The Prince's Bride 👑♥️

Outside the palace of Castile, reporters swarmed the gates like ants on honey, cameras flashing as they shouted questions at the stone-faced guards. Sharon, a famous reporter stands before the statue of the first king as the camera crew focuses the camera on her. "We're like outside the palace of Castile where an entourage of Europe's most eligible bachelorettes are arriving," she announced, adjusting her mic. "The Prince of Castile, Sebastian Harrington, has just announced his search for a wife—and unlike his ancestors, he insists this isn't about politics or alliances. He wants love. Which turns our attention to the thousands of women who've applied—but only some  will make it into the palace for the final selection." The camera pans to a woman yelling into the mike enthusiastically about how she'll win the prince's heart.

[In New York] Jazmin's fixing her hair in the bathroom mirror when her phone buzzes for the tenth time—another "URGENT: LAST CHANCE TO APPLY!" notification about Prince Sebastian's bride search. She scoffs, tossing it onto her unmade bed where takeout containers and recipe notebooks crowd the sheets. "Like I'd waste time on some royal circus," she mutters, scrubbing flour off her wrists. The tattoo of her mother's name catches the light as she reaches for her apron, the familiar weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. Her flight to London leaves in six hours for that sous chef position at Castile Palace, and her suitcase gapes open, half-packed beside a stack of cookbooks.

Her best friend Shanice barges in waving a printed email, eyes wide. "You got it! The palace job!" Jazmin grins, opening her arms for a hug—but Shanice full on tackles her to the floor with pride. They land in a heap, giggling, until Shanice suddenly pulls back, holding Jazmin's face. "Wait. Waitwaitwait. You realize you're literally gonna be inside the castle while Prince Pretty Boy picks his wife, right?" Jazmin rolls her eyes, shoving her off. "And? I'll be elbow-deep in soufflés, not fighting for some crown."

The plane ride over is turbulence and lukewarm coffee, but Jazmin's fingers drum excitedly against her recipe binder—until the landing gear screeches onto British soil. A royal car meets her at Heathrow, black and sleek, and the driver bows slightly as he takes her bags. "Welcome to Castile, Miss Carter." The grandeur hits her like a rolling pin to the chest when the palace gates swing open: manicured hedges twist into labyrinthine patterns, fountains glitter under the afternoon sun, and the scent of roses mingles with something richer—baking bread, she realizes. Her chef's instincts flare.

Kitchen chaos swallows her whole the moment she steps inside. Stainless steel clangs as sous chefs dart between stations, shouting in clipped British accents. Head Chef Sylvia barely glances up from her flaming pan. "I'm Sylvia, the head chef. Welcome to the big leagues, yeah? How are you feeling?" She tosses a folded apron at Jazmin's chest. "You will begin tomorrow, but assistant pastry chef, Helena, will give you a tour of the kitchen and dining room area." Just then, Sylvia curtsies when she sees the Queen approaching—but Jazmin, distracted by the towering shelves of imported spices, misses the cue entirely.

Queen Cecilia pauses, one perfectly manicured brow arching. "And who might you be?" she asks, her voice dripping with aristocratic curiosity. Jazmin wipes her flour-dusted hands on her jeans before extending one—a fatal mistake. The queen's lip twitches as she eyes the offered hand like it's a foreign tradition. Sylvia hisses, "Your Majesty, this is our new sous chef from America."

The queen waves her hand in dismissal, but her sharp gaze lingers on Jazmin’s flour-streaked jeans and untucked blouse. "American," she murmurs, as if tasting the word for the first time. "How... quaint." Jazmin’s cheeks burn, but she squares her shoulders—she’s worked too hard to be rattled by a raised eyebrow. "Well, has anyone seen my son? I cannot locate him anywhere." The queen sighs dramatically, glancing at Sylvia. Before Sylvia can respond, a deep voice cuts through the kitchen’s clatter. "Right here, Mother."

Prince Sebastian leans against the doorframe, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smear of chocolate on his wrist. His grin is boyish, disarming—nothing like the stiff portraits lining the palace halls. The queen’s demeanor softens instantly. "Sebastian, darling, must you always disappear into the kitchens?" He chuckles, pushing off the frame. "You know I can’t resist Helena’s éclairs." His eyes flick to Jazmin, curious. "And who’s this?"

