Breaking The Fate

Chapter one

"We already have the money."

The words hang in the air, as if they're supposed to justify everything. As if money is enough to dictate the rest of my life. If it's the reason why they're talking me into this because of the money,

I can't wrap my head around how my parents think they can force me to marry a prince. A prince. This isn't some fairytale, and I'm not a damsel waiting to be rescued. I have dreams, goals, a future I want to build with my own hands—not as someone's wife, and definitely not as the wife of a prince who happens to be my brother's best friend.

I'm only eighteen. My life hasn't even started yet, and they want to chain me to someone else's expectations.

"I already have everything I want," I tell them, my voice tinged with frustration and disbelief. "A perfect boyfriend who loves me. Amazing friends who support me. Great grades that I worked my a*s off for. I've done everything you asked me to do—straight A's, making you proud, staying out of trouble. Don't I deserve to choose my own life after all of that?"

Mom's gaze softens, but the pity in her eyes makes me want to scream. "I know this isn't what you wanted," she says gently, as if her tone could make this better. "But this could open so many doors for you."

"I already have doors opened for me," I argue, trying to keep my voice steady. "I know what I want. I want to study medicine at university. I want to graduate and build a career I'm passionate about. And I want to be with someone who loves me for who I am—not because it's convenient or part of some political arrangement."

"Teenage love doesn't last," she says, her tone patient but dismissive. "Look at your dad and me. He wasn't my first love, but here we are. Sometimes, what's meant for you comes later."

"Scarlett married her high school sweetheart," I counter, throwing her argument back at her.

"They fight every day," she says sharply. Her voice dips, like she's delivering a blow she knows will hurt. "She wanted to tell you herself, but... they're getting a divorce."

That stops me in my tracks. I feel the weight of her words, but the shock doesn't even have time to settle before the conversation barrels on.

I glance at my dad, silently pleading for him to step in, to defend me, to tell me that this isn't happening. But he just sits there, quiet and uncomfortable, as if he's already resigned himself to this decision.

"I don't want to marry August," I mumble, my voice small and defeated.

"I know," Mom says, pulling me into a hug. Her voice is soft and almost tender, but it doesn't feel comforting. "But trust the timing. You'll grow to love him."

Her words feel like the final nail in the coffin, and for the first time, I realize how little control I have over my own life.

*

I didn't grow to love August. In fact, I hated him. He wasn't just a bad person—he was a terrible king too. Cruel, arrogant, and selfish. The kind of man who never should have been in power, let alone married. But life doesn't care about what's fair. Turns out, he couldn't officially be king without a queen by his side. And since his parents were hell-bent on keeping up appearances, they picked me to avoid delays with his coronation. I was convenient. Nothing more.

Now, six months into this sham of a marriage, I find myself resenting my parents, even though I still love them deeply. How could they let this happen to me? How could they tie me to someone like him?

To be fair, August isn't always awful. He has his moments—the rare times when he's sweet, attentive, and almost... human. On those days, he'll act like I'm the love of his life, like he couldn't imagine his world without me. But those moments are fleeting. Most days, I'm nothing to him. Just another pawn in this twisted royal game, the same way he's a pawn to his parents. We're both trapped, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

Every morning, I wake up bracing myself for the day ahead. I never know which version of August I'm going to get. Will he be the man who allows me a sliver of freedom, letting me leave my room and feel like a person again? Or will he be the tyrant who keeps me locked inside, stripped of even basic things like an internet connection?

Today, as I gather the strength to leave my room, I open the door and nearly run into one of the guards—Mateo.

Mateo isn't just any guard. He's the older brother of Sophie, my best friend back in the States. Sophie begged me for months to find him a job here. He'd been struggling to find work, and this seemed like the perfect solution. It took weeks of pleading and bargaining with August to hire him, and even though I did it for Sophie, I regret it now. August's jealousy is a wildfire, and every time he sees me so much as glance at Mateo, he accuses me of having an affair.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, frowning. "Didn't August assign you to the floor below?"

"I needed to ask if I could contact my family," Mateo says quietly. "It's been a long time, your majesty."

