His Favorite Mistake

The first rule of Royale DeAngelis High is simple: respect the crown.

The second rule? The crown is me.

My name’s Louis Royce… yes, like the car.

If you groan at that, cool.

I paid for the groan.

My father once told me, superior as a stockbroker in a suit, that ’a name is an investment’.

He wasn’t wrong.

Everyone remembers a Royce.

They remember us like they remember bad weather: unavoidable and mildly dangerous.

Royale DeAngelis High isn’t a school.

That’s retail copy.

It’s a coliseum with a uniform code.

It’s a catwalk for juvenile aristocrats.

It’s a throne room where gossip is currency and popularity are measured in who follows you on social.

I don’t walk the halls; I preside over them.

I arrive, and the place rearranges itself around my ego like furniture around a fireplace.

This morning’s performance required a proper entrance.

The McLaren did the heavy lifting… black, low, and purring like it owed someone money.

I stepped out slow: one-foot, dramatic pause, sunglasses slid down, watch flashing like an apology I didn’t intend to make.

Doors lifted like wings; people closed their mouths.

Whispers ripple on cue: “Royce is here.”

“God, he’s unreal.”

“Someone get me his autograph for posterity.” If you’re not at least a little moved by that, you’re doing life wrong.

I don’t do small talk.

I do small people.

Which is why Timothy Greaves… Timmy, bless him… was the perfect opening act.

Timmy is the sort of boy who looks like his parents made all the wrong life choices and then apologised with thrift shop vouchers.

Mud-brown loafers that have seen three wars, a backpack that’s more duct tape than fabric, and a nervous energy that could power a kettle.

He was standing near the main steps, looking like he’d been mistaken for an extra in a tragic school play.

I smiled, because that’s what rulers do: they smile right before they carve names into reputations.

“Timothy Greaves,” I said, loud enough for the sun to hear. “Tell me everything. Did your parents outsource your wardrobe to someone with a vendetta?”

A ripple of laughter.

Tim’s ears turned lobster-red… the colour of a man who has just read his own obituary and is horrified to find out it’s trending.

He muttered something that vaguely resembled an apology.

I moved closer, not threateningly… there’s a line between threatening and entertaining, and I love to strut along it like it’s a runway. “Those shoes,” I said conversationally, “are they a tribute to autumn? Or to the literal earth?”

Someone in the back snorted.

The courtyard was a live studio audience and we were giving a masterclass.

Then the universe, perhaps bored, decided to be kind: Timmy’s hand trembled.

The cheap paper cup of coffee he clutched… sweat-slick from nerves, lid askew… tipped.

The spill was spectacular in its timing.

It arced through the air like a performance art piece and landed… faithfully, beautifully… directly across my chest.

Silence.

The kind of silence that makes your teeth itch.

When I felt warm liquid soaking into my Italian blazer, the first thing I thought was not anger.

It was inconvenience.

Armani does not absorb coffee; it repels it, judges it, and makes legal threats.

I peeled the blazer off like it had turned traitor and chucked it onto the nearest freshman. “Hold that,” I told him. “See if it matches your personality.”

For a second, before the laughter came, the silence felt like home.

Then I fixed my eyes on Timmy.

He tried to step back; I grabbed his collar.

Not hard.

You don’t bruise for theatrics… you bruise for headlines.

“You know what that was, Timmy?” I asked.

“That was assault. Against royalty. Around here that’s called treason.”

The crowd leaned in like wolves adjusting for a better view.

Someone already had their phone out.

If this were a movie, this would be the slow clap scene.

I bent down, picked up one of Timmy’s books, and tossed it like a judge hurling a gavel.

Pages scattered across the steps, confetti for humiliation.

“Say hello to irrelevance,” I told him, hairline-smile precise. “Don’t bother picking up your dignity; the bin’s right over there.”

Laughter erupted.

Someone started the chant: “Royce! Royce! Royce!” I raised an eyebrow and played it out, because humility has a way of being so much better when the crowd hands it to you on a velvet tray.

