Chapter 1
Chapter 1: Benedict
The tailoring of a royal suit is designed to hide flaws, but it can’t manufacture mass.
I stood in front of the full-length pier glass in my dressing room, watching the valet, Mr. Harrison, smooth down the shoulders of my charcoal bespoke jacket. The fabric was heavy, structured, padded just enough to give the illusion of a broader frame. But when Harrison stepped back, I still saw exactly what was underneath: narrow shoulders, a slender build, and a stature that always seemed to shrink whenever my older brother, Richard, walked into a room.
Richard was built like a classic Windsor—broad-chested, commanding, effortlessly filling out a military uniform. The press loved him for it. They called him The Stalwart Prince.
I was just the spare. The fragile one. The one who looked as though a strong gust of wind off the Thames might snap him in two.
"Will there be anything else, Your Royal Highness?" Harrison asked, bowing his head slightly.
"No, thank you, Harrison. That will be all."
Once the door clicked shut, I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since breakfast. I leaned against the mahogany desk, my hands gripping the edge. Today was the first day of the King’s anniversary profile interviews. The palace was crawling with press, PR handlers, and photographers. My father expected me to make an appearance at the luncheon, to look dutiful and supportive, to play the part of the quiet, perfect second son.
They didn't know that the perfect son they engineered was a lie. Every smile I gave the cameras, every polite nod to a foreign dignitary, was a shield to protect the truth. I was gay. In a family built on succession, continuity, and rigid tradition, my truth was a structural defect. If it came to light, the weight of the crown would crush me entirely.
I left my quarters, taking the back corridors to avoid the main gallery where the cameras were being set up. I needed a moment of absolute quiet before I had to put the mask back on.
The East Conservatory was usually empty at this hour. It was a massive glass structure filled with white orchids, towering ferns, and the damp, earthy smell of wet soil. It was the only place in the palace where I felt like I could breathe.
I walked down the tiled path, my hands buried in my pockets, eyes fixed on the floor.
"I suppose the architecture is impressive, but the heating bill alone must be an absolute crime against the taxpayer."
The voice was low, smooth, and laced with a dry, unapologetic irony.
I snapped my head up. Standing near the giant monstera plant wasn't a palace gardener or a member of the household staff. It was a man. He was tall, with dark, slightly unruly hair that defied the palace’s unwritten dress code, and he wore a simple navy suit that didn't look like it had been tailored on Savile Row, yet it fit him perfectly. He had a notebook in one hand and a silver pen tucked behind his ear.
But it was his eyes that caught me. They were a sharp, intelligent hazel, and they were looking at me without a single ounce of the usual rehearsed reverence.
"I... I beg your pardon?" I stammered, my voice sounding smaller than I wanted it to.
The man didn't flinch. He didn't bow. Instead, a slow, amused smile touched the corner of his lips. "I said it’s a bit excessive, isn’t it? All this glass just to keep some tropical weeds alive in London." He paused, his gaze sweeping over me, assessing the tailored suit, the royal posture, and the sheer panic vibrating off me. "Ah. You’re Prince Benedict. My apologies. I shouldn't be lecturing you on public spending before lunch."
"You're a reporter," I said, the realization hitting me. My guard instantly flew up. "You shouldn't even be in this wing. The press briefing room is in the West Wing."
"I got lost," he said easily, though the twinkle in his eye told me he had done it entirely on purpose. He took a step closer, and my breath hitched. Up close, there was a grounded, heavy presence to him. He didn't look at me like I was a royal fixture or a piece of history. He looked at me like I was just a man. "I’m Arthur. Arthur Vance. I’m here for the King's profile."
"Arthur," I repeated, the name tasting strange and heavy on my tongue.
"The very same," he said. He slid his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, thick piece of cardstock. He held it out between two fingers. "In case you decide to have me escorted from the premises by the Royal Guard, you’ll know exactly who to complain about."
I hesitated, then reached out and took the card. My fingers brushed against his. It was a fraction of a second, a tiny, accidental spark of warmth, but a jolt went straight down my spine. My throat went completely dry.
Arthur’s smile softened, turning into something a bit more curious, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with a sudden, intense focus. He recognized it too. The sudden shift in the air. The heavy, unsaid thing stretching between us.
"It was a pleasure losing my way, Your Royal Highness," Arthur murmured, his voice dropping a register.
Before I could find my words, he turned and walked back toward the gallery doors, his hands shoved casually into his pockets.
I stood there among the orchids, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked down at the card in my hand. It was matte black with simple, elegant white text: Arthur Vance. Senior Political Journalist. Below it was his phone number and his social media handle.
By midnight, the palace was dead silent, but my mind was a chaotic mess.
I had skipped dinner, claiming a migraine, unable to face my father’s booming voice or Richard’s effortless charisma. I was sitting in my bed, dressed in my silk pyjamas, the laptop heavy on my thighs.
The business card was sitting on the nightstand, practically glowing under the dim lamp.
Arthur.
I shouldn't do it. It was incredibly dangerous. The palace monitored our internet networks, though I had a private, encrypted VPN I used for... well, for things like this. For pretending I belonged to the outside world.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I finally opened a private browser and typed his name into the search bar.
His profile popped up immediately. A journalist’s account, verified, with thousands of followers. I clicked on it, my chest tightening.
Most of his posts were sharp, cynical takes on British politics, links to his articles, and biting commentary on government spending. He was exactly what my father hated—an anti-monarchist intellectual who questioned everything the crown stood for.
But then I scrolled down to his photos.
There was a picture of him sitting at a chaotic desk in a newsroom, laughing at something off-camera, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong, tanned forearms. Another photo showed him standing outside a pub in the rain, holding an umbrella, looking tired but brilliantly, beautifully alive.
He was so real. So entirely removed from the gilded cage I lived in.
I stared at his face on the screen, my thumb tracing the edge of the laptop trackpad. I didn't know him. I had spoken to him for less than two minutes. But as I looked at his hazel eyes smiling back through the glass, a heavy, aching realization settled deep in my chest.
I was completely hooked. And for the first time in my life, I had absolutely no idea how to protect myself from it.
