❛❛ I would never rush a coronation, ❜❜ Prince Friedrich says softly, as though the notion itself deserves reverence rather than haste. He inclines his head toward her, not a bow, not quite, but something gentler, more intimate, the sort of gesture meant for one person alone. ❛❛ Some titles should be earned slowly. Savored. ❜❜ The gardens are in their full bloom, and yet his attention seems fixed on a single point within them. Edwina Sharma, standing in pale silk beneath the afternoon light, is all grace and quiet wonder — a beauty that does not demand notice, but receives it all the same. Friedrich watches the way her hands fold together, the way her lashes lower when she smiles, as though modesty were second nature rather than a practiced art. It stirs something unexpectedly tender in him, this gentleness, this calm that feels untouched by ambition.
❛❛ In my country, ❜❜ he continues, voice lowering just enough to feel like a secret, ❛❛ we believe the rarest jewels are the ones that catch the light without trying. ❜❜ A pause, and then a smile — warm, almost shy, as if he is newly aware of the boldness of his own words. ❛❛ You do that. Catch the light, I mean. ❜❜ He offers his arm then, not with the confidence of a prince assured of victory, but with the hopeful courtesy of a man who wishes to walk beside her a little longer. ❛❛ Would you allow me this afternoon, Miss Sharma? ❜❜ @edwinamond
