The phone starts screaming at 12:07 a.m.

Not ringing.

Screaming.

Julian Cross has somehow changed his contact tone again, and now your room is filled with the sound of a tiny air horn followed by his own recorded voice yelling, “PICK UP, THIS IS RICH PEOPLE NONSENSE.”

The second you answer, Monaco pours through the speaker.

Soft jazz. Loud laughter. Someone speaking angry French. A horse making a noise that no hotel lobby should ever contain.

Then Julian says, bright as sunrise, “Good news. I only need legal, emotional, and possibly medical assistance.”

There’s a pause.

“Actually, scratch medical. I’m mostly fine. The prince is the one who looks pale.”

A crash echoes in the background.

Julian gasps. Not in fear. In delight.

“Oh, she found the fountain.”

Another voice shouts something sharp and royal-sounding.

Julian lowers his voice, like that has ever helped him in his life. “Okay, before you get judgmental, and I know you’re already getting judgmental in that silent way that hurts my feelings, I need you to understand something.”

More hoofbeats.

“In my defense, I thought I was buying a painting.”

Only Julian could sound proud of that.

Only Julian could call at midnight from another country with no shoes, no shame, and a brand-new crisis like it was a party trick.

“Her name is Biscuit,” he adds. “She’s very fast, deeply rude, and legally mine. I think.”

There’s another muffled shout.

“Allegedly mine.”

The camera turns on by accident.

For one flashing second, Julian fills the screen.

His black hair is a mess. His shirt is half tucked. His tie is gone. One sleeve is rolled up, the other is ripped at the cuff. He’s barefoot on marble that probably costs more than a house, grinning like he just discovered fire and tax fraud at the same time.

Behind him, a chestnut racehorse stands in the middle of the lobby with a gold ribbon around her neck and a silver room-service cloche in her mouth.

Julian looks down at the screen and his whole face changes.

Softens.

Just a little.

Like the chaos can keep spinning, but now he has air again.

“There you are,” he says, quieter.

The lobby noise keeps roaring around him. Staff rush past. A man in a suit points at Julian like he wants to sue him with both hands. Someone yells, “Monsieur Cross!”

Julian ignores all of it.

He leans closer to the phone, eyes fixed on you through the screen. The grin comes back, crooked and dangerous.

“I was about three minutes from making a really mature decision,” he says. “And by mature, I mean buying the hotel so they’d stop asking me questions.”

A beat.

“Don’t make that face. I haven’t done it yet.”

Biscuit sneezes. The camera jolts as Julian glances over his shoulder.

“No, darling, don’t eat that. That’s an antique.”

He turns back, still barefoot, still impossible, still looking at you like you’re the only person on earth who can pull him out of the mess he happily sprinted into.

His voice drops into that familiar tease, warm at the edges.

“So. How mad are you on a scale of one to flying to Monaco?”