Jazmin opens her mouth, but Helena steps forward with a nervous laugh. "Your Highness, this is Jazmin Carter—our new sous chef from New York." Sebastian wipes the chocolate off his wrist with a napkin, his gaze lingering on Jazmin’s flour-streaked apron and the tattoo peeking out from her rolled sleeve. "Ah, the American," he says, mimicking his mother’s tone but with a playful edge that makes the queen sigh. "Tell me, Miss Carter, do you share my weakness for pastries, or are you here to reform our decadent ways?"

Jazmin’s pulse stutters at the directness of his question, but she lifts her chin. "Depends," she says, glancing at the half-finished mille-feuille on the counter. "If that’s Helena’s work, I’d say you’ve got good taste. But if you’re eating store-bought croissants, we might have a problem." The kitchen staff collectively inhales—no one talks back to the prince like that—but Sebastian barks a laugh, delighted. "Brutal. I like it."

Behind him, Queen Cecilia’s expression tightens. "Sebastian, we have matters to discuss regarding the selection." She flicks a dismissive glance at Jazmin. "Surely you can charm the kitchen staff later." The prince hesitates, his smile fading into something more diplomatic. "Of course, Mother." But as he turns to leave, he catches Jazmin’s eye and murmurs, just loud enough for her to hear, "Try the pistachio macarons. They’re sinful." Then he’s gone, leaving the scent of bergamot and mischief in his wake.

Helena exhales sharply, gripping Jazmin’s elbow. "Are you mad? You can’t just—" She cuts herself off, glancing at Sylvia, whose lips press into a thin line. "You’ll learn our ways," Sylvia says finally, though there’s an odd gleam in her eye. "Starting with proper address. And for God’s sake, never ignore a royal unless you fancy unemployment." Jazmin nods, but her fingers twitch at her sides—not from regret, but the lingering thrill of having spoken her mind. The kitchen suddenly feels ten degrees hotter.

Helena then grabs Jazmin's wrist to lead her through the tour, but not before whispering fiercely, "You've got a death wish, chatting up the prince like that on your first day. Queen Cecelia eats Americans like you for tea." Jazmin frowns, her gaze flicking to the ornate silver tea set on the counter—realizing with a jolt that it's probably worth more than her entire apartment back in Brooklyn. The tour is a blur of industrial mixers and walk-in freezers, but her mind keeps circling back to Sebastian’s chocolate-smeared wrist and the way his laughter had crinkled the corners of his eyes, so princely and warm.

Later that night in one of the many staff/guest rooms, Jazmin cannot seem to fall asleep, even though she was exhausted—her mind replaying Prince Sebastian’s curious gaze and the electric tension that followed their exchange. The unfamiliar opulence of the palace bedroom—its silk drapes and antique furnishings—didn’t help. She fidgeted with the edges of her notebook, scribbling recipes and crossing them out before abruptly tossing it aside with a groan. Deciding fresh air might clear her head, she slipped into the dimly lit hallway, sweater and pajama pants somehow visible.

The palace at night was eerily silent, save for the distant echo of footsteps and the occasional creak of ancient wood. Jazmin padded barefoot down the corridor, her toes sinking into plush Persian rugs that probably cost more than her culinary school tuition. She turned a corner and left the gates for a walk outside in the gardens—letting security know so they don't freak out when she returns. About 3 blocks away in the cool sidewalks of London, suddenly showered in dirty water by a motorcycle flying by—a sleek black machine that skidded to a stop yards ahead. The rider yanked off their helmet, shaking out tousled brown hair, and Jazmin’s stomach lurched when she recognized the sharp jawline and apologetic expression on the biker's face.

"I sincerely apologize, are you alright?" Sebastian called out, already swinging off the motorcycle with fluid grace. His jacket clung to his torso from the speed, sleeves up past his elbows—revealing the same wrist Jazmin had noticed earlier. She blinked puddle water from her lashes, acutely aware of her soaked pajama pants sticking to her thighs. "Your Highness," she managed, voice dripping with as much sarcasm as water, "didn't peg you as the type to give unscheduled showers to jet-lagged chefs."

