Prince Damien

Have you ever had your identity rejected before you even had the chance to claim it? Have you ever lived your entire life as a secret—not the fun kind, like a surprise party or a hidden talent for juggling, but the kind that could get you killed?

Welcome to my world.

If I sneezed at the wrong pitch, Geneva could lose its future king.

My name is Prince Damien Velowsky Williams IV, son of Queen Melanie and the late King Arthur, heir to the Central Kingdom, future ruler of the five kingdoms of Geneva, and—in exactly eight months—I would be crowned king.

Except there was one tiny, insignificant problem.

I was a girl.

But we’ll get to that.

Right now, I was standing in the corridor outside the throne room, trying very hard not to vomit on my perfectly polished boots. The kind of boots that cost more than most people’s houses. The kind that pinched my toes and made walking feel like a tactical military operation.

“Your Highness.” Miss Belinda appeared at my elbow, her expression as severe as the bun she’d worn for the past eighteen years. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Breathing like a dying horse.”

I shot her a look. “I’m nervous, Belinda. This is my first royal conference. I’m allowed to breathe however I want.”

“You are a prince,” she said, adjusting my collar with the efficiency of someone who’d done this a thousand times. Which she had. “Princes do not hyperventilate. They also do not fidget, slouch, or—” She slapped my hand away from my cravat. “—attempt to strangle themselves with their own neckwear.”

“It’s tight.”

“It’s fashion.”

“It’s suffocating.”

“Then suffer elegantly.” She stepped back, examining me with the critical eye of a jeweler inspecting a diamond for flaws. “Better. Now remember: shoulders back, chin up, and for the love of all that is holy, do not smile too much. You look deranged when you smile.”

“Thanks for the confidence boost.”

“You’re welcome.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from my jacket. “Your mother is waiting. The council is waiting. The entire kingdom is waiting. So unless you plan to abdicate in the next thirty seconds, I suggest you walk through those doors and pretend you know what you’re doing.”

I took a breath. A princely breath. The kind that didn’t sound like a dying horse.

“I can do this.”

“Of course you can.” Her expression softened—barely. “You’ve been training for this your entire life.”

Right. Training.

Eighteen years of learning how to walk like a man, talk like a man, sit like a man, fight like a man, and rule like a man. Eighteen years of binding my chest until I couldn’t breathe, lowering my voice until my throat ached, and pretending I didn’t exist.

Because in Geneva, women didn’t rule.

Women were ornaments. Bargaining chips. Pretty things to be married off for alliances and treaties. Women were not meant to sit on thrones, command armies, or make decisions that affected millions of lives.

So my mother had made a choice.

When my father died and she realized she was carrying a daughter—not the son everyone expected—she did what any terrified, brilliant, ruthless queen would do.

She lied.

She told the kingdom she’d given birth to a boy. She hid me away, dressed me in trousers and jackets, taught me to fight and fence and ride. She gave me tutors who never questioned, servants who were paid to stay silent, and a life that was equal parts privilege and prison.

And now, eighteen years later, I was about to walk into a room full of nobles, dignitaries, and council members who believed I was their future king.

No pressure.

“Your Highness,” Belinda said quietly. “It’s time.”

I nodded.

The corridor stretched ahead of me, long and suffocating. The walls were a depressing shade of gray stone, lined with portraits of dead kings who all looked vaguely constipated. I’d always hated this hallway. It felt like walking through a tomb.

Note to self: first act as king—redecorate this nightmare.

As I approached the massive double doors, a small army of attendants swarmed me like well-dressed locusts. One adjusted my jacket. Another smoothed my hair. A third checked my boots for scuffs.

I stood there like a doll, letting them fuss.

This was my life. Being poked, prodded, and polished until I looked like the perfect prince. Until there was nothing left of me and only the mask remained.

Finally, they stepped back.

The doorman—a man so old he’d probably served my great-great-grandfather—looked at me expectantly.

I gave him a nod.

He pulled the doors open.

And I walked into hell.

The throne room was exactly as I remembered it: enormous, ostentatious, and utterly ridiculous.

Whoever designed this place clearly believed that subtlety was for peasants. Gold leaf covered every surface. Chandeliers the size of carriages hung from the vaulted ceiling, dripping with crystals that probably cost more than a small village. The floors were polished marble, so shiny I could see my reflection.

And the people.

Hundreds of them.

Nobles in their finest silks and velvets. Dignitaries from the other four kingdoms. Council members with their smug faces and calculating eyes. Journalists with their cameras, ready to capture every moment for the history books.

They all turned to look at me.

The weight of their stares was suffocating.

I kept my face blank. Princely. Bored, even, as if walking into a room full of people who could destroy me with a single word was just another Tuesday.

Shoulders back. Chin up. Don’t smile like a deranged person.

I walked forward, my boots clicking against the marble. Each step was measured, controlled. I’d practiced this walk a thousand times. The confident stride of a future king.

Camera flashes exploded around me like tiny suns.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t acknowledge them.

Ignore the lights. Ignore the stares. Ignore the fact that your heart is trying to escape through your ribcage.

At the far end of the room, on the raised dais, sat my mother.

Queen Melanie Williams.

She looked exactly as a queen should: regal, composed, untouchable. Her gown was deep emerald green, her crown a delicate circlet of gold and diamonds. Her dark hair was swept back, revealing a face that could have been carved from marble.

But I knew her better than anyone.

I saw the tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers gripped the armrest just a little too tightly. The faint worry in her eyes that no one else would notice.

She was terrified.

For me.

