You were late again.

Of course you were — the subway had stalled for fifteen miserable minutes underground, and now you were sprinting down the crowded sidewalk, dodging people like your life depended on it. Your bag slapped against your side with every desperate step. If you were late one more time, your boss had made it painfully clear: you were fired.

You muttered an apology as you weaved around a food vendor pushing his cart too slowly, a man yelling into his phone, and a woman balancing three coffees in trembling hands. The crosswalk light blinked red at the end of the block. You had to make it.

You pushed harder. And slammed headfirst into someone.

The impact jolted through your entire body, sending your bag crashing to the pavement. You stumbled back a step, stunned.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—” you gasped automatically, reaching to steady yourself.

The man you had collided with barely moved. He stood rooted to the spot, like a statue.

His entire figure was shrouded in black—an expensive black coat tailored perfectly to a tall, broad frame; black leather gloves; black boots so polished they almost gleamed in the morning light. The hood of his jacket was drawn low over his face, shadowing his features.

But even in that split second, you caught enough. A glimpse of pale skin. A sculpted jaw. Eyes like winter steel. Beautiful. Cold. Untouchable.

And then recognition hit you like a second collision.

Prince Lucien Draven. The most infamous royal in the kingdom.

Once, the world had adored him—especially after his sister, Princess Elara, was announced as the heir to the throne. Lucien was meant to be her protector, her strength, her shadow. The perfect brother.

But when Elara died—too young, too suddenly—the country wept. Mourners lined the streets. The funeral was broadcast across the world.

And Lucien?

He didn’t cry. He didn’t give a speech. He didn’t even stay.

Before the ceremony ended, he had turned on his heel, his face carved from stone, and walked away. The cameras caught it. The nation never forgave him.

You stared at him now, heart hammering wildly in your chest, unsure whether to apologize again or just disappear.

“You should watch where you’re going,” he said, his voice low, calm—utterly emotionless. Not angry, not surprised. Like you were just another problem in his way.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Heat flushed your cheeks. “I—I’m sorry,” you managed, bending down quickly to snatch up your bag.

Still, he didn’t move. For one long, breathless moment, he simply stood there, staring at you. His gaze was unreadable—icy, but almost… almost curious.

As if you had done something unexpected by speaking to him like a real person. Like he wasn’t just a living headline.

You stepped back instinctively, giving him space. ILucien adjusted the edge of his hood lower, shielding his face even more. The morning crowd was thick, but if anyone looked too closely, they would surely recognize him.

Without another word, he brushed past you.No apology. No goodbye. Just the faint scent of something sharp and clean—cold air, leather, and something darker, like winter smoke.