He had the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're the American girl from the palace, yeah? Why are you out so late, alone?" His British accent curled around the words, softer than she'd expected—less princely protocol, more midnight mischief. Jazmin wrung out her sweater hem, water splattering the pavement between them. "Because I needed fresh air. What are you doing out so late, your highness?" Her hands fly to her mouth, immediately (partially) regretting sassing the prince like that. He simply crosses his arm over his chest, inspecting her closely—her wet curls clinging to her neck, her pajamas soaked through—and sighed.

Sebastian shrugged off his jacket, draping it over Jazmin’s shoulders before she could protest. The leather still held his body heat, along with the faint scent of bergamot and his cologne. "Well, Miss Carter," he said, his lips quirking, "if you must know, I would rather not speak of the reason. I am not allowed outside of the palace at these hours, so i'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone." Jazmin huffed, adjusting the jacket around her—its weight foreign against her frame, like wearing someone else’s skin. "And here I thought princes had all the freedom in the world. But yeah, don't worry, I ain't gonna tell nobody, your highness."

Sebastian lets out a sigh of relief and gratefulness, "You have a way of brightening someone's day, Miss Carter. And humbling them, some would say." He gestures toward his motorcycle with a boyish grin. "I'd offer you a ride back to the palace, but given your current state, perhaps a ride for a night snack would be safer—for both of us." Jazmin snorts, shaking water from her curls, but hesitates when she catches the way his gaze flickers toward the dimly lit streets—like he’s weighing escape routes. "You’re not supposed to be out here either, are you?" she asks, stepping closer. His smirk falters just long enough for her to notice.

The prince rubs his wrist—the same one smeared with chocolate earlier—before answering. "Let’s just say I have an old friend who owns a restaurant nearby. They make the best pudding at midnight, and I... occasionally need a reminder that not everything in my life is about duty." There’s a vulnerability in his voice that makes Jazmin’s chest tighten unexpectedly. Before she can respond, distant screams of fans echo from nearby—girls calling his name. Sebastian tenses, then shoots her a conspiratorial look. "Tell no one?"

Jazmin hesitated, the prince's jacket still warm against her damp skin, the distant squeals of fans growing louder. "You're really out here sneaking pudding like some rebellious teenager?" she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. Sebastian's grin widened, all princely charm and reckless energy as he swung a leg over his motorcycle. "Desperate times," he said, tossing her the spare helmet—which she fumbled before catching with a grunt. "Now, Miss Carter, please get on the bike. I don't want a sick chef. It'll be horrible for business."

She rolled her eyes but slid the helmet on, its interior still faintly warm from his last ride. The moment she settled behind him, her hands hovering awkwardly near his waist, Sebastian grabbed her wrists and pulled them firmly around him. "Hold on properly, I have precious cargo this time," he chided, though his voice was soft. The engine roared to life beneath them, vibrating through her thighs as they shot forward—Jazmin yelped, gripping him tighter, her nails digging into his ribs. He laughed, the sound swallowed by the wind whipping past them.

The streets blurred into streaks of neon and lamplight, the city alive in a way the palace’s gilded halls could never replicate. Jazmin caught glimpses of Sebastian’s profile—the determined set of his jaw, the way his lashes flickered against the wind—and realized with a jolt that this was the most unguarded she’d ever seen him. No crown, no cameras, just the prince and his midnight hunger. He leaned into a sharp turn, and she instinctively pressed closer, her damp clothes molding against his back.

They skidded to a stop outside a 24/hr, cozy diner, its flickering sign reading "Bercham's." Sebastian cut the engine and glanced back at her, his eyes gleaming under the streetlight. "Prepare for the best chocolate raspberry pudding you’ll ever taste," he whispered, as if sharing a state secret. Jazmin opened her mouth to retort, but the scent of cinnamon and caramelized sugar wafted through the cracked door, instantly silencing her—her chef instincts overriding all sarcasm.

Inside, the diner was nearly empty save for an elderly couple sharing a sundae and a few tired-looking waitresses and waiters. Sebastian led her to a corner booth, tossing his keys onto the table with a casualness that felt jarringly human. The owner, a burly man with flour-dusted forearms, emerged from the kitchen and broke into a grin. "Seb, mate, you’re late tonight," he boomed, then paused, noticing Jazmin’s soaked pajamas. His brows shot up. "And you’ve brought a drowned lass," Sebastian chuckled, sliding into the booth. "Bercham, meet Jazmin—the palace’s newest chef. Be nice, or she might poison my dinner."

