Sovereign — part 3 (Patreon)

“She is not a suitable match for you

Summary: Harry, crown prince and a spirited commoner are drawn together, defying society, duty, and the rules of the ton.

Author's note: Let me know! What you think! 

The clock had only just struck noon, but Lady Hathaway was already pacing the length of her daughter’s chamber like a general preparing for battle. In her hand she clutched the stiff cream-colored invitation that had arrived scandalously late that afternoon, bearing the royal seal in bold crimson wax.

“A ball! And with no warning at all! Who sends invitations at the eleventh hour? The palace should be ashamed,” she muttered, only half to herself, her heels clicking sharply against the parquet floors.

Lady Y/N sat by the window, legs tucked beneath her, a book forgotten in her lap as she watched her mother spiral. “It’s not as though I lack gowns,” she offered mildly.

Lady Hathaway whirled around, eyes wide. “Not as though you lack—! This is no ordinary supper party in the country, Y/N. The future king will be in attendance. You will not wear something you’ve already been seen in. What will they all say? ‘There goes Lady Y/N, again in last season’s silk?’”

Y/N tried not to smile. “You said that dress brought out my eyes.”

“And it did,” Lady Hathaway said with a sigh, “but now we must outdo even your eyes. Something regal. Something that makes Lady Vance choke on her claret.”

She resumed her pacing, gesturing now. “Velvet, perhaps. Or no—chiffon. That pale blue your aunt sent from Paris? No, too soft. You need presence, my darling. Dignity. Command.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Am I attending a coronation or a dance?”

Lady Hathaway paused. “One must always dress as if both could happen in the same evening.”

There was a knock at the door. A maid entered with a hatbox and two parcels. Lady Hathaway swooped in like a hawk. “Ah! Perhaps salvation! Open them. Quickly!”

Y/N watched with a mixture of amusement and affection as her mother tore into the tissue and ribbons like a woman possessed, muttering all the while about sleeves, necklines, and the politics of taffeta.

Lady Hathaway lifted a gown from one of the parcels and held it up to the light streaming through the window. “This might do,” she said, squinting. “Ivory silk. Embroidered bodice. Rather Grecian, don’t you think?”

Y/N tilted her head. “It’s lovely,” she said. “Though if you put me in that, I may be mistaken for a bridal statue.”

Lady Hathaway blinked. “Is that so terrible?”

Y/N blinked back. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am always serious where your future is concerned,” her mother replied crisply, folding the gown over one arm. “Especially with a royal ball in question. You are of age. You have lineage. Connections. Wit—when you don’t squander it on sarcasm. There is no reason you should not draw the attention of someone... highly placed.”

Y/N rose from her seat and moved toward her mother, her voice quieter now. “You mean his attention.”

Lady Hathaway did not reply immediately. She smoothed a wrinkle from the silk, then laid the dress across the bed. “It is not a crime to hope for the best,” she said carefully. “And it would not hurt you to be seen.”

“I was seen enough at the garden fête,” Y/N murmured.

Her mother gave her a sharp look. “And now you will be seen again, properly. You know as well as I do that half the court is watching him. And the other half is watching the women who dare to speak to him. You mustn’t fade into the wallpaper.”

Y/N turned back to the window, folding her arms. Outside, the gardens glowed with late spring sunlight. She could almost still feel the weight of his gaze from the last time they’d met—the crown prince, with his cool voice and sharper eyes. The way he’d watched her when she’d tripped over that ridiculous marble step. How he’d offered no laughter, only a faint smile and a hand extended like he was asking her to dance, even though music hadn’t been playing.

“I don’t want to be paraded like some prized mare,” Y/N said at last. “If he speaks to me again, it will not be because of satin sleeves.”

Lady Hathaway softened. She stepped behind her daughter and gently rested a hand on her shoulder. “And if he does speak to you again, I want you to feel like the most radiant girl in the room when he does.”

Y/N said nothing, but she nodded.

“Then it’s settled,” her mother said, back to business. “We’ll take the seam in a quarter-inch. Pearls in your hair, not diamonds—it’s more elegant. And for heaven’s sake, no ink stains this time.”

