He Protected His Childhood Friend, Not His Princess Fiancée

The call disconnected before I could remind Cassian Blackwell that I was Seraphina Valemont, his fiancée and the woman meant to stand beside him in this political marriage.

I lowered my phone and stared at the screen for several seconds.

That was impressive.

My own fiancé did not even have my number saved.

Beside me, Juliette Ashford laughed, and the Blackwell crest pinned to her chest shifted slightly as she crossed her arms.

“This is honestly entertaining,” she said. “I have no idea how you got Cassian’s private number, but you cannot seriously believe one phone call will make him defend you.”

People always made the phrase “childhood friend” sound innocent, but relationships like that were rarely simple among royal families and old money dynasties.

If the Duke of Northmere could not give me a proper explanation today, then perhaps this engagement did not need to continue at all.

Juliette’s eyes moved over me slowly, lingering on my coat, my shoes, and finally the collar of my shirt.

“I’ll be honest,” she continued. “The maids at Blackwell Estate dress better than you do. What exactly gave you the confidence to compete with me?”

I had never cared much about clothing. During my years at the border, practical things mattered more than appearances, and I had always believed a person’s value had nothing to do with designer labels.

“I don’t need luxury brands to prove my worth,” I replied calmly. “Usually the people who rely on labels the most are the ones with nothing underneath them.”

My gaze flicked briefly toward the Blackwell crest on her chest.

“If Cassian grew up around people like you, perhaps his standards are lower than I expected.”

Her expression stiffened for a moment.

She had already ruined my mood, so I reached for another pink diamond necklace and handed it to the sales associate.

“I’ll take this one instead. Please wrap it up.”

The associate stayed frozen behind the counter, his nervous gaze moving between Juliette and me.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he finally said, “but our store prioritizes noble clients.”

Juliette smiled without speaking. She simply lifted her chin and touched the Blackwell crest again.

“Do you understand now?” she asked softly. “This crest means the Blackwell family protects me. What exactly do you have?”

I crossed my arms and looked at her quietly.

There was no dramatic display of royal authority and no theatrical intimidation. I simply looked at her until, for some reason, her smile faltered.

“What?” she snapped. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I ignored her and turned back to the associate.

“I said wrap it up. I’m paying.”

The associate looked close to tears.

“Please,” he whispered, “I can’t afford to offend the Blackwell family.”

Quiet whispers spread through the store.

“That’s Juliette Ashford.”

“She’s close to Duke Blackwell.”

“This girl should stop before things get ugly.”

Juliette relaxed as she listened to the murmurs around us. Then she stepped closer in her red heels and smiled at me with open superiority.

“I’m actually very generous,” she said sweetly. “Apologize in front of everyone, and maybe I’ll let this go.”