His words make my heart ache. I can see the longing in his eyes, and I wish I could grant his request without hesitation. But this isn't my decision. Everything goes through August, and on most days, he's as merciless as ever.

"Let me talk to August," I tell him softly. "If he approves, I'll let you know. But for now, return to your post before he sees you here."

"I'm already here," comes August's cold voice from behind me.

I freeze, turning to find him standing just a few feet away, his eyes narrowed. "What's going on?" he demands. "I hope this isn't personal."

"It's not," I say quickly, stepping closer to him in an attempt to diffuse the tension. "But I think it's time you allowed the guards to speak with their families—maybe once or twice a week? It's a small request."

"We'll discuss this when I return," he replies curtly. Then, addressing Mateo, he adds, "Go back downstairs and do your job. Now."

Mateo nods quickly, mumbling an apology before hurrying off.

I stand there, watching him leave, my chest tight with frustration. I feel trapped—trapped in this marriage, trapped in this palace, trapped in the knowledge that even the smallest kindness has to be begged for.

As August walks away, I wonder how much longer I can endure this. How much longer I can be his queen in name only, tethered to a life I never wanted.

Sometimes, I can’t help but feel sorry for August. When I look at him, all put together and calculated, I see a man who never got the chance to be a boy. His childhood was stolen from him, wrapped up in expectations and separated from the simple joys of family. When he was only eight, his parents decided it was best to separate him from his four younger siblings. He was the eldest, the “golden child,” and they believed the others might hold him back, might influence him in ways that could dim his intellect or slow his maturity.

But what did they take from him in the process?

He didn’t get to have those petty fights over whose turn it was to pick a TV show or steal his brother’s favorite shirt for a laugh. He never got to prank his younger brother with a wedgie or team up with one sibling to sneak a cookie from the kitchen. Instead, he grew up in silence—always alone, surrounded by books and tutors and expectations that hung over him like a weight too heavy for his little shoulders.

They forced him into classes meant for kids much older than him, enrolled him in one of the toughest universities, and told him it was all for his future. August didn’t grow up like the rest of us. He didn’t get the chance to stumble and fall, to scrape his knees on the playground, or to figure out life one misstep at a time. Instead, he was shoved into adulthood before he even knew what being a child felt like.

He grew up fast—too fast. It wasn’t until he met my brother that he got a glimpse of what life could’ve been like. My brother showed him the lighter side of things, the joy of laughter without consequence, the beauty of simply existing without a goal in mind. But by then, it was too late. August had already been molded into something else—something distant, something perfect on the outside but fractured beneath.

I close my bedroom door behind me, and as soon as I lock it, the tears I’ve been holding back finally come. They fall hot and fast, and I swear I can hear my heart breaking into tiny, jagged pieces. It’s a sound I can’t unhear, an ache I can’t escape.

I wasn’t like August. I was a fun teenager. I wasn’t sensitive, and I didn’t carry grudges. I didn’t hate anyone—not really. I was just a girl trying to live. I’d sneak out of my house late at night to meet my boyfriend, laughing as I climbed out of my bedroom window like I owned the world. I wasn’t perfect, but I was alive.

And then everything changed.

I had to break up with Andrew, the boy who made my heart race and my cheeks flush, because life had other plans for me. Breaking up with him was the hardest thing I’d ever done—until I married August, of course.

Andrew wasn’t just my boyfriend. He was my first love. He treated me like I was the most important person in the world, and I loved him with the kind of reckless abandon you only feel when you’re young and stupid and sure the world is yours. My parents adored him, and my brothers practically worshipped him. He wasn’t just in my life—he was part of it.

He had this golden-blond hair that fell just beneath his ears, like something out of a daydream, and these piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through me. He could’ve had anyone—girls lined up just for a chance to catch his smile—but he chose me. He chose me, and then I had to choose someone else.

I’ll never forget the look on his face when I told him.

It was as if the light in his eyes dimmed, like he couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. I can still see it, clear as day, even now. The hurt. The confusion. The betrayal.

It feels like it happened just yesterday, and maybe in some ways, it did.