Page 4 of Vow to Claim You

A death sentence.

I search for the place where I should sign the papers before sliding them back across the polished surface of my father’s desk, the attorney watching me like a vulture eyeing fresh roadkill.

“Done.” I lift my chin.

He picks up the signed papers like they’re trophies.

“Thank you, Princess Almaviri.” He inclines his head and puts the documents into a leather bag. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket for a small velvet box. He opens it, then slides it across the desk toward me with all the ceremony of passing a dinner receipt. “From Mr. Vold,” he says, as if that explains everything.

I stare at it. A ring. An engagement ring, delivered by a lawyer. Not on a knee. Not with words. Not even from his own hand. Just... slid across a desk like a transaction receipt.

I am a princess of Monsera. I have been courted by diplomats, pursued by heirs of nations, and presented with tokens of affection wrapped in poetry and flown across continents. And this man—this arsehole who couldn’t be bothered to show his face—sends his attorney to deliver my engagement ring as though it’s a parcel that needed signing for.

The audacity doesn’t sting. It burns.

I don’t touch the box, that enormous diamond insult, while Mr. Zhang watches me with an expression that suggests he expected gratitude.

“Well,” he eventually stutters. “That would be all. See you in two weeks.”

“Actually, Mr. Zhang.” I smile. “A moment.”

He pauses mid-step, his brows drawing together with confusion as though he had already mentally closed the case and was being asked to reopen it.

I reach for a fountain pen from my father’s desk. Then a piece of ivory heavy-stock paper, embossed with the Almaviri crest.

I write five words. My handwriting is immaculate—years of royal tutoring will do that—each stroke carrying the full weight of a princess who has just been proposed to by a leather bag.

I fold the paper with crisp, clean edges. Then I lift the velvet box and, without touching the ring inside, tuck the note in beside that obscene diamond, and snap the lid shut.

I slide it back across the desk toward Mr. Zhang exactly the same way he delivered it to me.

“Pass this to my fiancé.” My smile doesn’t waver. “Directly. Not through an assistant. Not through a courier. Into his hands. I trust that won’t be too inconvenient?”

Mr. Zhang stares at the box, then at me, and for the briefest moment something flickers across his face. Respect, perhaps, or simply the realization that his client’s bride is anything but the docile arrangement everyone expected.

“Of course, Princess Almaviri.” He takes the box, handling it now with marginally more care than he did the contract.

Good. Let the arsehole read it himself. Let him hold the note in his hands and know that the woman he couldn’t be bothered to meet has a voice, and it bites.

Mr. Zhang clears his throat, exchanges a glance with the blond brother—Eero, I think his name was—and they exit as though they haven’t just turned my life inside out in under an hour.

The door clicks shut. It’s done. Without fanfare, without ceremony, without a man on bended knee—I’m engaged to a Norwegian mafia heir who couldn’t spare an afternoon to meet the woman he’s contractually obligated to impregnate within twelve months or watch her die.

How terribly romantic.

Two weeks pass in a blur of fittings, formalities, and the slow, suffocating realization that no one is coming to stop this—least of all me. One moment I was signing away my future in my father’s study, the next I’m standing at the mouth of an aisle that stretches toward a man I’ve never spoken to, never touched, never wanted—yet, in a matter of minutes, will vow to love until death.

Which, according to Section 8, might come sooner than expected if my body doesn’t cooperate.

And though I feel like a tragic princess in a fairy tale gone wrong, my four-year-younger sister, Naomi, said it best: “Maybe it’s not the wedding of your dreams, but you should look like you’re from one.”

So I do. I walk down the aisle in a princess-style gown with a delicate off-the-shoulder cut and long gloves that reach my shoulders, which look like sleeves on the dress. The bodice fits perfectly against my form while the voluminous, regal skirt trails me like a whisper of what this day should’ve been. My hair is in a half updo, with a few strands framing my face, and the waves left loose fall down my back, contrasting with the snowy-white gown. My face stays hidden beneath a thin veil, but it does little to shield me from the dire reality that my father’s nudge brings me back to.

His arm is stiff beneath mine as he leads me forward. Every step I take feels more like chains wrapping around me. I can feel everyone watching but don’t blame them. After all, it doesn’t happen often to see a royal bride and a mafia groom.

A match made in hell.

Then I see him, and a frost cuts down my spine.