Chapter 7 A Desperate Decision

The palace car glided through Klbas City's moonlit avenues, a silent black vessel navigating a sea of shadows. Lanterns cast golden halos over cobblestone streets where jasmine vines spilled from wrought-iron balconies, their sweet fragrance lost on Mia Ritchard. She was curled in the back seat, a small, broken figure, her crimson gown ,once a symbol of defiance, now a crumpled flame, the color of her humiliation. Her blond hair clung to tear-streaked cheeks, and her sapphire eyes shimmered with grief so profound it felt like a physical weight.

At twenty, her beauty had become a paradox: a magnet for a prince's desire and a lightning rod for a queen's wrath.

The memory of Tarkan's kiss, fierce, desperate, a storm of four years' longing ,burned against Ramzi's quiet, prophetic warning: You'll bear the cost. Passion and pain, hope and terror, warred within her. It was a trap, and she had walked right in.

"Stop here, please," Mia whispered to the driver, her voice hoarse. The car paused near a quiet plaza, a small island of light in an ocean of darkness. A café glowed, its tables spilling onto the sidewalk under the dark leaves of oleander trees. She stepped out, the crimson silk whispering against the stones. The night air carried the mournful wail of a Klbasian lute from a nearby tavern, a melody of lost love that seemed to mock her. She ordered a chamomile tea, her hands trembling so much she had to clasp them around the warm cup to steady them.

Her striking, foreign beauty drew glances. The murmurs were soft but piercing. Is that her? The girl from the ball? She hunched her shoulders, her elegance feeling like a curse. Why did I go? she thought, the question a frantic spiral. Why did I let myself hope? The office, the Queen's icy scorn, Tarkan's raw confession-it was all wreckage now, a disaster threatening her mother's livelihood, her hard-won scholarship, and the fragile remnants of her heart.

Her phone buzzed. The screen flashed Tarkan. Her chest tightened. She silenced it, unable to bear the sound of his voice. He called again, and a third time, each attempt a silent, desperate plea she couldn't answer. Then, the name shifted: Myar. A hot, bitter wave of anger surged through her, tempered by the memory of their friendship. On the fourth ring, Mia answered, her voice raw.

"Why, Myar? Why would you do this to me?"

Myar's voice was small, heavy with a guilt that felt genuine. "Mia, I am so, so sorry. I saw Tarkan after he left you. He's been broken since the day he left. That whole playboy act... it's a lie. He just wanted to talk, to understand why you were silent. I thought... I thought you two could find some peace."

"Peace?" Mia's laugh was brittle, a sound of shattering glass. "Your mother humiliated me in front of you and Ramzi. She threatened my mother's job, called me a sordid distraction. I do not belong in your world, Myar."

Myar's breath hitched. "I know. And I hate her for it. I saw her storm from the ballroom, her face like ice. I never meant for this to happen." She paused, her voice softening, pleading. "Remember when we were ten, hiding in the library? You read us A Midsummer Night's Dream, and Tarkan kept stealing the book to play Puck, making us laugh until we cried. You were our light then, Mia. You still are."

Mia's throat tightened, the memory painfully vivid, Myar's bronze curls bouncing, Tarkan's easy, boyish grin. "That was a lifetime ago," she whispered. "I can't be that girl anymore."

"Please don't shut him out. Don't shut me out," Myar begged. "He's tearing himself apart over this. You're my sister in everything but blood. Let me help make this right."

"I can't," Mia said, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'm sorry." She hung up, paid for her untouched tea, and retreated to the car, the city's lights blurring as they finally reached her quiet street, lined with modest homes and blooming hibiscus.

Inside, she hoped to slip past her mother, but Sofia stood waiting in the living room, her graying hair loose around her shoulders, her face a mask of worry. "Mia, what is it?" Sofia asked, stepping forward. "Your eyes are red, your gown is a mess. What happened at that ball?"

The last of Mia's composure crumbled. She sank onto the couch, the crimson skirt whispering around her. "I shouldn't have gone, Mama," she said, her voice breaking. "Myar invited me. We danced, we argued, and then... he kissed me. The Queen found us. She was furious. She called me a trespasser, said I would cost you your job."

Sofia's face hardened, her protective maternal anger flaring like a banked fire. "I warned you, Mia. That palace is a viper's nest. When I was a nanny, I saw Faya's eyes turn to ice when a young maid so much as smiled at a visiting noble. She guards Tarkan like a national treasure, and you, my love, are a threat to her reign." She sat beside Mia, her voice softening as she smoothed the golden hair from her daughter's face. "You are too beautiful for their world-those sapphire eyes, that fierce spirit. They draw him in, but they will burn you. You must promise me you will stay away."

Mia nodded, tears streaming down her porcelain cheeks. "I tried, Mama. I told him it was over. But it hurts so much... I still love him."

