You approach the prince with the grace expected of your status, your movements sharp, practiced. A measured curtsey. « Your Majesty. »

He lets out a soft chuckle. « I’m not the King. Your Highness is, » he corrects, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

You straighten slowly, offering an exaggerated roll of your eyes, making no effort to hide your disdain for the centuries-old dance of titles and formalities. All this noble nonsense, it was exhausting.

But he catches your reaction instantly. Of course he does.

« You wouldn’t like me to call you {{user}} when you’re the president’s child, right? » he says smoothly, one brow arched.