“I haven’t spilled ink in weeks,” Y/N protested.

“Which is exactly why I’m worried you’re due.”

Y/N smiled despite herself, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. “I’ll behave.”

Lady Hathaway turned toward the door. “You’ll be exceptional, darling. That’s far more useful than behaving.”

The soft crackling of the fire in the hearth was the only sound in the royal study, the weight of the conversation about to unfold pressing heavily on the air. Harry stood before the large, ornate desk where his parents sat. His heart was racing, the nerves he had tried to suppress bubbling to the surface. He had prepared for this moment, but now that it had arrived, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of their scrutiny.

The Queen, elegant as ever, fixed him with a sharp gaze from where she stood by the window. “Harry,” she began, her voice smooth but with an edge of curiosity, “what is the rush with this ball? It’s happening in two days, and you’ve already made your choices for the event. You’re certain about everything? This is... rather sudden.”

Harry’s hands clenched at his sides, and for a moment, he was uncertain how to respond. His usual confidence faltered slightly under the weight of his mother’s question, and he took a breath, trying to steady himself. “Yes, Mother,” he finally said, his voice quieter than usual, betraying his nerves. “I am certain.”

The Queen raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. She was not easily swayed.

He cleared his throat, taking another steadying breath. “I’ve made my decision. I’ve chosen who I will marry.”

The silence in the room was palpable, and the Queen's expression shifted from surprise to disbelief. “Who?” she asked, her voice more pointed now. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she sought any trace of jest in his expression. But there was none.

Harry hesitated, then let the name slip out. “Lady Y/N Hathaway.”

The Queen’s reaction was immediate. Her hand flew to her chest, a breath escaping her lips as though she’d been struck. “Y/N Hathaway?” she repeated, as if the name didn’t quite register. She was taken aback, her sharp, regal composure slipping for the first time. “Harry, I thought this... this fascination of yours was merely a phase. A fleeting attraction. I hoped it would pass, that you would realize...”

Her voice faltered for a moment, and she shook her head, clearly struggling to understand. “She is not a suitable match for you. She’s of noble birth, yes, but her family—her standing—does not compare to the alliances we need.”

Before Harry could respond, the King, who had been silent until now, interjected, his deep voice commanding the attention of both the Queen and his son.

“Let him speak, Eleanor,” the King said, his tone firm yet not without a hint of concern. He looked at Harry, his eyes searching. “What is it about her that has made you so certain?”

The Queen was about to argue, but the King raised a hand, silencing her. He turned back to Harry, his voice softening. “You know your duty, son. But tell me why—why—this one is different. Why should we give our blessing to this marriage? What makes her worthy of our approval?”

Harry took a moment to collect his thoughts, his nervousness shifting to a quiet determination. “She’s different from anyone I’ve met. There’s something about her, something real. It’s not just attraction—it’s deeper than that. I’m not seeking a match based on power or family connections alone. I know the political weight of such a decision, but there’s something about her that calls to me, Father. I don’t know how to explain it, but I can’t ignore it any longer.”

The King and Queen exchanged a look, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat as the room fell into tense silence. The Queen’s eyes softened slightly, though her concern was still evident.

“You’re sure of this?” she asked, her voice quieter now, less accusatory but still tinged with doubt. “This isn’t some passing whim, Harry? Not something that you’ll regret once the excitement fades?”

Harry nodded firmly. “I’m sure. I’ve thought about this long enough. She is the one I want. I’m ready to make her my wife.”

The Queen stood still for a moment, processing his words. Then, she sighed, her regal composure returning, though she still looked concerned. “You are not the only one who has to live with this decision, Harry. You must understand the gravity of it. There are many forces at play here, and the throne... the future of the kingdom... It cannot be risked on a whim.”

The King watched them both quietly, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke again, his voice calm but carrying weight.

