The Love Lady Rodgers Lost

In the heart of the 1800s, in the grand southern Queendom of Levthia, there lived a belle named Kaylin Rodgers. Upon her chest rested a brass crown, adorned with a delicate heart at its center, from which a single diamond hung like a drop of morning dew. This crown was a precious heirloom, passed down by her grandmother Agatha—the emblem of a love so rare it was said to bloom but once in a lifetime.

Now, the time had come for Kaylin to claim her place as Queen of Levthia. But to rule, she needed a mate worthy of her heart. So the court summoned suitors from near and far.

“Lady Rodgers,” intoned the herald, “I present Prince Eric James of Cairo.”

Eric approached with trembling steps, sweat beading on his brow, his once-pristine shirt damp and clinging. A faint musk of unease clung to him.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Rodgers,” he stammered, bowing deeply, “for my... unkempt state.”

Kaylin’s eyes, cold as winter’s night, swept over him with quiet judgment.

“Removed,” she commanded, her finger pointing toward the left exit—the path for those unworthy.

One by one, men of all manner presented themselves, each hoping to capture her favor, yet none stirred her soul.

“I wish there were one… one true man among them,” Kaylin whispered, her eyes closing in silent yearning.

Her gown of white chiffon flowed like a gentle breeze, the soft brown corset cinching her waist with delicate grace.

“Shall we proceed?” Peter, her scribe, asked, dipping his white-feathered quill into ink and crossing names from the list.

As the last hopeful departed, Kaylin’s gaze fell to her trembling hands.

“Are you certain, Peter?” she asked softly, scanning the empty hall.

Before him, the heavy Texas-sized palace doors creaked open. A figure stepped inside—a man whose black hair was as smooth as silk, whose skin matched her own beige hue, and whose smile was pure as the morning light.

“Lady Rodgers,” he called, voice steady as a warrior’s drum, “hear my plea. Why will you not dance with me?”

He stood proud and tall, chest puffed, clad in a suit of midnight black, a white collared shirt beneath.

“Who dares summon me?” Kaylin asked, her heart quickening.

“It is I—Ryan Stalino, Prince of Spain. A warrior at heart, a lover at peace.”

For a heartbeat, she held his emerald gaze, then took his offered hand. Rising from her throne, she stepped into his arms, and together they waltzed beneath the silver kiss of midnight.

As their bodies moved in perfect harmony, a single rose bloomed at their feet—its petals soft as whispered promises.

“Roses don’t simply grow,” the prince murmured, “they are born from the love one truly seeks.”

She looked deep into his eyes.

“What is your name, my mysterious prince?”

With a flourish, he twirled her beneath the moonlight.

“I am Ryan Stalino, Prince of Spain.”

His emerald eyes shone with quiet fire.

“I have never seen eyes like yours,” he breathed.

Together, they danced beneath the stars, their souls entwined in a tender embrace.

“A woman of your grace and beauty deserves a life bathed in love and peace,” he whispered before fading into the night, leaving only a trace of moonlight behind.

Kaylin’s heart shattered, tears streaming like rivers down her cheeks.

“Oh, Peter,” she sobbed, stamping her foot in childlike desperation. “Find him—find him now!”

Peter and the guards scoured the palace grounds—the grand entrance, the water tower overlooking the castle, the French Garden where roses bloomed every Thursday eve.

But the prince was nowhere to be found.

“I’m afraid he is gone,” Peter said quietly.

“Why?” Kaylin cried. “Why must he disappear?”

Her love had vanished like a dream, and with it, Kaylin remained—a queen still waiting, her heart forever longing.