Jazmin flushed, suddenly hyperaware of her disheveled state—her damp curls frizzing wildly, Sebastian’s jacket swallowing her frame like a child playing dress-up—but Bercham just laughed, wiping his hands on his apron. "A chef, eh? Well then, you’ll appreciate this." He vanished into the kitchen, returning moments later with two steaming mugs of spiced cider and 2 small bowls with golden-brown pudding oozing raspberry compote. The scent alone made Jazmin’s stomach growl audibly. Sebastian grinned, nudging the first bowl toward her. "Told you."

She took a hesitant bite, then froze as the flavors exploded—rich dark chocolate cut through by tart raspberry, the pudding impossibly silken on her tongue. “Holy shit,” Jazmin blurted before she could stop herself, earning a chuckle from Bercham and a delighted smile from Sebastian. The prince leaned forward, elbows on the sticky diner table, his eyes reflecting the diner’s warm light. “When I was little, my father brought me here and we shared this very pudding. It was the only time since now that I've had it here.” He cut himself off, glancing at Bercham, who discreetly retreated to the kitchen. Jazmin pretended not to notice the way his fingers tightened around his spoon.

Sebastian cleared his throat, swirling his spoon in the pudding absently. "My schedule is quite—no, very regimented, so I rarely have time to go anywhere. Duty to the crown comes first." His eyes saddened slightly, even after taking a bite of the pudding, savoring it. Jazmin studied him, noticing the way his shoulders tensed when he mentioned his father—like he was bracing for something. She hesitated before nodding in agreement, looking at her mostly finished pudding. "I know it's different, but I kinda feel the same. My mom didn't really have a lot of money, so I've had jobs since i was 10, trying to help out. We scraped by so I could go to school and now I'm hopeful that I'll be able to open my own restaurant and pay her back. Almost like a sense of duty."

"That's exactly it, it feels like you almost had to grow up too fast, losing your childhood in the process." Sebastian murmured, his spoon clinking softly against the porcelain bowl. His gaze flickered to the window where moonlight had begun to shine the glass—mirroring the quiet ache in his voice. Jazmin watched him closely, the way his princely facade cracked ever so slightly in this diner booth, revealing something raw beneath. Before she could respond, Bercham reappeared with two fresh bowls of pudding, winking as he slid them onto the table. "On the house for the chef who appreciates good food," he rumbled, nodding approvingly at Jazmin's empty dish.

The prince straightened suddenly, attention turning towards Jazmin fully. "Can I tell you something?" His voice was low, intimate—like the hum of the motorcycle engine still warm between them. Before she could nod, he continued, "I've never spoken to anyone who doesn't walk on eggshells around me and doesn't bow. But you're simply you! You speak your mind, so confident, and yet you have this power of making someone feel better. I was transfixed by you the first time I saw you, I was transfixed by your opinions and your beauty." Jazmin nearly choked on her cider, heat crawling up her neck—not from the spices, but from the raw sincerity in his words. His thumb brushed a droplet of pudding from her lip without thinking, then froze when he realized what he'd done. The air between them crackled.

"Can I ask you a question, your highness?" Jazmin murmured, deliberately using his title to ground them both—her pulse hammering where his thumb had grazed her skin. Sebastian leaned back slightly, fingers curling around his mug. "Only if you promise to call me Sebastian when we're like this." The way he said it—like these stolen moments were already a habit—sent a shiver down her spine. She exhaled, tapping her spoon against the bowl. "Where were you going in such a rush tonight?"

The prince's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly, his gaze flicking to the diner's clock—its hands creeping toward 2 AM. "Honestly?" His laugh was brittle. "Tomorrow the competition for who I will be forced to marry begins, so at sunrise my life will no longer belong to me. There's this place I begged my parents for permission to go, but was not allowed. Tonight, something inside me just told me to do it. I guess I wanted to feel—…" He's cut off by Jaz's suggestion, "A moment of pure freedom." He nods with a soft smile, "Precisely."