“Eleanor,” he said, turning toward his wife, “let him speak his heart. He has made up his mind.” He looked back at Harry, his gaze piercing. “But you must understand the responsibilities this will bring. This cannot just be a personal choice; it must benefit the kingdom as well.”

Harry met his father’s gaze, unflinching. “I understand, Father. I do. But I cannot ignore what my heart tells me. I believe Lady Y/N is the right choice. I will not marry anyone else.”

The Queen’s face tightened, but she nodded slowly. “Very well,” she said, her voice tinged with resignation. “If this is what you want, we will support you. But know that this decision will not be without consequences.”

Harry nodded, his heart racing but his resolve firm. He had made his decision, and nothing would sway him now.

As the Queen’s heels echoed faintly down the hallway, her departure leaving an air of quiet tension, Harry lingered in the royal study, his thoughts still churning. The weight of the conversation hung heavy in the room. He was about to turn and leave when his father’s voice stopped him.

“Harry.”

The King’s tone was low, but it carried the command of years of rule. Harry turned back, his heart pounding in his chest. His father was standing near the grand desk, a heavy look of contemplation on his face. The King gestured for Harry to come closer.

“I’ve been meaning to give this to you for some time,” the King said, reaching into the drawer of the desk. He withdrew a small, velvet-lined box and opened it to reveal a large, ornate ring. It gleamed in the dim light, the family crest etched into its gold setting.

Harry’s breath caught as he recognized the ring immediately—the one that had been passed down through generations of their family. It was the symbol of the crown itself, the marker of a union that would bind not just two people, but the fate of the kingdom.

His father held it out to him, a rare softness in his eyes. “This was my father’s before me. His father’s before that. It is meant for the one you choose, Harry. To give to her, to prove that you are committed, not just in name, but in heart. It is not just a ring; it is a promise. A promise to your future.”

Harry took the ring from his father’s hand, feeling the cool metal beneath his fingers. He had never been this close to the weight of his family’s history, and now, in his grasp, it felt as if the past, present, and future were all coiled into this single moment.

He looked up at his father, eyes questioning. “How... how do I give it to her? How do I ask her?”

The King’s expression hardened slightly, but his voice was measured, filled with a sense of quiet understanding. “You do not ask her lightly. Proposing with this ring is not just a gesture, it is a vow. It is a promise to stand by her no matter what comes. You must be certain, Harry. Certain that she can withstand the storm.”

Harry nodded slowly, his mind racing. His father continued, his tone darkening with the weight of experience.

“The life you are choosing for her... it will not be easy. She will be scrutinized at every turn. The court will question her every move, every word. She will be judged not only for who she is but for how well she fits into the life you’ve chosen. The royal life. The weight of the crown rests upon both of your shoulders now, whether you like it or not.”

Harry swallowed, the gravity of his father’s words sinking in. He knew the world would be unforgiving, that the life of royalty came with far more than just grandeur and wealth—it came with expectations and pressures that few could endure.

“Is she strong enough?” the King asked, his voice quiet but intense. “This isn’t a life for the faint of heart, Harry. The scrutiny, the politics—it will tear at her. And if she is not strong enough to handle it, it will tear at both of you.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, and he met his father’s gaze, his resolve firming. “I believe she is. She stands strong. She may not fit the mold, but that is why I am certain she’s the one. I will protect her, Father. I will stand by her.”

The King studied him for a moment, as if weighing his son’s words. Then, with a single nod, he spoke again.

“You will do well, Harry. But remember... this ring is more than just a token of your affection. It is a symbol of what you’re both willing to endure. Are you prepared for that? Are you ready to face what lies ahead?”

Harry’s voice was steady, his determination clear. “I am ready.”

The King’s gaze softened for a moment, and he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Then take it. Give it to her, but do so with the knowledge that what lies ahead will test you both. And if she is the one, you will stand together through it all.”

Harry nodded, slipping the ring into his pocket, its weight a constant reminder of what was to come. “I will, Father. I will.”

As Harry turned to leave, his father’s voice called after him one last time. “One last thing, Harry.”

Harry paused, his hand on the door.

