Page 69 of The Heir's Bargain

"Dearest Danisinia," Sylvia began, lowering their voice in some horrid impression of Fynn as they read, "it would be my honor if you would be my guest at the upcoming solstice ball. In anticipation, I have taken the liberty of choosing the dress for you so you do not have to put up with Lorallye's shenanigans for a second time. I hope it meets your high standards. With love, Fynneares Andros Nadarean, Crown Prince."

The soldiers burst into laughter. As Moris keeled over with the box squeezed against his chest, the effect of his gift melted away. I stumbled forward, my rage propelling me.

On wobbly feet, I snatched the letter from Sylvia's hands and pointed it at them, fire brewing in my eyes. "You're all dead."

Moris tried to say something, but he couldn't through his fits of laughter now overtaking his body.

"With love—" one of the soldiers behind me began as a few others finished with, "Fynneares Andros Nadarean, Crown Prince."

"Are you sure he didn't mean to send this to me?" Moris asked in between laughs, handing me the box. "Purple is more my color than yours."

More snickering sounded from the crowd, and I bit down on my tongue.

"Fuck off all of you," I said before spitting on the ground. I slammed the lid back onto the box and squished it between my arm and side, the material of the box crinkling.

"I’m leaving," I said as I stomped off the training field.

"Why? Do you need to prepare for some fancy ball?" a soldier asked—Gabriel, perhaps?

"Don't step on the prince's toes, Captain!" Moris shouted after me.

"We'll see about that," I mumbled as I stormed away, the soldiers' laughter a faint echo at my back.

Perhaps what Fynn needed was just that. His toes to be stepped on.

I slammed the box onto the table, and Fynn arched a brow.

The guards at the castle's gates did little else but blink as they watched me storm past, box tucked beneath my arm, half-smashed, and pure fury bleeding through my eyes.

Fynn didn't even flinch. He looked up from the book in his hand and tilted his head. "Do you not like the dress? I recall you liked that one well enough at the shop. But if your opinion has changed, I can?—"

I screamed in frustration, and outside the room, a few passing servants peeked in through the door. Lance and Telis, who were standing outside the sitting room, peered inside with concern furrowing their brows.

Fynn stood, waving them off. "It seems I've chosen the wrong dress color," he said.

Telis nodded as if that explained everything—as if that was a reasonable thing to get upset about.

Morons. The lot of them.

"Best we settle this in private. Wouldn't you agree, lads?" Fynn said as he shut the door.

My jaw fell open, and my nails bit into my palms, carving sharp crescent moons into my flesh.

"Can you not be so loud, Dani?" Fynn hissed, turning around. "We are supposed to be happy and in love, remember?"

I snapped my jaw shut, anger overriding the shock.

He brushed a hand through his hair. "Come on. Tell me what's wrong with the dress, and I can?—"

"Fuck the dress, Fynn!" I slammed a fist against the table, the bright pain slicing through my arm. "This isn't about the damn dress!"

He leaned against the door, his ankles crossing and his arms folding over his chest. "Then what is it?"

"You sent a delivery man to training."

"And?"

I held up a finger. "Rule number one, Fynn."

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