Todos os capítulos de Tempting the Wrong Prince: Capítulo 171 - Capítulo 180

Arden’s Point Of ViewThe word made my jaw clench again.“Don’t listen to him,” I said sharply. Then I softened, because she was hurting. “Cassy… he’s trying to shame you into compliance. He’s trying to make you believe you’re dirty for wanting love after betrayal.”She was quiet.I breathed slowly, forcing my tone steadier.“We’re on it,” I told her. “We’re dealing with this. You have nothing to worry about.”A bitter laugh slipped out of her. “Nothing to worry about? Arden, they tried to burn my family alive.”“I know,” I said, my voice lower. “And that is exactly why you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”Her breathing changed, steadying, grounding.“Promise me,” she whispered.“I promise you,” I said instantly. “I’m not leaving you. Not to save face. Not to satisfy Belmont. Not to make the King comfortable.”Another pause, and then her voice softened.“Good night,” she said quietly.I swallowed hard, because saying good night felt like the smallest thing in the world and also

Arden’s Point Of ViewRichard stood by the door as I stepped in, shoulders slightly hunched, like the weight of the day had pressed down and altered his posture without his permission. He didn’t look at me for long. His gaze drifted past my shoulder, toward nothing in particular, as if focusing on anything else might keep him from feeling what was inside him.I held his phone out again as if completing the act mattered. As if handing it back was proof that the world was still obeying rules.He took it, slow, fingers brushing mine briefly, and then he moved like a man who didn’t know what to do next.It was almost unsettling.Richard had always known what to do. Even when he was wrong, even when he was manipulated, he carried himself like a man who believed the ground would not dare shift under him. He had been raised in that certainty. Our father’s world was built on certainty, protocol, hierarchy, image. Ivana’s world was built on certainty too, control, leverage, cruelty dressed as

Arden’s Point Of ViewI moved toward the door, intending to leave him to his silence, to his processing, to his private collapse.But before I could reach the handle, Richard spoke again.His voice stopped me mid-step.“Arden.”I turned back.He looked up at me, and the expression on his face was different now, less grief, more alertness. Like a part of his mind had snapped back into the political landscape even while his heart was bleeding.He said something out of the blue.“Do you not think it’s weird,” he asked slowly, “how this whole matter has escalated… and how Sandra is the sole target?”The question landed hard.I frowned slightly, because yes, I had been thinking it. But hearing it from Richard shifted its weight.“Why are you asking?” I said, cautious.Richard’s gaze didn’t waver.“I’m asking because it doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Not fully. Nala is the one demanding. Belmont is the one applying pressure. But Sandra is the one being hunted. Sandra is the one the people w

Arden’s Point Of ViewThe silence lingered for a moment. Three brothers, grown men, shaped by different mothers, standing in the wreckage of our father’s kingdom, one of us furious, one of us hollowed out, one of us trying to hold the centre steady while everything collapsed.Then Sebastien straightened and clapped his hands once, sharp.“Alright,” he said. “Back to the real problem.”He turned to me.“We need a plan,” he continued. “And it needs to be immediate. We call the President. We threaten him with the footage first. Then we make other moves.”Richard nodded.“Agreed,” he said.Then, unexpectedly, Richard let out a quiet chuckle.The sound was strange coming from him right now, like laughter had to fight through pain to exist.Sebastien looked at him, startled.Richard shook his head slowly.“I remember,” he said, voice low, “when the Longmans were just wealthy. Nothing else. No political power. Just money.”His eyes drifted, distant, as if watching an old scene play out in hi

Cassandra’s Point Of ViewMorning in the palace didn’t feel like morning.Not really.Not when the air outside the gilded windows still carried the residue of smoke from last night’s news clips. Not when the internet was still boiling with headlines, hashtags, and grainy videos of people screaming my name like it was a curse. Not when the corridors still echoed with hurried footsteps and murmured conversations that stopped the moment I appeared.Morning, here, was just a change in lighting.A thin veil of sunlight stretched over a kingdom that still felt like it was burning.But I was alive. My parents were alive. We were sitting at a table with food on it, and for a strange moment that felt like rebellion.We were in the breakfast room of Richard’s wing, a room meant to be warm and domestic, designed to make a prince look like a family man. There were pale walls with tasteful art, glass doors that opened into a small private terrace, a long polished table, and a chandelier that spark