“Never forget,” the King said, his voice low but fierce, “that the crown does not simply belong to the throne—it belongs to the people. And what you choose for yourself, for your future... will ripple through the kingdom. Be sure it is the right choice.”

With those words echoing in his mind, Harry left the room, the weight of his decision—and the responsibility that came with it—settling deeper into his bones. The path ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: he had made up his mind. Y/N was the one. And nothing would stand in the way of him making her his.

The grand ballroom of the royal castle was alive with the hum of excitement and opulence. Crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a soft, shimmering glow, casting reflections of gold and silver across the polished marble floors. The scent of roses mingled with the faint fragrance of champagne and delicate perfumes, a heady mix that filled the air. The sound of strings and soft piano melodies floated from the orchestra, adding to the grandeur of the evening.

The guests were already arriving in their finest gowns and tailored suits, their laughter and chatter filling the room as they mingled, bowing and curtsying to each other in the time-honored tradition of the royal court. The royal family, as always, stood at the center of the event, the focus of every eye in the room. But tonight, there was a different kind of electricity in the air—something unspoken, yet tangible, as the ball wasn’t just a celebration of nobility; it was a grand spectacle that had drawn attention far beyond the usual court circle.

Lady Y/N had arrived earlier in the evening, escorted by her mother. Her gown was breathtaking—a deep emerald green velvet that shimmered under the lights, the fabric hugging her figure and flowing out into a delicate train behind her. Her hair was pinned into soft waves, adorned with small pearls that caught the light as she moved. The necklace her mother had insisted upon wearing, a family heirloom, rested against her throat, and though she felt the weight of its history, she couldn't help but feel the slightest tinge of unease.

Her heart was heavy, not with the burden of the ball itself, but with the choice that had been made for her. The choice to make her the object of Harry’s fascination.

She glanced around the room, her eyes searching for familiar faces among the crowd, but they were drawn, almost magnetically, toward the far end of the ballroom. There he was. Prince Harry.

He stood tall, his presence commanding the space even without a word. His deep blue suit was tailored perfectly to his frame, the rich fabric catching the light in the most regal way. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his eyes—those piercing green eyes—scanned the room, locking momentarily with hers. For a brief, fleeting second, time seemed to slow, and everything else faded away.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she tried to steady herself. She had spent days wondering how she would feel in this moment—how she would handle seeing him for the first time since their conversation had shifted to something more serious, more irreversible.

And yet, as much as she tried to stay composed, the familiar rush of emotions overwhelmed her. His gaze, intent and steady, held her prisoner for a moment longer before his lips curled into a subtle, almost imperceptible smile. It was enough to send a shock of warmth through her, making her heart beat faster.

She looked away, trying to calm the flutter of her chest. It had been too long since she’d seen him, and tonight everything felt different. More weighty. The eyes of the entire court were upon her, watching for signs, watching for her reactions. The pressure to be perfect was something she had learned to deal with long ago, but with him, it was a different kind of test—one of the heart, not of status.

But it wasn’t just her eyes he was searching for.

Across the room, Harry slowly made his way through the crowd, greeting dignitaries and nobles with practiced politeness, but his attention never fully wavered from Y/N. His heart hammered in his chest as the moment he had been waiting for—the one he had orchestrated—approached. Every step toward her felt like a lifetime, yet each moment made him more sure of what he had already decided. She was the one. And tonight, in front of the entire court, he would make it known.

As he approached her, the room seemed to quiet around them, a natural hush falling as though the very air around them thickened with anticipation. When he finally stood before her, his gaze was steady and sincere. There were no pretenses, no grand speeches—just the raw honesty in his eyes.

“Lady Y/N,” he said, his voice low and rich, a slight bow of his head in greeting. “You look... stunning.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she smiled, trying to keep the nerves in check. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she replied, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest.

Harry straightened, his gaze never leaving hers. “I’ve been waiting for this night for a long time,” he said, his tone tinged with an almost dangerous sincerity.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unsure how to respond to such a direct admission, especially with the weight of the evening pressing in on them. “I hope the evening meets your expectations,” she said carefully, her words measured as always. But deep down, she felt an undeniable pull—an ache in her chest, something that neither the ball nor the expectations of the court could hide.