Sofia pulled her close, stroking her hair. "I know, my child. But we are Ritchards. We are stronger than their games. We will survive this." She paused, her gaze turning fierce. "Now, I am calling Princess Myar. She needs to hear exactly what her well-intentioned plan has done to you."

Mia retreated to her room, the door shutting softly. She collapsed onto her bed, the crimson gown a cruel, vivid reminder of a hope that had flared so brightly before being extinguished. She wept-for the boy who had crowned her queen of a secret kingdom, for the prince she could never have, and for the agonizing, impossible love that refused to die.

Tarkan paced his grand suit like a caged lion, the opulent crimson and gold walls closing in on him. A Klbasian falcon tapestry glared down, its woven eyes accusatory. His bronze skin was flushed, his dark hair tousled, his mind a chaotic replay of the last hour: Queen Faya's venom, Mia's trembling defiance, the kiss that had ignited the inferno. He'd called her eight times. Eight echoes in a void. I broke her, he thought, his fists clenching. I broke her.

Earlier, he had found Ramzi in the suite's study, organizing papers by a cedar-scented fire. "I have ruined her, Ramzi," Tarkan had said, his voice raw with a guilt that was suffocating him. "Mia was shaking when my mother attacked her. I pushed too hard. She is suffering because of me."

Ramzi's lean frame was tense, his gaze steady. "Your Highness, I urged caution. The Queen is set on Lady Lamar. Your interest in Miss Ritchard, a woman of such striking beauty and grace, is a spark in a powder keg."

"Her beauty is not the problem!" Tarkan had retorted. "Those blue eyes, that brilliant mind, she is not a spark, Ramzi. She is my heart. Those years abroad, the women, the tabloids, I was running from her, and it never worked."

"Then what is your plan now, sir?" Ramzi's voice was blunt. "You cannot undo tonight. The Queen's fury is only the beginning."

"I will apologize," Tarkan had declared, his eyes fierce. "I will make this right. I will not let her cry alone."

Now, as he paced, he heard Myar's distressed voice from her adjoining sitting room. He moved to the connecting door, hearing her side of the conversation with Sofia.

"Mrs. Ritchard, please, I am so sorry... I never intended... She's home? Is she alright? ... Crying that hard? Oh no. It's all mother's fault. She ambushed them..."

The words, crying that hard, struck Tarkan like a physical blade, cutting through his anger and leaving only a profound, sickening guilt. His recklessness, his selfish need for answers, had shattered her. He strode back into his suite, his mind made up. Ramzi rose as he entered.

"Get the car," Tarkan ordered, his voice dangerously resolute. "We are going to Mia's house."

Ramzi's eyes widened in alarm. "Your Highness, that is a grave mistake. After tonight, your presence at her home will not comfort her; it will destroy her reputation completely. The Queen would be beyond livid."

"I do not care about my mother!" Tarkan snapped, his bronze skin taut. "I caused this pain, Ramzi. I will not hide in my palace while she suffers."

Ramzi stood firm, his loyalty forcing him into the path of the storm. "Your visit is the scandal, sir. She will be the one who pays the price for it, not you."

Tarkan paused, Ramzi's logic finally cutting through his emotional haze. He was right. A prince arriving on a commoner's doorstep in the middle of the night was not an apology; it was a brand of shame. A new plan formed, born of desperation but tempered by a flicker of strategy. He returned to Myar's room. She had just hung up, her own face pale and worried.

"Myar, you're coming with me," he said, his tone unyielding.

"To Mia's?" she asked, startled, her emerald shawl slipping from her shoulders.

"Yes," he said, his dark eyes pleading with her to understand. "Ramzi is right....me showing up alone is a disaster. It's a scandal. But with you, her oldest friend... it's different. It's us, comforting our Mia. It is an act of friendship, not a prince chasing a girl he has compromised."

Myar's face, so recently full of guilt, is now filled with resolve. "For Mia, of course I'll do it. But Tarkan, Mother is plotting. We have to be smart." She paused, her voice softening as she reached out to him. "Remember when Mia fell from that oak tree when we were twelve? You carried her all the way back to the palace, and I stole bandages and honey cakes from the kitchens. We were a team then. We can be a team now."

Tarkan's heart lifted, a faint, grateful smile breaking through his tension. "We will be. Let's go."

Ramzi sighed, a sound of weary defeat. "I will arrange the car at the private exit," he said, already moving to the door.

In the torchlit courtyard, they met a palace guard, a young, stern-faced Klbasian named Lir. "Your Highnesses," he said, saluting sharply. "The car is ready, but be warned, the city is alive tonight. Rumors from the ball are already spreading like wildfire."

Tarkan's dark eyes narrowed. "Keep this quiet, Lir. We are merely visiting a friend."

Lir nodded, his gaze respectful but knowing. "As you command, sir. A safe journey to you."

The car pulled away from the palace, its engine a soft hum under Klbas's starlit sky, carrying a guilt-ridden prince and a determined princess toward a quiet suburban street, where the hibiscus bloomed like fragrant, sleeping sentinels in the night