THE PRINCE WHO CHOSE THE GIRL NO ONE WANTED

Part 1 — The Stranger Beneath the Snow

Snow fell over the little village of Evermere, covering its crooked rooftops and narrow streets in white. Lanterns glowed along the square, where villagers gathered for the annual Winter Festival, dressed in their finest coats and silks.

Among them stood a young woman named Isabella Reed.

At twenty-two, Isabella had learned to endure the cruel whispers that followed her wherever she went. She was neither beautiful nor wealthy, and she possessed none of the delicate charm that made other young women the favorites of the village.

Her dresses were old. Her hands were rough from working at the local bakery. And whenever marriage was discussed, people spoke of her as though she were a burden no man would willingly carry.

“Look at Isabella,” a young woman giggled, admiring her own reflection in a silver mirror. “Another winter festival, and still no husband.”

“Perhaps she will marry a snowman,” another replied. “At least he would be cold enough to bear her company.”

Laughter spread through the crowd.

Isabella heard every word, but she lowered her eyes and pretended to be fascinated by the snow beneath her boots.

She had long ago discovered that defending herself only gave cruel people another reason to laugh.

Still, as she watched the other young women dance beneath the lanterns, a quiet ache settled in her chest. She did not dream of a handsome prince or a grand castle. She only wished someone might look at her and see more than an ordinary face.

Someone who might choose her—not out of pity, but because he truly wanted her.

When the church bells struck nine, Isabella slipped away from the festival to deliver a basket of bread to an elderly widow who lived beyond the village gates.

The road was dark, and the wind howled through the pine trees. She pulled her woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders and hurried along the narrow path.

Then she heard something.

A groan.

Isabella stopped.

Beneath an ancient oak tree lay a man dressed in a dark traveling cloak. One hand pressed against his side, where blood stained the fabric. His face was pale, and snow had gathered in his dark hair.

“Sir?” Isabella knelt beside him. “Can you hear me?”

The stranger opened his eyes.

“Go away,” he whispered. “You mustn’t be here.”

“And leave you to die in the snow?” she replied. “I’m not that heartless.”

Despite his protest, Isabella helped him sit up. She tore a strip from the lining of her own dress and pressed it against his wound.

The man watched her with astonishment.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked. “You don’t even know who I am.”

She gave him a small, tired smile.

“Does a person need a reason to help someone who is suffering?”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, for the first time that night, he smiled.

His name was Adrian—or at least, that was the name he gave her. He claimed to be a traveler whose horse had thrown him, though the fine quality of his boots and the silver ring hidden beneath his glove suggested a life far removed from ordinary hardship.

Isabella did not question him. She helped him to his feet and led him through the snow toward her modest cottage.

By midnight, the stranger was resting beside her fireplace, wrapped in a blanket that had belonged to her late mother. Isabella prepared hot soup and placed it before him, insisting that he eat despite his protests.

“You give away your food to a man you have never met,” Adrian observed.

“You are injured. You need it more than I do.”

“And what do you ask in return?”

“Nothing.”

He stared at her as though she had spoken a language he had never heard before.

Adrian had spent his entire life surrounded by people who wanted something from him—money, favors, influence, or the privilege of standing near the throne.

Yet this young woman, who possessed almost nothing, had given him kindness without asking for a single thing.

He looked at her again, truly looked at her this time.

He noticed the warmth in her eyes, the gentle way she moved, and the quiet strength hidden beneath her worn dress. For reasons he could not explain, the room seemed warmer whenever she smiled.

“Tell me something, Isabella,” he said softly. “Have you ever been in love?”

She paused, her spoon hovering above the pot.

“No,” she answered. “Men rarely notice girls like me.”

“Then perhaps they have been looking in the wrong direction.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned away, pretending to check the fire.

Outside, the snow continued to fall.

Neither of them knew that armed riders were already searching the forest for the missing heir to the kingdom.

Neither knew that by sunrise, the royal court would discover where their prince had gone.

And Isabella certainly did not know that the wounded stranger sitting beside her hearth was Prince Adrian, the only son of King Edward and the future ruler of the kingdom.

By morning, he would have to return to the palace.

But he would leave something behind in that little cottage—something no crown, no royal command, and no arranged marriage could easily take away.

For the first time in his life, the prince had found a woman he wished to marry.

And she was the very woman the world had taught him to overlook.