The Frost Prince

                                    

                                          

Prince Dmitry of Russia had always believed in the power of decisive action. Hesitation was for weaker men—men who lived in fear of failure. He was not one of them. As he leaned against the frost-dusted fountain in the winter garden, watching Charlotte retreat into the moonlit halls of the palace, a rare flicker of doubt stirred within him.
He had shown her his world tonight—a glimpse of Russia's grandeur, its stark beauty, and its quiet strength. But was it enough to outshine the efforts of the others?
The faint crunch of ice underfoot drew Dmitry from his thoughts. His attendant, Viktor, approached, his sharp eyes betraying no emotion as he bowed low.
"Your Highness," Viktor said, his voice low and steady. "The garden was exquisite, as always. But are you certain this strategy will yield the result you desire?"
Dmitry shot him a sidelong glance. "Strategy? Is that what you think this is?"
Viktor straightened, his expression impassive. "You are a crown prince, sire. Everything you do is strategy—whether or not you admit it."
Dmitry's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Perhaps. But tonight wasn't about politics or alliances. It was about showing her something real."
"And yet, she is surrounded by three other princes doing the same," Viktor replied. "Each of them offering her their version of what is 'real.'"
Dmitry's smirk faded. He knew Viktor spoke the truth. Augustus's quiet persistence, Felipe's intoxicating charm, and Maximillian's enigmatic allure—all posed threats he could not ignore. But none of them, Dmitry thought fiercely, understood Charlotte the way he did.

The palace was still as Dmitry returned to his chambers, the faint glow of dawn casting long shadows across the marble floors. He dismissed Viktor with a wave of his hand, needing solitude to think.
He poured himself a glass of vodka, the clear liquid catching the light as he swirled it in the crystal tumbler. His gaze drifted to the small snowflake carving left on his desk—the twin to the one he had given Charlotte earlier.
For a moment, the memories of the evening washed over him. The way her green eyes sparkled in the frost-lit garden, the soft curve of her lips as she smiled, the way she had listened so intently to his stories. Dmitry had never met a woman like her—beautiful, yes, but also intelligent, strong-willed, and maddeningly elusive.
She was a queen in the making, and he wanted to be the king at her side.
But the competition was fierce. Maximillian's presence loomed largest in his mind. The Austrian prince was as calculating as he was charismatic, his every move steeped in mystery. Dmitry had seen the way Charlotte looked at him, the curiosity mingled with caution.
Then there was Felipe, with his effortless charm and golden smile, a man who could make any woman feel like the center of the universe. And Augustus, who, despite his reserved demeanor, carried a quiet intensity that spoke volumes.
Dmitry clenched his jaw, setting the tumbler down with a sharp clink. "Let them try," he muttered to himself. "She'll see who is truly worthy."

As the first rays of sunlight bathed the palace in gold, Dmitry stood at the window of his chambers, his gaze fixed on the sprawling gardens below. The week-long soiree had only just begun, and there was still time to win Charlotte's favor.
But he knew he couldn't rely solely on grand gestures. He would need to be strategic, to anticipate the others' moves and outmaneuver them. Dmitry was no stranger to competition, but this was different. This wasn't just a game of power or prestige.
This was personal.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Viktor entered, bowing low.
"Your Highness, the breakfast hall is being prepared. The other princes are already gathering," he said.
Dmitry nodded, his expression hardening into one of quiet determination. "Good. Let them gather. The day has only just begun."
As Viktor bowed again and left, Dmitry turned back to the window, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. He had made his move, and soon it would be time for the next.
Charlotte might not yet know which prince held her heart, but Dmitry was certain of one thing: he would stop at nothing to claim her as his own.