He Fell for the Wrong Bride

Chapter 2 Her Royal Debut

Hardy and the blonde woman finally ended their lingering kiss, turning to wave at the crowd that had gathered to congratulate them.

Dressed in a pristine morning suit, his golden hair slicked back with meticulous precision, Hardy looked every bit the picture of elegance and charm.

I searched his face for even the faintest trace of hesitation, something—anything—that might suggest he had been forced to break up with me.

But there was nothing. His every glance, every expression, even the slight curve of his lips seemed perfectly calculated—graceful, deliberate, and utterly devoid of remorse.

'A stray dog abandoned by its owner still making excuses for him. How pathetic,' I thought bitterly, a hollow laugh escaping my lips as tears trickled into my mouth, tasting salty and bitter.

The woman beside me cast me a look of disgust, turned off the TV, and tossed another stack of documents onto my face.

"Stop ogling your 'brother' and start worrying about what actually matters!"

The documents contained a profile of the king of Luthshir—if it could even be called that. It was more like a haphazard collection of fragmented intelligence.

The only solid fact about him was his name: Kevin Royston. His age wasn't specified, but based on his twenty-year reign, he was likely around fifty.

The rest of the information was a summary of his "achievements": crushing rebellions, executing dissenters, expelling foreign investors, and nationalizing resources like oil and iron—moves that supposedly lined his own pockets. Then there were the scandals: rumors of torturing his ex-wives and keeping a harem of s*x slaves.

"A modern-day Bokassa," I muttered indignantly.

"At least he's in decent shape," the woman quipped, tapping on the only photo in the file.

The image showed a tall man silhouetted against a backdrop of fireworks, likely taken at some grand celebration.

He towered over the people around him by at least a head, his broad shoulders and narrow waist giving him an imposing presence. Even from behind, the air of authority and determination was unmistakable.

"Too bad this was taken fifteen years ago," she added with a smirk. "Let's hope he hasn't gone soft in middle age."

The day before my departure, I was granted permission to visit my father in the hospital.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. All of this is my fault!" my father cried, wrapping his one unbroken arm around me.

"I came from nothing, and the only way I carved out a place in the banking world was by laundering money for the royal family. They've chosen you to replace the runaway princess as a way to keep me under their thumb."

So that was it. A clever, ruthless plan to tie my family together in chains.

Why should they have gotten to live off the blood and sweat of the people while my family was destroyed? Why did they get to rob me of my future and happiness?

I buried my face in my father's chest, crying out the last tears of my girlhood.

But deep down, I made a silent vow. 'I will make them pay.'

The private jet landed smoothly at an airport in Odinshafn, the capital of Luthshir.

As the cabin door opened, a blast of icy wind swept through the plane.

I was wearing only a formal gown, supposedly the latest haute couture creation by a world-renowned designer. It was as light and ethereal as mist, but utterly useless against the biting chill of Luthshir's early winter.

My chubby golden longhair cat, Pablo, curled up at my feet, trying to keep me warm. He was the only "luggage" I'd been allowed to bring from home.

I stood and turned to the mirror, giving a little spin. The dress clung to me like flowing water, every movement a mesmerizing ripple.

"You look stunning, Your Highness. The whole world will be watching you," said Emma, my lady-in-waiting.

The military band began to play, and I stepped out of the plane, my heels—nearly six inches high—clicking against the stairs as I descended. I forced myself to appear poised and casual, even as the cold gnawed at my skin.

Camera flashes exploded like fireworks, nearly blinding me.

But as I scanned the crowd, I noticed something odd: there were no royal representatives waiting to greet me—not even a single Luthshir official.

At the end of the red carpet, a fleet of black stretch limousines stood waiting. They were clearly for me.

'Am I supposed to just walk over and get in like it's some kind of taxi?' I wondered, irritation flaring.

Beside each car stood a butler in a tailcoat, but none of them moved to greet me.

Left with no choice, I remained at the foot of the stairs, forcing a polite smile as cameras continued snapping away. 'Maybe I should do a somersault like the rare panda in a zoo to keep the reporters entertained,' I thought wryly.

After what felt like an eternity, a blonde woman finally emerged from the central limousine.

More accurately, she squeezed out of the car. She wore a garish lime-green ballgown with a massive hoop skirt and a matching train that coiled around her upper body like an absurdly long scarf.

Moving at a snail's pace, she struck dramatic poses for the cameras with every step.

Only then did I understand the purpose of the attendants—they trailed behind her, adjusting her elaborate train.

'Is she trying to upstage me? Does she think she's some kind of Oscar-winning actress?' I thought, irritation simmering under my practiced smile.

Part of me wanted to turn back, retreat to the plane, and wait for her to come beg me to disembark.

But that would seem petty, so I stayed put, the picture of patience.

Finally, after what felt like another century, she reached me. By royal protocol, if she wasn't a direct elder of the king, she should have curtsied.

Instead, she grabbed me in a suffocating embrace, pressing her overly made-up cheeks against mine before pulling back dramatically. "Oh, Princess, you're simply breathtaking!" she gushed, her voice theatrical.

Her makeup left a thick layer of powder on my face. Though her mouth was all smiles, her icy blue eyes betrayed not a hint of warmth.

I wanted to ask her, "Are you the king's mother or something?" but I held myself back.

Instead, I forced out through clenched teeth, "And you are?"

"Duchess Natasha, King Kevin Royston's PR advisor and personal assistant. Think of me as your guide to Luthshir," she replied smoothly.

My cheeks itched where she'd pressed them against mine, but I swallowed my discomfort and extended my hand.

Natasha grabbed it, yanking me forward to face the cameras alongside her.

The itching worsened, but I couldn't scratch. The flashes came faster now, accompanied by audible gasps from the crowd.

"You must be freezing, aren't you?"

Natasha finally let go of me, yanking off her extravagant shawl without waiting for my response and wrapping it tightly around me.

I felt like I'd been transformed into an overstuffed cabbage, while she now had the perfect opportunity to flaunt her ample chest and slender neck for the cameras.

My face prickled unbearably, as if thousands of tiny insects were crawling all over it. I couldn't focus on Natasha's malice anymore—my only thought was to get out of here as quickly as possible.

I shot Emma a subtle look, silently pleading for an escape. But instead of acting, she stared at me with wide, horrified eyes. "Your Highness," she whispered, her voice trembling, "your face!"