It was past midnight.
A slender figure paced restlessly around the dimly lit room, the weight of the night pressing down with unbearable silence. France had been trapped in this cursed British Palace for over a week, and yet sleep still remained an elusive stranger. Her mind screamed with anxiety, frustration, and raw impatience.
What is taking them so long?!
The tension in her chest was suffocating, each passing moment driving her closer to the edge.

Earlier that day, the countrymasters had trickled out of the palace, some smiling with satisfaction, others nursing splitting headaches from the heated arguments - but could anyone blame them? Do you actually think that it's okay to survive all of that without their sanity fraying?
A few, however, remained. Spain lingered, but an unnatural silence hung over him, far too strange for his usual exuberance. And then there was HRE, sticking around for old times' sake, eager to hold on to his bond with BE. And BE... the ever-slick BE, making sure his old friend didn't feel too alone.

But France?
Stay. 
The French were asked to stay.
 Why?
 Why must she endure another endless day in this place?
She needed to go home.
But no—her father had given his approval, and that was it.
Another sleepless night.
Another day, stuck at this horrible place.

After supper, the men—their voices dripping with secrets—gathered for a so-called "secret" meeting.
France was forbidden from eavesdropping.
Forbidden!
For... reasons.

But did they think she'd obey?
Did they truly believe she'd comply?
No. 

No way.

She would never be the docile little girl they expected.
Not this time. 

With the stealth of a shadow, she slipped from her room, her heart thundering in her chest, her breath shallow with purpose. Her only goal now: find that damn room. Their so-called "secret" meeting. And it wasn't even a real secret—France smirked as she crept past the library, hearing the muffled chaos behind a door barely a few feet away.
The pounding of fists.
Raised voices.
Her pulse raced.
She was so close.

She pressed her ear to the door, straining to listen, her heart racing with a sick, awful anticipation.

She heard it first. FE, slamming his fist on the table with a violent crash, his voice shaking with fury. "But you can't do that! She's still a child! Leave her alone!!"

BE's voice, smooth and cold, cut through the tension, "Look at the opportunity, young man. This is bigger than her." He paused, the silence hanging thick in the air before he continued, his voice dripping with that signature smirk she could practically feel. "It would bring peace. It would make negotiations so much easier."

France knew, without a doubt, that he was smirking.
He always smirked.

KoF's voice, thick with reluctant agreement, followed: "I hate to admit it, but... I agree with BE. Stability is everything. She's just a girl, a daydreamer. Maybe this marriage could be good for her—and for the kingdom. Sometimes... a girl must learn her place."

Her place. Her stomach churned violently at those words.

Her brother's voice broke through, fierce and desperate: "I won't let you do this, le père! She's my petite sœur! She deserves more than this! We can't—we can't let her marry him. We have to protect her, do what's right for her. What if he's not who you think he is?"

France could feel the tension in the room, thick and suffocating, like the air before a storm. Her brother was fighting. She could feel him—feel his gaze burning through the door, suspicious, wary, his every word like a hammer against their plans.

She heard pages turning—papers rustling—then Britain's voice, steady but filled with an underlying uncertainty: "I'm confident in my own personality, thank you. But... I'm not sure I can guarantee her happiness in this. This is a political marriage, after all."

"Then don't do it!" Her brother's voice surged in, almost desperately. "End it! Case closed!"

"No," the older men said in a low, unified tone.

The tension in the room was so thick, France could feel it like a physical presence.

"The argument may be over, yes," KoF's voice floated, cool and composed, "But I agree to this arrangement. For the good of our treaty, I will allow my daughter to marry your son."

The words struck her like a blow to the chest. She couldn't breathe. Her body tensed, paralyzed with disbelief.

"I appreciate your time, KoF. Britain, go to bed. Now." BE's voice was cold, dismissive.
Like a command.

France felt her brother's frustration radiate through the thick walls. She heard him sigh, the sound full of hopelessness. She could practically feel his defeat—his spirit breaking.

The men stood, preparing to leave, their footsteps echoing in the silence. France stumbled back, her heart slamming against her ribs, her mind spinning. Her legs gave out, and she fell to her knees, as she had when she was a child—small, helpless, trembling. Her hands gripped the floor, her fingers digging into the cold stone as tears flooded her eyes. Her chest ached, a raw, burning pain that threatened to tear her apart.

Betrayed.
She felt it deep in her bones.
Betrayed.
By the ones who were supposed to protect her, by the ones who claimed to love her.

She lifted her tear-streaked face toward the moonlit window, her breath hitching with every sob. She felt so small.
So helpless.

Her body shook with the weight of the betrayal. Her life was not her own. She was a pawn in a game she had no control over. Kneeling, she clasped her trembling hands together and prayed—prayed with every fragment of her soul.

"God... help me..."

She prayed until her chest was tight with desperation. Until her whole being trembled with the helplessness that only a shattered heart could feel.