Deviating from the original plot

Chapter ninety

As her mother disappeared back into the ballroom, the prince's smirk deepened.

"Come now, my lady," he said, stepping closer. "Let's get you somewhere safe."

"Don't touch me," she muttered, stumbling slightly.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," he said — though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.

The night air did little to clear Genevieve's muddled mind as she staggered beside the crown prince, her steps unsteady from the alcohol and her heart still aching from Amelia's rejection. His arm looped through hers, guiding her toward the carriages.

"This isn't my carriage," Genevieve slurred, as she squinted at the sleek, unfamiliar coach before them. The polished black wood and gold trim gleamed under the moonlight, far grander than her family's modest carriage.

The crown prince's smile didn't waver, his grip on her arm firm but gentle. "Oh, don't worry, Lady Genevieve," he said. "It's one of mine. I thought you deserved something more comfortable for the ride home."

"No... I don't trust you," she mumbled, pulling back, though her unsteady legs betrayed her. She stumbled, and his arm slid around her waist.

"Careful now," he said, his voice low, almost teasing. "You wouldn't want to fall, would you?"

Genevieve's stomach twisted, a roiling mix of wine and dread. "I want to go home," she said, her voice unsteady as she tried to wrench herself free from the prince's grip.

"You will," he said smoothly, swinging the carriage door open. "Step inside, my lady."

Before she could protest, he guided her into the carriage with a gentle but insistent pull. The door shut with a soft thud, and the carriage jolted into motion, the rhythmic clatter of hooves blurring with her spinning thoughts. Everything felt hazy. The prince leaned closer, his fingers grazing her cheek as he murmured, "You're quite adorable like this."

Genevieve flinched, pressing herself against the opposite side of the carriage, her head resting against the cool velvet. Her eyelids grew heavy, fluttering shut despite her efforts to stay alert.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and the prince's voice cut through the fog. "We're here." He stepped out first, then reached for her, his arms steady as he half-lifted her from the seat. Before she could resist, he was carrying her.

Genevieve's head lolled against the prince's shoulder, the world a disjointed swirl of marble floors and flickering lights. Her limbs felt like lead, and though her mind screamed to fight, her body betrayed her, too heavy to move. The scent of polished wood and wax filled the air as they ascended a winding staircase.

"Where... are we?" She mumbled, her voice barely audible, her eyes struggling to focus on her surroundings.

"My chambers," the prince said lightly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He pushed open a heavy oak door, revealing a room bathed in the soft glow of a single candelabrum. A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, its velvet curtains drawn back, and a fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls.

Genevieve's heart pounded in her chest. "No," she whispered, mustering what little energy she had to shove against his chest. "Put me down. I want to go home."

⚠️

The prince laughed softly, easing her onto a plush chaise beside the crackling fire. "Calm yourself, Lady Genevieve," he said, his tone soothing but patronising. "You're in no condition to wander off tonight. You need to rest."