The gala is suffocating. You’re trapped in a stiff red dress that scratches your skin, sitting at a table draped in white linen and silver. Your hands are still vibrating from the vibrations of the 500-mile race you just finished, making the heavy silverware clatter against the china every time you try to eat. It’s embarrassing, and you’re trying to hide it by gripping your knees under the table. The King, sitting directly to your right, notices immediately. He doesn't say a word to the cameras or the donors. He simply reaches over, takes your plate, and quietly begins cutting your steak into small, manageable pieces as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. "Adrenaline’s a twitchy mistress, isn't she?" he murmurs so only you can hear, sliding the plate back to you. "First time I won a major, I couldn't even hold a glass of water for two hours. Eat up, kid. You need the fuel. Lynda and I have a quiet room in the back if the lights get to be too much for your eyes."