Episode 3

The grand dining hall was still buzzing from Carl and Ariel’s synchronized “NO!” when Queen Margaret set down her goblet with a sharp clink. The sound cut through the laughter of the kings and queens like a sword.

“What,” Margaret said slowly, arching an elegant brow at her son, “do you mean by no, Carl? We’ve discussed this for years, and you agreed.”

Carl’s jaw tightened. He forced a polite smile, though his molars were grinding like stones. “Of course, Mom,” he said smoothly. “I’ve agreed.” He glanced at the four parents, then back to Ariel, and his thoughts turned dark. But you planned everything without even telling me? Fine. Let’s get it over with… and she’s in for trouble.

Queen Isabella turned to her daughter, her own brow furrowed. “Ariel, why the sudden refusal? I thought you had accepted.”

Ariel took a slow breath, fingers tightening in her lap. “You should have told me, Mom, before deciding my life for me,” she said, her voice tight. “This is my life.”

Carl pushed back his chair abruptly. The wooden legs scraped against marble, echoing in the hall. He stood, tall and imposing, and cast a deadly glance at Ariel. For a heartbeat, his expression was cold enough to freeze lava—then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

It was not a friendly smile. It was the kind of smile that could make an angry person want to throw something fragile.

He turned to his mother, his tone suddenly honeyed. “She’s so beautiful, Mom,” he said softly, never taking his eyes off Ariel. “Please make her understand—I will love her and cherish her all my life.”

The four parents looked at each other, their stern expressions melting into delight. King Edward even let out a low whistle of approval.

“What a good boy,” Margaret gushed, clapping her hands. “You’re truly your father’s son.”

The kings laughed and exchanged a proud nod. Isabella wiped a pretend tear from the corner of her eye.

Ariel’s mind raced. Oh, so that’s your game? You want to look like Prince Charming in front of everyone? Fine. Two can play this.

She rose gracefully from her seat, a sly sparkle in her eye. Crossing the distance to Carl in a swirl of silk skirts, she wrapped her arms lightly around his arm and pressed her cheek to his shoulder.

“Mom,” she cooed, looking at Isabella with exaggerated sweetness, “to be sincere… I met Carl yesterday, and I fell in love at first sight.” She turned her face up toward him, her expression the picture of innocent adoration. “I had no idea I was betrothed to him. Isn’t that fate?”

Before Carl could react, she placed her palm flat against his chest—right over his rapidly beating heart—and gave him a soft, lingering kiss on the cheek.

“I love Carl so much,” she declared, her voice breathless. “I can’t wait to be his bride.”

The hall erupted with laughter and teasing whistles.

King Edward shook his head, chuckling. “Youngsters these days have no shame. If you’re going to cuddle, do it in private!”

Even the servants stifled giggles behind their trays.

Carl, however, stood completely frozen. His brain short-circuited. Is she mad? Has she lost her mind? What is she planning? His cheeks burned—not from affection but from sheer shock.

Ariel leaned into him again, enjoying the effect her performance was having. Carl’s parents looked delighted, Isabella clapped softly in approval, and Margaret’s eyes shone.

Carl finally snapped out of his daze. With a sudden, jerky motion, he pushed her away. It wasn’t rough, but it was unexpected. Ariel stumbled backward and—thud!—landed on the floor with a soft grunt.

“Watch out!” Queen Margaret gasped, springing halfway from her seat.

But Ariel, ever the actress, recovered instantly. She smoothed her skirts, forced a sheepish smile, and said lightly, “I’m fine, ma’am. Carl injured his hand yesterday, so he couldn’t hold me properly.”

She reached for Carl’s right hand, lifting it gently for all to see—the same hand he’d cut the night before when he’d crushed his glass in the nightclub. The faint bandage still wrapped his palm.

The four parents gasped, then cooed like doting grandparents.

“Oh, you two already know each other so well!” Isabella exclaimed, clasping her hands under her chin.

“This is wonderful news,” Margaret agreed, tears of joy sparkling in her eyes.

Carl swallowed hard, glaring at Ariel with a look that promised revenge. Out loud, he managed a tight smile. “Yes, Mom. Don’t worry—she won’t fall again in the future.”

But I’ll make sure she wishes she’d never tried this stunt, he thought darkly.

The tension between them was palpable, but the adults were too wrapped up in celebration to notice.

“Well then,” Margaret announced, brushing away an emotional tear, “next Tuesday is fixed for the wedding!”

King Zubrel grinned broadly, lifting a hand to summon a servant. “Bring the finest wine from the cellar—the latest vintage.”

A maid hurried in with a bottle, its deep green glass catching the candlelight. With a loud pop! the cork flew, and rich, sweet wine filled their goblets.

“Congratulations!” Zubrel boomed, raising his glass high.

The kings and queens clinked glasses, laughter filling the hall once more.

At the far end of the table, however, Carl and Ariel were frowning at each other so intensely it was a wonder the crystal didn’t shatter under the pressure.

Ariel raised her goblet just enough to hide her lips. “I’ll make you pay for making me fall, you moron,” she whispered.

Carl took a sip of wine, never breaking eye contact. “You’re going to quit on your own,” he replied under his breath, his tone smooth and dangerous. “I promise.”

For a moment, their glares softened—just a flicker, a flash of reluctant admiration—before the walls went back up.

The parents laughed and toasted again, oblivious to the private war brewing at their table.

In that shimmering, golden hall—beneath the chandeliers and the weight of royal tradition—the seeds of a chaotic romance were sown. Neither Carl nor Ariel planned to lose.

And somewhere deep down—though neither would admit it yet—a tiny spark of excitement flickered beneath their irritation.