Chapter 7

Jessica’s POV

This morning, I awoke with an involuntary smile curling my lips. I could hardly believe it—today is the day of the Selection. Still, the memory of yesterday plays on a loop in my mind like a favorite song I can't turn off.

He proposed. Indirectly, yes—but a proposal all the same. And he told me he loves me. As a friend, he said. But at this point? I could care less. I’ll take what I can get. Not because I’m desperate—no, far from it—but because I’m helplessly, wholly in love.

I hummed to myself, twirling lightly on my feet as I moved through my morning duties, heart dancing along with me.

"Someone looks suspiciously happy this morning," Andy’s teasing voice rang from her bed. I hadn’t even noticed she was awake.

"Yes. I am very happy," I admitted, grinning like a child given too much sugar.

"Happy, or in love?" she asked, raising an eyebrow with that knowing tone that only best friends possess.

"In love? Me?" I scoffed, throwing in a half-hearted laugh. "You must be joking."

Of course, Andy wasn’t fooled. But sharing feelings—even with someone I trust—has never come easily. The number of people who know I’m hopelessly in love with Prince Christian is already too many. I’m not exactly looking to add to that list.

"Fine, if you say so," she replied, a smirk playing on her lips. "But the blush on your cheeks and the humming say otherwise."

Ugh. She suspects. Maybe one more person knowing wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

It’s now 9:00 a.m. The Selection begins in just an hour. Today will be... hectic, to put it mildly. Madam Silvia, in her rare moments of grace, let us sleep in. She called it a “last breath of freedom” before the real chaos descends. Twenty new girls will arrive at the palace today. Twenty. That’s easily twice the usual work.

Thank you, Christian, for making me your personal maid. Honestly.

Speaking of Christian, I should check in on him.

Today, I took extra care with my appearance. Yes, I’m wearing my uniform—but my curls are gelled into a neat ponytail, and I added a touch of makeup: light mascara, a sweep of blush, some powder, and a soft gloss on my lips. The final touch? A hint of vanilla perfume—his favorite. Call it vanity or devotion, but today, I want to look good for him.

One final glance in the mirror, and I left for his quarters.

When I arrived, the guard posted at his door knocked twice before letting me in. Christian wasn’t in the room. I heard soft rustling from his closet and headed toward the sound.

And that’s when I saw him.

Or rather—*too much* of him.

There he stood, back turned, wearing only boxers. *Boxers that, quite frankly, looked very cute on him.*

My mind screamed red flag. I should’ve turned and bolted. But this—this was familiar territory. We’ve seen each other in less. We bathed together as children, shared sleeping quarters during holidays, swam at night in lakes under starlit skies. For him, it’s all harmless nostalgia.

But for me?

I’m the fool nursing a heart-shaped wound.

“Blue or black?” Christian turned, holding up two designer suits with a casualness that made my lungs forget how to function.

“Um… blue,” I choked out, trying not to focus on the perfectly sculpted abs practically *taunting* me.

This closet was suddenly much too small. Much too warm.

“Y’know what? I’m just going to wait on your bed while you finish up,” I blurted, already making a retreat.

But before I could escape, he caught my arm with that boyish stubbornness that makes me love and hate him all at once.

“Where do you think you're going? You're picking my outfit today,” he demanded, utterly unbothered.

He can be such a baby sometimes. A beautiful, aggravating baby.

“Fine,” I grumbled, diving into the sea of suits, shoes, and watches—some so similar I thought they were duplicates. Styling Christian is exhausting. And somehow exhilarating.

Finally satisfied with my choices, I stepped back.

“So… how do I look?” he asked, striking a pose that was almost illegal in its confidence.

*Hot. Devastatingly hot.* My brain screamed.

“Amazing. As usual,” I replied coolly.

“Ugh. I wanted you to say sexy, Jess,” he said, rolling his eyes like a petulant teenager.

“Christian, you’re a prince. You’re not *supposed* to look sexy,” I teased.

“Well, this prince is sexy,” he retorted with a dramatic pout.

“Fine. You look sexy. Happy now? Can we go? We’re running late.”

He extended a hand and gave a mock bow. “My lady?”

I laughed and took his hand. “Sure, my prince.”

We exited the room like we always do—hooked together in that easy, familiar way that made it so hard to remember we weren’t really anything. Not officially.

Yet.

The palace hall was a burst of energy—opulent chandeliers, flashes of cameras, the glittering elite of Orlander gathered for the royal event.

Christian sat with his parents in their majestic seats, chatting animatedly with Miguel Gordon, the kingdom’s most beloved presenter.

I was backstage with Molly, Jake, and Luke, seated at a corner that offered a perfect view of everything. I tried not to stare too long at him. But my eyes had a mind of their own.

“Good evening, Orlander!” Miguel’s voice boomed, electric with excitement. “Welcome to the Selection of our very own Prince Christian!”

Thunderous applause. Flashes. Squeals. The nation was collectively holding its breath.

King Henry rose for his formal address—graceful, composed, diplomatic. After his political preamble, it was time.

“The moment we’ve all been waiting for—the name selection!” Miguel beamed. “But first, your highness, a question: Do you believe you’ll find love through this process?”

Christian's gaze was steady. Confident. “I can’t say for certain, Miguel. I don’t know what fate or God has planned for me… but I’m eager to find out.”

The crowd roared in approval.

“Very well, your highness. Please proceed.”

Christian approached the ornate black box filled with cards bearing names. He began drawing them one by one, announcing them with measured calm.

“Zoey Grandfield.”

“Mabel Crosgrove.”

“Mirabelle Anderson.”

The fifteenth name sent shockwaves through our little group.

“Ugh. I *hate* that girl,” Molly whispered with venom. “Cunning snake. Broke Christian’s heart and still had the audacity to apply for this.”

I couldn’t respond. I was too focused on Christian. He’d faltered—just a fraction of a second—but I caught it. The flicker of surprise. The way he swiftly replaced it with a practiced smile.

The final card.

Miguel leaned in, hyping the moment. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the last name of the evening…”

Christian reached in. Pulled a card. Paused.

His face morphed—shock, recognition, then something unmistakable.

A *smile*. Not the polite, royal kind. A soft, warm one. The kind he rarely wore.

“Evelyn Hunter.”

Evelyn? Why does that name sound so familiar?

I stared at Christian.

He looked… happy.

Truly happy.

And suddenly, I wasn’t.