“Come to the embassy. Emergency. Formal attire required.”
—from: Foreign Affairs Dept.
I stared at the message like it might explode.
Formal attire?
Emergency?
I was just a linguistics grad student, not an undercover spy.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Fast forward three hours later, I’m standing in front of a ten-foot golden door inside the Royal Embassy of Velstrana, wearing the only “formal” thing I own — a wrinkled black dress from my cousin’s funeral.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The guards nod and push open the doors.
And there he is.
The “prince.”
Or, as I whisper to myself under my breath:
“The arrogant jerk who cut in line at the university café three weeks ago and didn’t say sorry.”
He’s sitting on a velvet chair like he owns oxygen itself.
Black suit. Smug smirk. And the kind of jawline sculpted by generational wealth.
“Miss Hanako Arai,” says the minister beside him, “you’ve been selected by His Highness for a matter of national importance.”
The prince barely looks up.
“You’re going to pretend to be my fiancée,” he says, as if offering me tea.
I blink.
Then laugh.
Out loud.
“No,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a request.”