He Fell for the Wrong Bride

Chapter 3 An Encounter in Despair

"My face?"

I touched my cheek, feeling the rough, burning texture under my fingers.

Emma didn't answer. Instead, she quickly threw Natasha's shawl over my head, guiding me into the nearest car at a brisk pace.

Inside, I finally had a chance to examine myself. My face was covered in an eruption of angry, red welts of all sizes, glowing vividly like a grotesque mask.

Natasha. It had to be her. She was the only one who had touched my face.

But why? Why would she do this to me? The marriage alliance was Luthshir's idea. Before today, I didn't even know she existed.

And now, thanks to her, my hideous appearance was undoubtedly caught on camera. "Princess' Face Meltdown" was sure to dominate every headline. No media outlet would pass up such a scandalous story.

I wanted to burst out of the car and punch Natasha square in her smug face.

Cuz that backstabbing b***h deserved it.

At least if I hit her, the press might paint me as fiery and fearless instead of just humiliated.

But the car doors were locked, and no matter how I shouted, the driver ignored me.

Then Natasha approached, rapping on the window. The glass rolled down, and she leaned in, her gaze dripping with malice.

She studied my face, her lips curling into a mockingly sweet smile.

"Looks like you're allergic to the cold. Perhaps next time, you'll wear something more sensible."

What a fugly cunt.

The welts on my face miraculously vanished by the next morning, gone so quickly I didn't even have time to investigate their cause.

But the media didn't let me off so easily.

By sunrise, photos of me—face covered in welts, wrapped in that hideous green shawl, and fleeing to the car in a panic—dominated every major news outlet. Reporters and commentators tore into me with unbridled cruelty, branding me as unworthy of marrying their king.

Meanwhile, Duchess Natasha basked in the glow of triumphant headlines, celebrated for "outshining the sub-par princess from Kastillia". One photo even captured me almost completely hidden behind Natasha's voluminous gown, making me look awkward and diminutive—like some accessory she held for dramatic effect.

Only Kastillia's state news agency published an untouched photo of my smooth face, but no one believed it was real. The public dismissed it as airbrushed propaganda.

I was moved to yet another gilded prison, an isolated building in the southeast corner of the palace grounds.

The place looked like a Barbie Dreamhouse brought to life, complete with cloud-shaped chandeliers, a bubblegum-pink bathtub, a closet stuffed with frothy princess gowns, and even a life-sized rainbow unicorn. Living there felt like being trapped in a menstruation-themed nightmare.

Emma had been sent off to "learn proper etiquette for serving in Luthshir", leaving Natasha and her minions to take control of my life. My days were filled with lessons from a cold, detached group of middle-aged women: royal etiquette, dancing, piano, and even the art of pleasing a man. The whole setup felt more like training for a high-class courtesan than a queen.

The king hadn't come to see me, which Natasha explained with her usual condescension.

"Given your current reputation, His Majesty has no interest in meeting you. You'll have to give me time to clean up your image."

As if I'd trust her to fix my reputation. That was like hiring a fox to guard the henhouse. Instead of positive press, the tabloids exploded with stories accusing me of drug addiction, promiscuity, and even insanity. My new nickname? Dirty Daisy.

But I didn't have the energy to argue anymore—not physically.

They fed me nothing but wilted greens and sugary pastries. The choice was simple: starve or become a pig. I chose the former.

The only comfort I had left was Pablo, my fluffy golden cat.

Every time I returned to my room, Pablo would bound toward me, tail swishing happily. His tiny pink paws would knead at my lap, or he'd curl up in my arms, purring contentedly.

With him, I felt needed.

But on my tenth night in Luthshir, even that solace was stolen from me.

"Don't blame me, Your Highness," the middle-aged maid said, her tone dripping with disdain. "When I cleaned your room this afternoon, the cat wasn't there. It must have run off on its own."

"You couldn't keep an eye on a cat?" I snapped, barely holding back my frustration.

"Unlike you, everyone here is quite busy. Cleaning up after you is bad enough—do you know how much hair you shed every day? It's all clogged in the bathtub. And cats jump out of windows all the time. It's normal—"

Normal?! Pablo could barely jump onto my lap, let alone out a window. Before I could stop myself, I slapped her across the face. "You threw him out, didn't you?"

"How dare you!" she shrieked. "That filthy beast should've been gone long ago. His Majesty is allergic to cats. I was doing you a favor."

I didn't stay to hear more. Ignoring her screams, I bolted out of the room, anger and heartbreak fueling my steps as I ran into the night.

The moonlight was faint but enough to light my path. I ran through the palace grounds, calling out Pablo's name over and over, my voice breaking with desperation.

The stillness of the night was eerie, amplifying the sound of my cries. The palace felt endless, an unyielding maze with no escape.

If the king had been allergic to cats and had asked me to throw out my cats, did that mean I should have thrown out everyone here since I was allergic to them? And what did the king's preferences have to do with me? He hadn't even wanted to see me! If he didn't care, why had he forced me into this engagement? He should have thrown me out too!

My slippers slipped off somewhere along the way, and sharp gravel bit into my bare feet with every step. My throat was raw, my voice hoarse. But none of that mattered. Pablo was the only warmth left in my cold, empty life. If I couldn't even protect my cat, what was the point of any of this?

Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath me. My right leg sank into a hidden hole, and I lost my balance, pitching forward violently.

The hole swallowed most of my leg, the pressure digging in hard.

When I tried to pull myself free, pain shot through my ankle, sharp and excruciating, making me break out in a cold sweat.

Who in their right mind had dug a pit that deep in the middle of a palace lawn? Was I cursed or what?

Tears blurred my vision as I tried again, but the effort only made me sink deeper.

'Just let it take me,' I thought bitterly. 'Let me rot here in the dirt. My life is already a graveyard—this might as well be my final resting place.'

"Are you crying?"

The voice was deep and rich, smooth as velvet brushing against my ears.

A shadow loomed above me, the figure of a tall man standing against the moonlight. Broad-shouldered and strong, he looked like a god descending from the heavens.