The Prince’s Guard

London, 7:42 p.m.

Rain had begun to fall in the quiet, misting way London preferred. It did not drench. It settled. It lingered in collars and cuffs and the bones beneath, a reminder that the city never quite belonged to anyone.

Flashbulbs burst through the drizzle outside the Savoy. Umbrellas bloomed across the red carpet like dark flowers. Inside the limousine, Prince Alexander Ashford adjusted the front of his tuxedo and practiced the smile the world knew so well. Bright. Effortless. Untouchable.

He could already hear them beyond the glass.

Your Royal Highness. Over here. Alex, this way.

He despised the familiarity of it. Alex. As if he were a product. A headline. A polished emblem to be admired and consumed.

Two minutes, came a low voice from across the car.

Alexander looked up.

The new bodyguard sat opposite him, posture flawless, hands resting calmly on his knees. James Shawn. Former army captain. Recently transferred to the royal protection detail after a minor but concerning security breach the previous week. Thirty two. Widower. Decorated service record. No scandals. No weaknesses.

He looked immovable. Solid. Controlled.

And yet there was something quietly unsettling about him. It might have been the stillness. Or the way he did not drop his gaze when their eyes met.

Are you nervous, Captain, Alexander asked lightly, voice smooth as champagne.

No, sir.

Good. You will need nerves of steel tonight.

I am aware, sir.

Alexander’s mouth curved faintly. You are not one for conversation, are you.

I am paid to keep you alive, not entertained, Your Royal Highness.

That earned a small, genuine smirk.

You will find the two often overlap in my case.

The limousine rolled to a stop. The driver announced their arrival.

The door opened to a wall of light and sound. Cameras flared. Voices rose. Alexander stepped out, back straight, expression composed. The roar was nearly physical.

James followed one step behind, scanning the rooftops, the crowd, the restless motion of hands holding phones and lenses.

Inside the ballroom, noise softened into the steady hum of wealth and diplomacy. Chandeliers glittered overhead like captured constellations. Crystal, silk, diamonds. Laughter rehearsed and measured.

Alexander moved through it as he always did, with precision and ease. A kiss brushed over a gloved hand. A gracious nod to a diplomat. A perfectly timed laugh.

He was born to perform.

James remained close. Silent. Observant.

Behind a champagne glass, someone whispered about the new guard. Handsome. Ex military.

Alexander heard it. He pretended not to.

For the first time that evening, his smile felt real.

Later, he leaned against a marble pillar, studying a sculpture he had no interest in while calculating how long until he could escape.

Your Highness.

James stepped close enough that Alexander could feel the warmth radiating from him.

Your speech is in three minutes, sir.

Of course it is. Tell me, Captain Shawn, is this what you imagined when you enlisted. Babysitting princes at cocktail parties.

I have seen worse assignments.

Have you.

Yes, sir. At least this one serves decent champagne.

Alexander let out a quiet laugh. It surprised him.

He turned fully toward the bodyguard. The chandelier light caught in James’s eyes, grey blue and unwavering. Something in Alexander’s chest shifted. Not dramatic. Just enough to notice.

You do not seem like the others, Alexander said quietly. Most guards avoid eye contact.

I was told to observe, not to avert my gaze.

And what do you observe.

James hesitated only a second.

A man doing an excellent job of pretending he is fine.

The practiced smile faltered before Alexander turned his head away.

Careful, Captain. That almost sounded like concern.

Just observation, sir.

When the evening finally ended, Alexander escaped to the terrace overlooking the Thames. Rain streaked the city lights into silver smears. He loosened his bow tie and breathed for what felt like the first time all night.

Footsteps approached.

Security prefers you not come out alone, James said.

You do not strike me as someone who prefers much of anything.

I prefer order.

Then you are in the wrong family.

A faint, almost smile.

It is different from what I imagined, James said after a moment.

What is.

The palace. The position. You.

Alexander turned toward him.

Me.

Yes, sir. You seem untouchable on television.

And now.

Now you look tired.

The word lingered between them.

And yet still royal, I hope.

James held his gaze.

Still royal. Just human.

Human.

The word landed somewhere deep. Somewhere hidden beneath years of expectation.

Alexander’s phone vibrated. A message requesting his presence at nine in the morning for debrief with the Queen.

Back to the masquerade, he murmured.

James followed him inside, silent as ever. Steady as a heartbeat.

Something had begun that neither of them had named.