29

Livia POV

“You really don’t give up, do you?” I asked, looking up from my notepad as the man I had bluntly ignored at two different stalls stepped into my path again.

He smiled smoothly, catching my elbow as I stumbled slightly against the edge of a wooden market cart. “Not when a beautiful woman like you is the prize.”

“Look, I am not in the mood to be buttered up today,” I said, pulling my arm back and crossing my hands over my chest. “State your case or leave me alone.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckled, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I’m Kanaan. And my case is simple: do you mind if I walk with you?”

I blinked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Is that all? You went through all that stress, following me through three artisan stalls, just to walk with me?”

“That’s entirely up to you,” Kanaan replied, his eyes sparkling with easy charm. “I just noticed you’ve been walking around this market looking like a woman who desperately needs a break from whatever dark cloud is hovering over her.”

I let out a soft breath. He wasn’t wrong.

After sneaking out of the resort early this morning to escape the walls of the master suite and Tarian’s unbearable cruelty, stepping into Geneva’s historic art district felt like taking my very first breath of real oxygen in days. Away from royal eyes, I didn’t have to force Livyana’s delicate posture or swallow my tongue. I had been walking through the cobbled streets, taking mental notes of vibrant color palettes and sketching quick inspirations for a personal fashion collection based on the sheer chaos of my life right now. One rough sketch of a gown built with jagged, slashed velvet layers had even made me laugh out loud—a genuine, unfiltered Livia laugh.

“Okay, fine,” I conceded, gesturing toward the open street. “You can walk with me. As long as you aren’t a loudmouth.”

“Deal,” Kanaan smiled, stepping alongside me as we strolled past rows of watercolor paintings and handcrafted lace. “So, what brings a fiery woman like you to Geneva all by herself?”

“Let’s just say I’m on a business-slash-personal trip that turned into a complete disaster,” I muttered. “What about you?”

“I’m on a solo honeymoon,” Kanaan said smoothly.

I stopped in my tracks, tilting my head. “A solo honeymoon? Is there even such a thing?”

“Of course there is,” he chuckled, turning to face me. “A solo honeymoon is the ultimate act of self-reclamation. It’s when a marriage ends, or a deep commitment shatters, and instead of staying home to mourn the ruin, you take the romantic getaway you deserved anyway. You eat the fine food, drink the vintage wine, and fall back in love with your own independence. It’s celebrating the death of a bad thing so a better version of you can breathe.”

I stared at him, his words striking a deep, echoing chord inside my chest. A solo honeymoon. That was practically what I was living right now, except my “bad thing” was sitting back at the resort wearing an Alpha crown.

“That... actually sounds surprisingly beautiful,” I admitted softly.

“It is,” Kanaan smiled warmly. “Now, come on. You look like you need a rich espresso and a heavy pastry before you collapse.”

For the next two hours, Kanaan matched my high-energy, carefree vibe effortlessly. He bought me a roasted coffee, listened intently as I rambled about fabric weights and modern cuts, and gave me the genuine, unforced appreciation I had been starving for since I stepped into May Town. For the first time in what felt like forever, I completely forgot about the twin swap, my father’s cruel words, and the unbearable weight of pretending to be someone else. I was just Livia.

I threw my head back, laughing genuinely at one of Kanaan’s smooth jokes as we stood by the stone fountain in the center of the square. It felt so intoxicatingly good to just be Livia for an hour—no fake voices, no posture control, no timid bowing.

Kanaan smiled warmly, reaching out to playfully tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “You have an incredible laugh, you know that?” he murmured softly.

I didn’t pull away, soaking in the rare, comforting feeling of being treated like a desirable, interesting woman rather than an uncultured burden.

But before his fingers could make full contact with my skin, a terrifying, sudden chill swept through the warm afternoon air. The bustling chatter of the crowded square seemed to go dead quiet as nearby pedestrians instinctively scattered out of the way.

I turned around, and my heart choked in my throat.

Tarian was standing barely ten feet away near the stone archway. He was dressed in a dark coat, his massive arms folded tightly across his broad chest. His face was a mask of absolute, stillness, his eyes were on Kanaa.