Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

Still grieving the death of my beloved elder brother, but needing to fortify my newfound position, I’m forced to participate in a matchmaking event.

No matter that I have no desire, or any of the required skills, to hold one of the intersection points on my own, I am now the heir to the United European Nation. My chosen bond mates will be selected from the elite of society. Titled, wealthy, practiced in politics — and accomplished in all the essence-wielding skills I lack.

Chosen bond mates.

Not soul bound, not fated.

A love connection isn’t even a fever dream or a fleeting thought. A glam rock star, my childhood best friend, a staid earl, a bareknuckle fighter turned archduke, or a horse breeder …

I don’t get to choose any or all of them.

Because despite the purple eyes marking me as one of the powerful awry, I am in fact an ineffectual dud. The time to find and fortify any such predestined-by-the-universe connections — if such connections even exist for me — ran out when my brother died.