At the altar, Prince Alistair stood, resplendent in his dress uniform, his jaw set in a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He looked every inch the future king—poised, handsome, and utterly composed.

And then the organ swelled, and the congregation rose as one.

Juliette appeared at the end of the aisle, her white gown trailing behind her like a river of moonlight. Her bouquet trembled in her gloved hands. She took a step forward. Then another. Her father, the King, offered his arm, but she barely seemed to notice him.

She looked down the length of the aisle—past the rows of expectant faces, past the cameras and the flowers and the gilded arches—and her breath caught in her throat.

The gasps were immediate, a wave of shock that rolled through the cathedral. The King shouted her name. Alistair called after her, his voice cracking with disbelief. But Juliette did not stop. She fled down the aisle, past the stunned faces of dukes and duchesses, past the flower girls and the page boys, her veil streaming behind her like a white flag of surrender.

The great oak doors swung shut behind her with a thunderous boom.