The Grand Hall of Illéa shimmered in golden splendor. Velvet drapes hung like waterfalls from the marble arches, and the royal crest gleamed above the ceremonial platform.

Hundreds of guests filled the room—nobles, advisors, and dignitaries—while across the nation, millions of citizens sat glued to their screens, waiting for one decision: who would be their next queen?

Cameras lined the back of the hall, broadcasting every second. Royal guards stood at attention in full regalia. The air pulsed with anticipation.

At the center of it all stood the royal family.

King Clarkson sat tall, his expression unreadable behind a steely gaze. Queen Amberly, elegant and serene as ever, rested a gentle hand on her husband's arm. And beside them, in a flowing periwinkle gown, stood Princess Emmalina—her eyes fixed lovingly on her brother, though her hands betrayed her nerves with a quiet fidget.

Crown Prince Maxon stood alone at the foot of the platform. He wore his ceremonial military uniform, its deep navy fabric contrasting with the polished silver sash across his chest. The lights above glinted off the royal seal on his shoulder. He looked every bit the future king—but inside, his heart pounded like a war drum.

The music swelled softly as the remaining Selected were called forth.

America entered first, her gown a striking shade of crimson, a subtle defiance and a fierce symbol of her spirit. Her hair curled loosely around her shoulders, and yet her eyes were anything but loose—they were focused, vulnerable, and blazing all at once.

Marlee followed, radiant in soft gold, a smile lighting her face despite the weight of the moment. A few other candidates trailed behind, but all knew the truth: this choice was between America and no one else.

The announcer stepped forward, his voice echoing through the chamber and out into the homes of Illéa.

"Citizens of our great nation, we gather today for a moment that will shape the future of our kingdom. His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Maxon Schreave, shall now declare the name of the one he has chosen to stand by his side, as his beloved wife... and your future queen."

A hushed silence fell.

Maxon looked over the girls. His gaze lingered briefly on each, but when he looked at America, the world seemed to fall away. For a moment, he saw only her: the girl who challenged him, who made him laugh, who made him better.

He stepped up to the center, drawing a long, steady breath.

"My people," Maxon began, his voice firm but warm, "I entered this Selection not just to find a queen—but to find someone who would understand the burdens of this role, the needs of this kingdom... and the heart behind the crown."

He paused. America's breath caught.

"I have found her," he said.

Gasps echoed from the crowd. A collective heartbeat seemed to stop.

Maxon turned fully toward America, his eyes locked onto hers.

"Lady America Singer," he said, with a small but unmistakable smile, "will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

The cameras zoomed in.

America stood frozen for just a moment. Then her lips parted, her heart soaring.

"Yes," she said, her voice steady, but thick with emotion. "Yes, I will."

The hall erupted. Applause, cheers, a few tears. Emmalina clapped the loudest, a proud grin lighting her face. Queen Amberly's eyes shone with tears, and even King Clarkson gave a small nod of approval.

Maxon stepped forward, taking America's hands. As he did, a herald announced, "Let it be known that the Crown Prince has chosen his bride. Let Illéa rejoice in its future queen—Lady America of Carolina."

The royal anthem swelled once more as Maxon leaned forward, brushing a kiss on America's cheek—a promise of everything to come.

From the balcony, petals began to fall like confetti over the celebrating crowd. The cameras captured every radiant second.

The nation cheered.

And in that moment, the future of Illéa changed forever.