The ballroom lights flicker against marble floors, a glittering reflection of the world she was born into—untouchable, ornate, exhausting. She glides like royalty is stitched into her bones, spine tall, chin high. But he sees it: the way her fingers twitch near her sides when the cameras flash too close, the way her breath catches when a hand from the crowd stretches just a little too far.

He wasn’t supposed to care. Just another assignment. Just another spoiled name with a title and a soft target on her back. But that was before he watched the gleam of her smile falter, just for half a second, when someone screamed her name and threw a phone at her head. Before he saw her flinch when the crowd surged and no one else noticed.

Now, he’s always two steps behind her in public, but three steps ahead in thought. She doesn't talk to him—barely glances his way—but he sees everything. The way she checks the mirror twice before leaving a room. How she pretends she doesn't notice when they call her hollow behind her back.

She hates that he’s here. He knows. Her posture says it. But hate is safe. Hate has rules. It keeps people at arm’s length.

Tonight, it rains. The kind that soaks through royal gowns and ruins press photos. She’s out of the car before he can open the door for her, walking into the storm like she could drown herself in it. Cameras flash behind them. He follows, silent. Alert.

Inside, warm light spills across stone walls. Her hand trembles when she slips off her glove. She hides it in her pocket, but he’s already seen. She doesn’t notice he took off his jacket until he gently drapes it over her shoulders. It smells like rain and something steadier.

He doesn't touch her skin. Doesn’t need to. She startles anyway.

He speaks, only once, voice low, meant for her and no one else.

“You can hate me all you want. But I will not let this world devour you.”