Bercham's muffled cough from the kitchen broke the silence, and Sebastian's fingers drummed against his thigh—a nervous habit Jazmin hadn't noticed before. "It's a small bridge overlooking the river," he continued quietly. "When I was twelve, my governess snuck me there once. We fed stale bread to the swans at midnight." His voice dropped lower. "I've never felt that kind of peace since." Jazmin studied the way moonlight caught the gold flecks in his blue eyes, realizing with a jolt that this wasn't just rebellion—it was grief for a life he'd never had.

Abruptly, Jazmin stands up with her hands on her hips, pudding forgotten. "Then let's go," she declares, like it's the simplest decision in the world—not a princess-in-waiting contest looming at dawn, not a motorcycle ride through sleeping streets with a prince who smells like rebellion and leather. Sebastian stares at her, spoon suspended mid-air. "You're serious," he breathes, not a question. The diner's fluorescent light catches the wild glint in her eyes as she shrugs. "You only turn twenty-six once, right? And I'm already soaked—what's the worst that could happen?"

His laughter rings out, startlingly bright in the quiet diner, and suddenly they're rushing out the door—Sebastian tossing cash on the counter, Jazmin stuffing the leftover pudding (wrapped up) in her sweater pocket like contraband. The night air bites at her damp skin as he revs the engine, glancing back at her with something dangerously close to hope. "Hold tight," he warns, and she does—her arms locking around his waist as they rocket forward, her thighs pressed flush against his hips, her pulse hammering where her chest meets his back. The city blurs into streaks of gold and shadow, and for the first time in years, Sebastian whoops into the wind like he's forgotten he's royalty at all.

The bridge is smaller than she imagined—just a stone arch over a sluggish river, swans ghosting across the moonlit water—but Sebastian breathes like he's coming home. He digs into his jacket pocket (still draped over Jazmin's shoulders) and produces a crumpled bag of bread crusts. "Stole them from the palace kitchens," he admits with a grin that makes him look sixteen, not twenty-six. Jazmin watches, transfixed, as he scatters the crumbs; the swans glide toward them with regal silence, their feathers catching the silver light like living marble. "See?" Sebastian murmurs, shoulder brushing hers. "No bowing. No titles. Just... this."

The bread runs out too soon. Sebastian leans against the railing before taking Jazmin's hand to lead her to the riverbank—grass cool under their feet, damp seeping through her pajama pants—and they sink onto the slope like conspirators sharing a secret. "You should see your face right now," he murmurs, watching the way moonlight paints her incredulous expression. Jazmin scoffs, plucking a blade of grass to twirl between her fingers. "You're literally breaking curfew with a soggy chef to feed royal swans stolen bread. If anyone saw us—"

Sebastian's laughter cuts her off, warm and unguarded as he stretches out of his shirt, hands tucked behind his head. "That's the point, Jazmin. No one sees me like this." His voice drops to a whisper, raw with something that makes her throat tighten. "Not even my parents." The confession hangs between them, fragile as the swan feathers drifting on the water. Jazmin stares at his profile—the way moonlight etches the tired lines around his eyes, the faint mole above his brow she hadn’t noticed in the palace lights. "Are you ready to dive in? You don't have to—"

She doesn't let him finish. Jazmin strips off everything except her undergarments and strides into the river before logic can stop her—the icy water biting her ankles, then her knees, her breath hitching as it soaks through her underwear. Sebastian's startled gasp echoes behind her, then splashing as he follows. "You're amazing," he breathes, but his grin is brighter than the moon when she turns—his bare chest glistening with river water, his princely composure drowned in the current.

Their laughter rings across the water as they wade deeper, disturbing the swans who glide away with indignant ruffles. Jazmin shrieks when Sebastian flicks water at her, retaliating by dunking him fully—only for him to resurface gasping, gripping her waist to steady himself. His hands linger a heartbeat too long on her hips, their faces inches apart, river droplets clinging to his lashes like tiny stars. The sudden stillness between them is louder than their laughter had been, the air thick with something neither dares name.

Sebastian exhales sharply, stepping back to run both hands through his soaked hair. "We should—" he begins, just as Jazmin blurts, "It's freezing." They laugh awkwardly, the moment dissolving, but the tension lingers as they slosh back to shore. Sebastian grabs his discarded shirt to wring it out, muscles flexing under moonlight, and Jazmin pointedly looks away—until he drapes the damp fabric over her shoulders without meeting her eyes. "For warmth," he mumbles, his ears suspiciously pink.

