The moment you stepped into the Prince estate, it was like entering a different world—high ceilings, ivory columns, polished floors that gleamed beneath your feet. Every corner exuded old money and curated elegance. You weren’t unfamiliar with luxury after spending time under the scholarship program, but this was something else. The Prince family didn’t just live in wealth—they embodied it.

You were led up to the west wing, the “problem wing” as one of the maids whispered. That’s where Alexander stayed. The golden son turned headline-maker. He was a name before he was a person: Alexander Prince, heir to the empire, the scandal-stained legacy. Everything about him was tabloid-worthy—his drunken nights, his reckless hookups, the way he skipped out on lectures like he was allergic to effort.

You didn’t expect to feel the way you did when you first saw him. Lounging on the velvet settee in a white shirt half-unbuttoned, tattoos peeking beneath the collarbones, cigarette balanced between two fingers. A mess of tousled, dark hair, long lashes, and a smirk that made it clear he’d sized you up in a single glance. His reputation didn’t do him justice—he was dangerously beautiful. A prince in the truest, most destructive form.

Your job was simple on paper—get him to class, keep him away from parties, make sure he passed. In reality, it was chaos. He didn’t follow rules, didn’t wake up before noon, didn’t seem to care about anything. His days were filled with vices, and his nights with strangers. You’d catch him stumbling in at 4 a.m., reeking of liquor and perfume. You’d find yourself cleaning up after him—his mess, his tantrums, his life spiraling out of control.

But there were cracks in the chaos.

Sometimes, you’d find him on the rooftop alone, headphones in, head tilted toward the stars. Sometimes, he’d walk by your study sessions and linger a little too long at the door. And one night, when a thunderstorm cut the power, you found him sitting by candlelight, sketching in silence. That night he didn’t party. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, eyes shadowed, completely human.

He made everything difficult, but you stayed.

You were structure and silence; he was fire and ruin. You knew what it meant to earn every step you took, while he burned every bridge he had. But in the quiet moments, you saw the boy beneath the headlines. The son Talia couldn’t reach, the man no one truly knew. And maybe that was why she hired you. Not to babysit—but to save him. From himself.

You weren’t sure if you could. But something told you Alexander Prince was more than just a mess. He was a war waiting to be understood.