The applause still echoed in her ears.
Mia moved through the corridor like a ghost in heels, the silk of her gown whispering against the marble walls. A diplomat nodded as she passed, beaming as if she'd just won a crown instead of been shackled in diamonds.
She didn't look at anyone. Didn't speak.
She just kept walking — past the gilded staircase, past the portraits of dead men with medals — until she reached the side room tucked behind the state archives.
It was quiet. Empty. She shut the door behind her.
And exhaled.
One long, venom-laced breath.
But the silence didn't last.
The door opened again. And there he was.
Lucas Drax.
Still in uniform. Still unreadable.
He closed the door behind him and didn't say a word.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other.
Two unwilling pieces on a chessboard neither had set.
"I didn't know," Lucas said first. Low. Honest.
Mia turned back to the table, setting her wine glass down with too much control.
"Didn't you?" she replied, not looking at him.
He moved closer. Not threatening — deliberate.
"I was briefed on a treaty. Not a wedding."
She laughed — bitter and quiet. "Then we both got promoted without warning."
Silence settled again. Thick and tight.
Lucas watched her — her shoulders stiff, her spine too straight. She wore her anger like armor. Familiar.
"This wasn't your idea," he said.
"Congratulations, Commander," she said, turning slowly. "You're quick on your feet. That'll make the honeymoon bearable."
Lucas didn't react. But his jaw clenched.
"I didn't ask for this," he said.
"Neither did I," Mia snapped, her voice sharper now. "And for the record, I don't care what you want. I care that my father stood in a room full of reporters and handed me over like a trade route."
Lucas didn't respond immediately. He couldn't.
Because she was right.
They weren't partners. They were props.
And Diego had written the script without asking either of them.
"You didn't look surprised," she added, a quieter accusation. "You just stood there like you expected it."
Lucas met her eyes. "I've been trained not to flinch in public. Doesn't mean I wasn't furious."
That gave her pause.
She studied him — really studied him.
The square lines of discipline. The shadows under his eyes.
Not cruel. Not cold.
Just… caged.
"Is this how your country solves peace?" she asked. "With arranged marriages and flashy parties?"
He shook his head. "This wasn't Rica. This was Diego."
That silenced her again.
Mia turned her gaze to the window — the ballroom lights flickering below, laughter echoing like a lie. Somewhere down there, her father was accepting congratulations for breaking her future like a bottle across a ship's hull.
"He thinks he's protecting me," she whispered. "Like always."
Lucas stepped beside her but didn't get too close.
"Maybe he is," he said softly. "In his own way."
She didn't answer. Didn't agree.
She just stood there — tired, furious, heart cracking under layers no one could see.
And Lucas?
He didn't try to comfort her.
But he didn't leave either.