Chapter 1

The silk train of his discarded wedding cloak lay coiled on the marble floor like a discarded serpent, shimmering in the light of the roaring fire. King Theron, dressed still in his exquisitely tailored, but now horribly inappropriate, wedding finery, sat slumped in a deep armchair, a goblet of wine clutched loosely in his hand. The tapestries in the grand hall, depicting heroic feats of his lineage, seemed to mock him with their stoic grandeur.


"She really did just…vanish, didn't she, Bartholomew?" he asked, his voice flat.
Bartholomew, his lifelong butler and confidant, stood ramrod straight despite the hour, his face an impeccable mask of concern. "Indeed, Your Majesty. One moment she was preparing to walk down the aisle, the next…gone. No note, no explanation. Only a flock of panicked bridesmaids."


Theron sighed, tipping back the rest of his wine. "Just like that. A king scorned on his wedding day. I can practically hear the gossiping already. The ink will be flying across parchment for weeks."


Bartholomew cleared his throat. "The kingdom will rally behind you, Your Majesty. They understand the fickleness of women."
Theron chuckled, a hollow, mirthless sound. "Do they now? Or are they simply relieved that their king, on the cusp of securing a powerful alliance, is now back on the market? A prize to be won, no doubt."


He ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed, raven-black hair. It was a youthful mane, still untouched by grey. But a different kind of weight lay on his shoulders now. A weight of disappointment, of shattered expectation, and a growing, creeping sense of inevitability.


"Bartholomew," he said, his voice taking on a new, almost resigned tone. "It's time, isn't it?"


Bartholomew stiffened, his gaze flickering to the flickering fire. He knew exactly what the King meant. "Your Majesty…surely not. You're only twenty-nine ."
"Twenty-nine and a half," Theron corrected, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Almost thirty. The clock is ticking, Bartholomew. We can't fight destiny. It's in our blood."


He was referring, of course, to the infamous Thorne family curse – a genetic anomaly that seemed to trigger in the men of the family around their early thirties. They didn’t turn into frogs or grow scales. Instead, they became…endearingly, profoundly plump. Not just a few extra pounds, but a complete transformation into figures of almost comical rotundity.


Theron had always dismissed it as a collection of tall tales, old wives' fables. But seeing his own father and grandfather, once lean and athletic, morph into jovial, waddling figures, he couldn't deny the pattern. And now, jilted and disheartened, he felt the curse looming.


"Very well, Your Majesty," Bartholomew said, his voice laced with a palpable sadness. He knew arguing was futile. The King, once decisive and ambitious, seemed to have lost his fight. "What would you have me do?"


Theron gestured vaguely with the empty goblet. "We need someone…dedicated. Someone who can cater to…my specific needs."


He paused, searching for the right words. "Advertise for a personal assistant. But…emphasize their culinary skills. Someone who can prepare exquisite meals. Comfort food, naturally. And…perhaps someone with a talent for back rubs. And…and maybe someone who enjoys playing strategic board games. You know, for mental stimulation."


Bartholomew, ever the professional, scribbled furiously in his notepad. "Of course, Your Majesty. I shall emphasize exceptional culinary skills, a talent for therapeutic massage, and a fondness for games of strategy. Perhaps even…experience in tailoring bespoke garments for…larger individuals?"


Theron winced. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Bartholomew. One step at a time. Just…find me someone who can make a truly magnificent treacle tart."

He slumped further into the armchair, the firelight painting his face in shades of red and gold. He was a king abandoned, a bridegroom left at the altar, and a man staring down the barrel of a very large, and very cuddly, gun. He closed his eyes. He just wanted the treacle tart.

He really, really wanted the treacle tart. And maybe, just maybe, someone who wouldn't run away at the first sign of a thickening waistline. The Thorne curse had claimed another victim, and this time, it wouldn't be fought with swords or spells, but with butter, cream, and a whole lot of wool batting.