Harry smiled again, but this time it was more knowing, almost a little conspiratorial. “I believe it will. And more.”

Before Y/N could respond, the sound of the orchestra shifted, signaling the start of the waltz. Harry extended his arm toward her, his posture relaxed but firm.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, his voice not leaving any room for doubt.

Y/N hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, before nodding, her heart racing. She took his arm, and they moved to the center of the ballroom, the eyes of the court following their every step.

As they began to dance, the room seemed to dissolve around them, the noise fading into a blur. In that moment, it was just the two of them. The beat of their hearts synchronized in an unspoken rhythm, and Harry’s presence, his warmth, filled every inch of the space between them.

Y/N’s mind raced, but there was a part of her that knew this was only the beginning. Whatever lay ahead, it would be no simple affair. This was more than just a royal ball—it was a turning point. For both of them.

And Harry, as he spun her across the floor, knew with an almost unsettling certainty that this night was the first step toward making her his.

As the ball continued in full swing inside the palace, Harry found his mind drifting. He had spent hours amidst the music and the elegant crowd, exchanging pleasantries, but all the while his gaze had sought out only one person — Y/N. The decision had been made, and now all that remained was the moment to put everything into action.

Finally, as the night wore on, Harry found a quiet moment. He excused himself from his conversation with a few guests and slipped toward the garden. His heart beat a little faster now, the cool night air adding to his anticipation. He had decided — he would propose tonight, and nothing would deter him.

As the garden gate creaked open, he saw her.

Y/N stood by a stone fountain, her figure outlined against the soft glow of the moon. Her posture was graceful, yet there was a hint of tension in her stance, as if she too felt the weight of what had been brewing between them.

Before Harry could approach, he noticed Margaret, Y/N’s chaperone, stepping onto the path just a few feet behind her, a silent but ever-watchful figure. It was customary, of course, and Harry didn’t mind. He respected it, knowing that Margaret’s presence was part of the decorum that governed such affairs.

He cleared his throat gently to announce his arrival, and Y/N turned, a small, surprised smile pulling at the corners of her lips. Her eyes flicked briefly to Margaret, and Harry could see the hesitation that lingered in her gaze. He stepped closer, his voice soft but firm.

"I thought I might find you here," he said, his words almost drowned out by the rustling of the leaves in the evening breeze.

Y/N’s brows furrowed slightly, curiosity tugging at her. "It’s quiet here. I like it it”.

Harry took another step forward, and his tone became more serious, though there was still an underlying warmth in his voice. "I wanted a moment alone with you," he said, his gaze softening. "No distractions, no expectations — just you and me."

Margaret, ever vigilant, remained a few steps away, but her presence was a silent reminder of the formality of the moment.

Harry’s heart raced, but he held his ground. "Y/N," he continued, "I’ve spent months trying to figure out what I truly want. I’ve been... uncertain, even stubborn at times. But one thing has never changed. From the moment we met, I knew there was something about you that drew me in."

Y/N didn’t speak, her eyes locked with his, and Harry could feel the intensity between them. It was as if the entire world around them fell away, and for a moment, it was just the two of them.

"You’ve challenged me," he went on, his voice low and sincere. "You've made me feel... alive in a way I’ve never experienced before. I can no longer pretend that I don’t know what I want."

Taking a deep breath, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the family ring, the heavy gold gleaming in the moonlight.

"Y/N, will you marry me?" His voice was steady but filled with the gravity of the question, his heart thudding in his chest.

Y/N stood there, her breath caught in her throat.

She took a small step back, her voice shaky but determined. "You are willing to marry me?" she asked, her gaze locking with his, searching for some sign that he was truly serious. "A woman with no title, just noble blood? A woman with no alliances or anything to give you? Are you truly willing to bind your future to mine, despite all that?"

Her words hung in the air, almost like an accusation, but also a genuine question — a fear, perhaps, that she wasn't enough, that her place in his world would never be enough.

