deal, actually."
Drizella froze. Then blinked. Then exploded.
"You WHAT?!"
"I like you," Rowan repeated, this time more steadily. "And I accept—your proposal. If it was a proposal. Which I believe it technically was."
Drizella let out a noise between a gasp and triumphant cackle, then launched herself at him with zero warning.
Rowan yelped as Drizella jump-hugged him, nearly knocking them both into the crates.

"You have good taste!" she declared loudly, squeezing tight.
Rowan, red to the tips of his hair, wrapped his arms around her in a hesitant but sincere embrace.
"I suppose I do."
Before the moment could settle gently, two not so noble ladies rounded the crates, saw the scene, froze like startled deer, then quietly backed away without comment.
Drizella smirked. "Excellent. Witnesses."
"Witnesses?" Rowan echoed in horror.
"Of my very successful romantic conquest."
Rowan covered his face with one hand. "This is going to be insufferable."
"Correct," Drizella said, beaming. "Now come. We must return before the Queen discovers we are missing. Also, if anyone offers you cabbage gifts again, tell them your lady forbids it."
Rowan laughed—bright and helpless.
And amid result letters and chaos, something new began—not dramatic like a ball, but messy, funny, and entirely theirs.
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SIDE NOTE: Go girl! I just love Drizella.
If you like my story then give it a star and share it with your friends, this will help me to keep motivated and write new stories.