The first clash

Dawn arrived far too quickly.

Seraphina had barely slept. Not because she feared interrogation — she’d faced far worse than a prince with a clipboard — but because the manor felt different now.

Quieter.

Watched.

She dressed in a fitted black gown, elegant but unadorned, her hair braided back like a crown of midnight. If she was to be questioned, she would at least look the part of the villainess they expected.

When she entered the sunlit drawing room, Prince Alistair was already there.

He stood by the tall windows, reviewing a stack of documents. Morning light caught the silver embroidery on his uniform, making him look almost unreal — a portrait of duty brought to life.

He didn’t look up when she entered.

“Lady Valehart,” he said, voice cool. “You’re late.”

“I wasn’t aware I was expected to leap out of bed at your command,” she replied, taking a seat with deliberate grace. “Next time, send a rooster.”

He finally met her eyes. “I prefer cooperation.”

“And I prefer breakfast,” she said, folding her hands. “Yet here we are.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. She counted that as a victory.

He set the papers down. “Let’s begin.”

---

The Interrogation

Alistair took the chair opposite hers, posture straight, expression unreadable.

“Three nights ago,” he said, “you were seen leaving the palace shortly before confidential documents went missing. Explain your presence.”

Seraphina arched a brow. “Explain? My dear prince, I was invited.”

“By whom?”

“If I tell you, will you stop glaring at me like I’ve kicked your favorite puppy?”

His voice dropped. “Lady Valehart.”

She sighed dramatically. “Fine. I was summoned by the Chancellor. He wished to discuss trade negotiations.”

Alistair didn’t write it down. “The Chancellor denies this.”

“Of course he does,” she said lightly. “He’s a coward.”

His eyes narrowed. “You speak boldly for someone under suspicion.”

“I speak boldly because I’m right.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You expect me to believe you were framed.”

“I expect you to use that impressive brain of yours,” she said, matching his lean, “and realize that if I wanted to steal state secrets, I wouldn’t be sloppy enough to get caught on a hallway painting.”

For the first time, his composure cracked — just a flicker of reluctant amusement.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“And you’re predictable,” she countered.

Their gazes locked.

The room felt smaller.

Warmer.

Charged.

---

A Shift in the Air

Alistair cleared his throat and sat back. “We’ll verify your claim.”

“Please do,” she said. “I’d hate for you to think I’m lying.”

“You are lying,” he said, “about something. I just haven’t figured out what.”