Divine Contract: Marrying My Phantom Prince

The rejection email glowed on the screen of Clara's phone like a slap in the face.

Dear Miss Lynn, Thank you for your interest in the Boston Historical Society internship. We regret to inform you...

She locked the phone and tossed it onto the couch cushion next to her. The tiny studio apartment felt even smaller tonight, the walls closing in with every passing second. The ancient Honda Civic parked outside—her late mother's car, inherited five years ago—along with the small studio apartment her parents had left her, was all she had to her name. Anything that wasn't nailed down had already gone to her student loans. She had spent four years getting a degree in history, and all she had to show for it was a mountain of student loans and a part-time job at a coffee shop that barely covered her mortgage payments and the ever-rising condo fees.

Clara pulled her knees up to her chest, digging her thumbnail into the fabric of her worn sweater. The nail edge caught on a loose thread. She tugged, the thread snapping with a tiny ping. Her stomach growled, a hollow, acidic reminder that she had skipped dinner to save money.

She needed a distraction. Anything to stop the spiral of self-pity.

She grabbed her laptop from the coffee table and flipped it open. The App Store loaded slowly on her outdated machine. She navigated to the games section, scrolling past the usual match-three puzzles and casino slots. She needed something immersive. Something that mattered.

Her scrolling stopped.

An icon sat in the middle of the screen. It was a crown, but shattered down the middle, the jagged edges glowing with a faint, pulsing light. The title beneath it read: Aethelgard: Chronicles.

The tagline underneath made her breath hitch. Every choice you make will reshape the history of a lost kingdom.

It sounded like exactly the kind of escapist fantasy she needed. She clicked 'Download'.

A progress bar filled up. When it finished, the screen went completely black. Then, a low, resonant hum filled her apartment, vibrating the floorboards beneath her feet. It sounded like monks chanting in a cathedral, layered with the howl of a winter storm.

The opening cinematic rolled.

The camera panned over a desolate, snow-swept landscape. A ruined monastery clung to the side of a cliff, its walls crumbling, its roof gaping open to the furious sky. Inside, huddled against the biting wind, was a small group of soldiers. They looked half-dead, their armor frosted over, their faces buried in their cloaks.

But Clara's eyes locked onto the man standing in the center of the ruin.

He was tall, even though his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. His hair was a shock of silver, whipping around a face that looked like it had been carved from marble—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes that glowed a piercing, icy blue even through the pixelation. He looked like a prince from a tragedy.

A text box popped up, overlaying his