I forced myself to keep walking. Past the rows of nobles who whispered behind their fans. Past the council members who watched me like hawks circling prey. Past the journalists who scribbled notes and muttered to each other.

Don’t trip. Don’t stutter. Don’t do anything that makes them question you.

I reached the dais and bowed.

Not too deep—I was the heir, after all—but enough to show respect.

“Your Majesty,” I said, my voice steady and low. The voice I’d spent years perfecting.

My mother’s lips curved into a small, proud smile.

“Prince Damien,” she said, her voice carrying across the silent room. “Welcome.”

I straightened and turned to face the crowd.

This was it.

My first royal conference.

The moment I proved I could do this. That I could stand in front of the most powerful people in Geneva and convince them I was their future king.

No big deal. Just my entire life on the line.

I opened my mouth to speak—

“Please proceed, Prince Damien,” Miss Belinda’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and insistent. “We’re all waiting.”

Right.

I blinked, pulling myself out of my spiraling panic, and focused.

The speech. I had a speech.

I’d memorized it. Practiced it. Recited it in front of mirrors and servants and my very patient mother until the words were burned into my brain.

I could do this.

“Esteemed members of the council,” I began, my voice ringing clear and strong. “Honored guests. Representatives of the four kingdoms. I stand before you today not as a boy, but as the future of Geneva.”

Dramatic much?

I ignored my own internal commentary and continued.

“In eight months, I will be crowned king. I will take the throne my father left behind and lead this kingdom—and the four kingdoms united under our banner—into a new era of prosperity and peace.”

Applause rippled through the room. Polite, measured. The kind of applause that said we’re watching you, boy, so don’t screw this up.

I smiled. The princely smile. Not too wide. Not too friendly.

Just enough to seem confident without looking arrogant.

“I know there are those who question my readiness,” I said, my gaze sweeping across the crowd. “Who believe that eighteen is too young to rule. But I have spent my entire life preparing for this moment. I have studied history, politics, and diplomacy. I have trained in combat, strategy, and leadership. I have learned from the best tutors, the wisest advisors, and—” I glanced at my mother. “—the strongest queen Geneva has ever known.”

More applause. Louder this time.

My mother’s smile widened, just a fraction.

I’d done it. I’d said the right things, hit the right notes. I’d played the part perfectly.

But as I stood there, basking in the approval of people who didn’t know the truth, I felt something twist in my chest.

Guilt? Shame? Fear?

All of the above?

Because the truth was, I was ready to rule. I had trained my entire life. I could lead Geneva into a new era.

But I couldn’t do it as myself.

I could only do it as a lie.

The conference dragged on for hours.

Speeches. Reports. Debates about trade agreements and military funding and a dozen other things that made my brain want to melt out of my ears.

I sat on a smaller throne beside my mother, trying to look engaged while secretly wondering if anyone would notice if I fell asleep.

Probably.

Finally—finally—the conference ended.

The nobles filed out, still whispering and casting glances in my direction. The council members lingered, talking in low voices. The journalists packed up their cameras and notebooks, no doubt already writing their headlines.

Future King Damien: Confident or Cocky?

Prince Damien’s First Conference: A Promising Start

Is Geneva Ready for a Teenage King?

I stood, my legs stiff from sitting for so long, and descended the dais.

Miss Belinda appeared at my side, as always.

“Well done, Your Highness,” she said quietly. “You didn’t embarrass yourself.”

“High praise.”

“I mean it.” She glanced around, making sure no one was listening. “You were perfect.”

Perfect.

Right.

I was the perfect prince. The perfect heir. The perfect lie.

“Your Highness.”

I turned to find Lord Cedric Hawthorne, the council’s chancellor, approaching. He was a tall, thin man with a sharp face and sharper eyes. The kind of man who smiled while plotting your downfall.

“Lord Hawthorne,” I said, inclining my head.

“A remarkable speech,” he said smoothly. “You have your father’s presence.”

“Thank you.”

“Though I must admit—” His gaze flickered over me, assessing. “—you seem rather... delicate for a future king.”

My blood turned to ice.

“Delicate?” I repeated, keeping my voice even.

“Forgive me.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I only mean that you have a certain... refinement. It’s quite unusual.”

He knows. He knows. He knows.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said coolly. “Refinement is hardly a weakness.”

“Of course not.” He bowed. “I look forward to seeing you at the Royal Summit, Your Highness. I’m sure it will be... enlightening.”

He walked away, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my hands clenched into fists.

Miss Belinda touched my arm gently.

“Breathe,” she whispered.

I did. Slowly. Carefully.

He doesn’t know. He’s just fishing. He doesn’t know.

But the truth was, it didn’t matter if he knew or not.

Because eventually, someone would figure it out.

Someone would notice the way I walked, the way I talked, the way I existed in a body that didn’t quite fit the role I was playing.

And when they did, everything would fall apart.

That night, alone in my chambers, I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my reflection.

Prince Damien stared back.

Short dark hair, carefully styled. Sharp jawline, thanks to clever contouring. Broad shoulders, padded beneath my jacket. Flat chest, bound so tightly I could barely breathe.

I looked like a prince.

I looked like a king.

I looked like everything I was supposed to be.

But beneath the costume, beneath the lies, beneath the carefully constructed mask...

I was just a girl.

A girl who wanted to rule. A girl who could rule. A girl who would never be allowed to rule.

So I did what I’d always done.

I buried her.

I locked her away in the deepest part of myself, where no one could find her. Where no one could hurt her.

And I became Prince Damien.

Because that’s what Geneva needed.

That’s what my mother needed.