For a moment, Harry said nothing.

Harry looked at her, the weight of her question hanging between them. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze steady and unwavering. Y/N’s question had struck him deeply, but he wasn’t shaken by it. Instead, he stepped closer, closing the space between them, and took her hand gently in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles with quiet intent.

"Y/N," he began, his voice low but firm, as if every word was something he had already decided in his mind. "Titles, alliances—none of that matters to me. I don’t need any of it." He paused, his eyes searching hers, as though he were making sure she understood just how serious he was.

"You think you have nothing to offer," he said, his voice soft but unyielding, "but you’re wrong. What you are—who you are—it’s everything I want. And I would rather face whatever challenges come with being with you than live without you."

There was no hesitation in his eyes, no uncertainty. If she didn’t know him better, she might have thought him mad for speaking with such certainty. But the truth was, Harry had never been more sure of anything in his life.

"Y/N," he said again, a quiet intensity in his words, "I want to marry you. I don’t care about titles. I don’t care about what people think. I care about you. And I’m asking you, because I’ve made my decision, and it’s you."

Y/N’s heart raced, her breath catching in her throat as she listened to him speak. His words seemed to melt away the walls she had carefully built around herself over the past few weeks. For a moment, she couldn’t find the right words—how could she, when her heart felt so full?

Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she fought them back, her voice trembling as she spoke, “I didn’t know... I didn’t know it would feel like this. The days without any word from you... it was agonizing. I missed you in ways I never thought I would.”

She looked down for a moment, feeling vulnerable, as if he could see the very depths of her soul. “I thought I’d been foolish to feel this way. To let myself even hope."

But she couldn’t hold back any longer. Looking up into his eyes, her voice steadier now but still full of emotion, she said, "Harry, I care for you more than I’ve ever allowed myself to admit. More than I can put into words."

Y/N took a deep breath, the weight of everything finally lifting as she made her decision. She reached for his hand, her fingers trembling slightly, but her heart steady. She looked up at him, her eyes shining with the sincerity of her words.

"So yes," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, but filled with certainty. "I will marry you."

Her heart fluttered as his gaze softened, and she saw the relief and joy in his eyes. The world seemed to pause around them for a moment, the sounds of the ballroom a distant hum as Harry gently cupped her face, his thumb brushing away the tears that had begun to fall freely.

Just as Harry leaned in, the tender moment charged with anticipation, a subtle but purposeful sound broke through the hush — Margaret clearing her throat.

Both of them turned slightly, cheeks flushing as they remembered they weren’t alone.

Margaret stood a respectful distance away, eyes averted but unmistakably present.

Harry exhaled slowly, his throat tight with longing, his every instinct aching to close the distance between them. But instead, he straightened, forcing himself to step back.

He offered Y/N a soft, almost regretful smile. “Forgive me,” he murmured, voice husky, “another time.”

Though his restraint made her heart ache, it only confirmed what she already knew — that he was a man of honor. A prince, yes, but a true gentleman first.

And somehow, the fact that he didn’t kiss her then made the promise of one yet to come all the more powerful.

Harry turned to her once more, his voice low but laced with conviction. “There’s one more thing,” he said, reaching gently for her hand. “I would like you to meet them—my parents. Tonight.”

Y/N blinked. “Tonight?”

He nodded. “They know. About you. I’ve told them everything that matters. Now I want them to see for themselves the woman I’ve chosen.”

A nervous flutter stirred in her chest. “And… they agreed to meet me?”

Harry gave a small smile. “My mother is still… adjusting. But she will come around. My father—he’s the one who gave me the ring.”

Her breath caught. “You’ve already…”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes softening. “I meant what I said in that garden. And I don’t want another day to pass without them meeting the woman that has captured my heart.”

Y/N swallowed, a dozen emotions swirling within her — fear, disbelief, joy. But when she looked into Harry’s eyes, calm and unwavering, she found her courage.

“Then I’ll come,” she whispered, her fingers curling around his. “Lead the way.”