They sit on the riverbank in dripping silence, watching the swans regroup further downstream. Jazmin wrings water from her curls, acutely aware of Sebastian’s bare shoulder pressing against hers—warm despite the chill. "It'd be amazing if we could do this every night." Jaz a laugh escape her lips, "I don't know if I'd wanna be in no cold water at night, but maybe a movie or something." Sebastian chuckles, flicking a pebble into the water. "You also wish there could be a next time? But the only way would be… What do you know about the competition tomorrow?" His voice is carefully light, but she sees the way his jaw tenses when he says it—like the words taste bitter.

Jazmin hesitates, watching the ripples from the pebble spread across the moonlit surface. "I know it’s a bride competition," she admits slowly. "And that you’re apparently supposed to choose someone by summer’s end." She risks a glance at him and finds Sebastian staring at her with an intensity that makes her pulse stutter—his river-damp hair curling at his temples, his princely mask completely gone. "You could enter," he says suddenly, the words tumbling out like he’s been holding them back all night. "The rules only say participants must be unmarried women."

She barks out a laugh before she can stop herself. "Me? Compete with princesses and diplomats’ daughters?" But Sebastian catches her wrist, his grip insistent. "You’re the only person who’s looked at me like a human tonight, all the women want is the crown, not the man attached to it. Besides, the king, my father is the one who decides who I marry. But i have a signet ring of Castile, so i have the power to invite one woman of my choosing."

Jazmin’s breath hitches—partly from the cold, partly from the way his thumb traces circles on her fingers. The moonlight catches the signet ring glinting on his finger, its engraved lion worn smooth from years of anxious twisting. She thinks of her mother’s exhausted smile when she’d left New York, of the restaurant dreams she’d pinned her entire life on. "Sebastian," she whispers, and his name feels too heavy for the night air.

He exhales sharply, pulling his hand away to rub his face. "Forget I said anything," he mutters, but the rawness in his voice betrays him. A swan drifts past, its reflection fracturing in the ripples between them. Jazmin watches it for a long moment before standing abruptly, water sluicing off her skin. "Give me the damn ring," she says, holding out her palm like a challenge.

Sebastian’s head snaps up, his eyes wide—not princely blue now, but something wilder, darker. Slowly, he twists the signet ring off his finger and presses it into her palm, their fingers tangling in the transfer. The metal is warm from his skin, the lion’s mane biting into her flesh as she clenches her fist around it. "Let's get back to the palace and hope the guards don't suspect anything. If anyone asks, we were just... talking." Jazmin’s pulse thrums in her throat as she nods, the weight of the ring like a promise—or a noose.

The motorcycle ride back is silent, the night air thick with unsaid things. Jazmin presses her cheek against Sebastian’s back, his damp shirt chilling her skin, the ring tucked securely in her pocket. When they skid to a stop at the palace’s service entrance, a lone guard raises an eyebrow but says nothing—royalty, even disheveled and dripping, commands silence. Sebastian turns to her, rainwater still tracing the lines of his collarbones. "Sunrise is in three hours," he murmurs, voice rough. "I’ll announce you then."

Jazmin feels his strong arms pull her in for a hug, still dripping with river water, his heartbeat wild against her cheek. "You won't regret this," Sebastian murmurs into her damp curls—half promise, half prayer—before releasing her abruptly when palace floodlights flicker on nearby. They spring apart like guilty teenagers, Jazmin clutching the signet ring so tightly its lion engraving leaves angry red marks on her palm. The guard coughs pointedly, pretending not to notice their soaked clothes or how Sebastian's fingers linger at the small of her back as they slip inside.

Dawn creeps through the palace corridors like a thief as Jazmin tiptoes back to her quarters, every creaking floorboard sounding like an accusation. She locks herself in the cramped bathroom, staring at her reflection—river-tangled hair, smudged eyeliner, lips still tingling from where his thumb had brushed them hours ago. The ring winks at her from the soap dish like a dare. "What the hell are you doing?" she whispers to the wild-eyed stranger in the mirror, but her fingers are already twisting her hair into an updo worthy of court.