Timmy scuttled away, a wounded mascot.

Phones were already uploading clips: a ten-second clip of me being glorious… expandable into memes by lunch.

Fame is fleeting, but it’s also recyclable.

When the performance died down, I paused to bask.

Curate the smirk.

Adjust the cufflinks.

The crown needs polish and I have the best polisher: a public who gasps at my smallest sigh.

That’s the thing about this place: cruelty is palatable when it’s edible entertainment.

People will forgive a lot if you’re charismatic about it.

Ask me how I know.

I wrote the manual.

Not that I don’t get bored.

Repeating the same cruelty every morning is like eating the same Michelin-starred dish for breakfast: decadent until you taste nothing.

So, I spice it up.

A twist here… call someone out for smelling like last week, announce to a clique that they tried to copy my jacket (and failed), plant a rumour that the head prefect’s hair is fake… artistry, truly.

And yet, between the jokes and the shine, there’s always a little ripple.

A private footnote to the show.

The blazer that caught coffee? My father’s idea.

The watch that blinks faintly with an heirloom engraving?

Also, a compromise he thought would motivate me.

I wear these things like armour and like hand-me-downs of expectation.

At home, the marble floors are too quiet; my father counts me like a portfolio… numbers, investments, trophies… but not people.

So, I sharpen my teeth here, in public, because in a crowd, my edges look razor-clean instead of ragged. Isolation tolerable, spectacle preferable.

That’s the secret: make people stare, and they won’t notice your hands shaking.

I sauntered toward the main building, enjoying the residual buzz.

A teacher tried to scold me… Mrs. Hargreaves, a woman who thinks authority is a suggestion when I’m involved. “Louis,” she said, “that was unnecessary.”

I shrugged. “Education is unnecessary, too, sometimes. That’s why they invented tutors.” She pursed her lips; I think she almost smiled.

Old rules have potholes called charm.

My crew fell into step: Jasper, who laughs at anything that looks expensive; Mina, who edits my captions like a PR firm with feelings; and Theo, the human approval button.

They feed me the applause, and I feed them opportunities… like a benevolent dictator with a late-night talk show.

“Chill, King,” Jasper said, elbowing me. “You’re going to give Timmy a complex.”

“I’ve given more people complexes,” I admitted proudly. “It builds character.”

Mina shot me a look. “You’re enjoying this,” she said.

“I’m a performer,” I corrected. “It’s called craft.”

We passed the statue at the quad… some pretentious sculpture the school bought because it looked inspirational…. and I added a mental note: tomorrow, we’d replace Timmy’s shoes with a pair of pink Crocs drawn from the lost-and-found.

Humiliation with a colour palate.

Aesthetic harm.

By the time class bell rang, the courtyard had resumed its previous order: gossip chains, sweaty athletes, a lone philosopher who reads in the corner… everything back where it belonged.

I pocketed the memory of the morning… the delicious bite of attention… and wore my ruined blazer like a war scar.

There are things that look worse when hidden.

On my way to class, a freshman whispered, “Do you think he ever gets tired of being so perfect?” I smiled a little too sharp. “Perfection is a lifestyle, not an occasional whim.”

If you ask me what my favourite part of Royale DeAngelis High is, I’d say the people who think they can touch me.

They’re naïve and therefore entertaining.

But if you asked me the truth, quietly, in a place with no cameras and no audience, I might say something else.

I might say I enjoy the silence after the show… just long enough to count the cracks in my own armour.

I didn’t say that aloud.

Kings don’t confess.

They command.

And for now, the crown fits snug.

Tomorrow, I’ll find another head to knock it off.

Louis Royce.

Crown polished, suit stained with a memory of petty coffee.

My empire was intact.

The school knew whose name to whisper when it wanted to feel safe.

But even kings forget... crowns cut deeper than they shine.

“Royce is here,” someone repeated, like a benediction.

I basked in it, because habit is easier than honesty, and the show must go on.