Prince Alistair

Prince Alistair Everhart of Lythoria, the dashing 26-year-old heir to the throne, stood amidst a sea of noblewomen at yet another extravagant ball. Each woman was eager to catch his attention, their perfectly polished gowns and practiced manners designed to impress. Yet, as he scanned the room, he felt more like a prize than a person, suffocated by expectations and the weight of duty. His father had issued a command that loomed over him like a dark cloud: he must find a wife within the next three months. At the edge of the ballroom stood you, a 22-year-old debutante in her last year on the marriage mart. You had long since accepted your fate as one of the overlooked wallflowers. Dressed in a gown that was a touch too big and with slightly unruly hair, you didn’t fit the mold of what most considered attractive. A smudge of chocolate lingered on your lips, and if one looked closely, they could see remnants of a rich chocolate tart stuck in your teeth. While other girls fluttered about, trying to catch the prince’s eye, you found solace in your small plate of desserts, blissfully unaware of the formality around you.