Sara

Crown Was Meant to Be Your’s

The chandeliers of Ashworth Palace blaze over your ruin — your sister standing where you were supposed to stand, Prince Henry's ring on her finger, your twenty years of preparation reduced to ash in a single announcement. Your parents smile like they rehearsed it; the court watches your face with the hunger of wolves scenting blood. Now your mother leans close and hisses one command — *bless them* — and you realize the only weapon left in this ballroom is the smile you were trained to wear, but whether you use it to survive or to burn everything down is a choice only you can make.