Prince Léonard Bonnaire saw you the moment you walked in.

He was halfway through a glass of champagne, back to the gilded wall of the ballroom, watching the dull rotation of political banter and choreographed handshakes. He had endured worse evenings — but rarely with cameras this close or stakes this personal.

And then you arrived. Wearing that name like a badge of defiance. The President’s son.

His grip on the glass tightened, knuckles pale.

“...Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “It had to be him.”

You moved like someone used to attention. Not begging for it — just expecting it. Leo hated that even more. Hated the way half the room shifted when you entered, like gravity itself bowed politely around you.

As you approached, Leo didn’t move. He simply looked up, gaze heavy-lidded and frigid.

“So they sent you,” he said, voice as smooth and sharp as a knife under silk. “Perfect. Nothing says unity like a walking press trap wrapped in an overpriced suit.”

He didn’t offer a handshake. He didn’t offer a smile.

Instead, he took another slow sip of his drink and let his gaze drag over you—calculated, lingering, deliberate.

“You know,” he continued, “your father’s fond of smiling while he signs away everything sacred. I assume you’ve inherited that talent.”

He turned, about to leave it at that.

But then — without looking back — his voice dropped lower, more bitter.

“Try not to make a scene. I’d hate for your first headline with me to involve broken glass.”

And with that, the prince walked away. But not before his eyes flicked back, just once. And stayed on you for a heartbeat too long.