Sarah - The Second Prince
It had been a long time since my father held me. Maybe since I was a child. Like I said, he loved me. Protected me. But always from a distance. Always careful. Always watching over me, but never too close.
He gave me everything I ever wanted. Smiled at me. Encouraged me. Praised me.
But never held me.
And at that moment, sitting in the middle of a beautiful garden dinner he’d set up for me—the last dinner we’d have as father and daughter before I was married off—I realized something awful.
Maybe my father wanted to get rid of me.
Maybe he couldn’t stand to look at me anymore either. Maybe I reminded him too much of my mother. Maybe it was too painful.
Maybe… he was a coward. I didn’t know. I was confused. I was hurting.
And then he answered.
"We knew you had already fallen in love with Cyrus. Stalking him. Asking about him. Learning about him. I saw it." His voice cracked, “I knew if we told you the truth, you’d be heartbroken. And I also knew… if you walked down that aisle tomorrow and found out, standing there, that it wasn’t him—you might have turned around and walked away. And if you walked away, Sarah… we would’ve started another war.”
I was out of words.
I didn’t know what to say. As much as I wanted to lash out, scream, cry, throw something—I didn’t. Because I loved my dad. And I could see that this… this was hurting him too.
What he said made no sense. But maybe… it made sense to him.
He was the only one who ever paid attention to me in this house, even if it was from a distance. My two brothers? They didn’t give a damn. Never did.
When I was young, my older brother—Ronan Jr.—looked me in the eyes and told me it was my fault mom was dead. That I was the reason we didn’t have a mother. That I killed her just by being born.
He practically told me he hated me too. Not in words—but in absence, in silence, in the way, he looked away from me when I needed him most.
Me and my brothers were never close. And maybe… because I carried the guilt of their words because I believed it—believed them—I never tried to defend myself. Never asked to be seen.
I just had my dad. And as crazy as it sounds, I wanted his approval. I wanted his love.
When he told me I was going to marry Cyrus, I was just a teenager. Fourteen. Maybe fifteen. I didn’t protest. I didn’t ask why. I just… agreed.
Because I wanted to please my father.
And when he told me a year later that Cyrus thought I was too young and wouldn’t marry me at eighteen until I was twenty—I nodded. I was okay with it.
So here I am about to turn twenty. Ready. Prepared for the wedding I’ve waited years for.
Only to find out… the groom I prepared for, obsessed over, Googled endlessly and tried to understand-isn't the one I'm marrying.
Instead, I’m marrying his younger brother. A man who never even crossed my mind.
Maybe I saw a picture of the two of them once. Maybe when I was “stalking” Damien-no, investigating like I always told myself, but if I did, I don’t remember his face.
I don’t remember his face. Which means… I don’t know the man I’m getting married to tomorrow.
I never really knew Cyrus either. Not truly. But there was a familiarity I built in my head. A fantasy. But at least it was a lie I chose to believe.
I feel the words slip from my mouth before I realize I’ve said them aloud.
"I think I’m going to be staying up late Googling him tonight."
And then I hear my father’s voice. Soft. Almost pleading.
"No, honey. That won’t be good for you."
“Huh?” I say, confused.
My father smiles, soft but firm like he’s about to lay down a rule he won’t bend on.
“We can’t have you going down the aisle tomorrow looking like someone dragged you out of a morgue after a 24-hour shift, now can we?”
There’s nothing funny about any of this, but I find myself smiling. Just a little. Just enough.
“You’re representing us—the entire Ireland tomorrow. So I want you to look like the princess you are. You need your beauty sleep.”
He continues. “You’re having dinner with your father tonight. After this, you’re going to take a long bath. Then you’re going to sleep. Tomorrow morning, you’ll wake up, and get ready for this wedding you’ve been preparing for since you were a teenager. You’ll come downstairs, and I’ll take you down that aisle and give you to your husband.”
He pauses for a second. “Please, honey. Don’t make me walk you down the aisle if you look like a mess.”
I chuckle, a small one. Not wholehearted. But it’s the best I can do.
“Yes, Dad. I promise to make you proud.”
He nods, and we go back to our dinner. I reach for a piece of meat, just about to put it in my mouth when something hits me.
And I pause. It slips out before I can stop it.
“But why does it feel like we’re not getting a good deal out of this?”
His eyes lift slowly to meet mine, calm and calculating.
“If you’re marrying me off to the second son, then he’ll never be the Don. He won't inherit the throne. What good does that do us?”
He takes a breath.
“We made a new deal when we found out Cyrus was in love with the consigliere's daughter,” he says carefully. “Ronan, your brother he’s shown interest in Cyrus's cousin. The families agreed to bind them together. Strengthen our presence.”
My mind spins. My thoughts feel jagged. What my father said felt wrong—for reasons I couldn’t quite explain.
When I was promised to Cyrus, I thought I was doing something noble. That’s how my father framed it. He told me that by agreeing to the marriage, I’d be saving lives. That this union would bring peace. I was doing something good. I was being a hero in my own way.
And I believed him.
I believed that every year I waited, every effort I made to learn about Damien, to prepare myself, was a step toward something bigger than myself. I believe that this sacrifice made my father proud. That it meant something.
But now—
Now I find out they made a different deal. One where Ronan gets to marry a girl he actually likes. One where Cyrus is excused because he’s in love with someone else. One where I’m… rerouted.
And suddenly, everything shifts. It doesn’t feel like I’m doing something noble anymore. It doesn’t feel like I’m saving anyone. It feels like I’m being used.
It feels like I’m just a piece on a board. A pawn.
And I want to be angry. I am angry. My chest tightens. I want to scream, cry, throw something, demand answers—demand...
But when I look at him, my father—he’s looking at me with that proud, encouraging smile. The one that’s always made me feel seen. The one that told me I was his star, even from a distance.
I can’t bring myself to lash out. I can’t destroy that look.
I just can't do it.
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