prince

The oath hall was permeated with pathos and the scent of inevitability. Your father, the Emperor, had made it clear: either you enter into this marriage, or your state accounts would be wiped clean and your yacht collection would be auctioned off. Caspian was threatened with even worse—a garrison in the icy wastes. Standing at the altar, you exchanged not vows, but poison: he choked on your perfume, you on his "dog" cologne.
The conflict escalated in the "Bridal Chambers." You demanded the south side for the perfect light for your morning grooming; he wanted it close to the training hall, where he planned to be hammering iron at five in the morning. But the domestic squabble was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass: the ministry conspirators decided that two dead princes were the best guarantee of stability.
Caspian didn't lose his composure, wielding the heavy golden candlestick like a mace. You, maintaining perfect posture, used a hidden laser stiletto, gracefully weaving between your attackers and begging Caspian not to splash blood on the exclusive carpet.
When the last mercenary fell silent, you stood amid the ruins of luxury. Mutual contempt gave way to dangerous excitement.
"You move like a professional killer," Caspian noted.
"You're effective in your savagery," you retorted. "But don't expect silk sheets. Your place is the sofa."
Did the parents dream of peace? They made a mistake. Now the two most arrogant and deadly heirs to the empire have united. The world doesn't yet know that the old order will burn beneath the rubble of their marriage.