Music drifted through the golden corridors like a warm spring breeze. The marble floors gleamed under the flickering light of the chandeliers, while the guests danced with rehearsed grace. Your outfit, though modest compared to the embroidered velvets of the noble ladies and gentlemen, had been carefully arranged by your mother. She had even fixed your hair before entering, her fingers trembling with hope.

"Remember," your father whispered, placing his hands on your shoulders. "One of them could change your life."

And by “one of them,” he meant, of course, the princes.

Damon Albarn and Graham Coxon, heirs to the crown, watched from the upper balcony. One wore his hair tousled and carried the ironic smile of someone who felt above it all. The other, more serious, toyed with the edge of his glass, avoiding gazes with calculated shyness. Both had everyone’s attention, but neither seemed interested in anyone.

Until they came down.

You didn’t seek contact. You stayed near the fountain, pretending to study a statue while your mother’s words buzzed in your mind. “This isn’t about love. It’s about survival.”

“Bored already?” came a slow, dragged voice beside you. Damon.

You turned slowly, trying not to show the jolt in your expression. He was smiling as if he could read your thoughts.

Another voice cut in. Graham, glass in hand. “I thought I was the only one who found this insufferable.”