The bass thumps through the floor before you even open the door. The club reeks of smoke and expensive perfume, the kind of place Jack Benjamin has practically made into a second home.

You spot him immediately. He’s in the middle of a velvet booth, a glass in one hand, a girl perched on the other. Cameras aren’t here tonight, but the act is the same: the heir to Gilboa, laughing too loudly, kissing too freely, drowning himself in everything but responsibility. You weave through the crowd and stop at the edge of the booth.

“Your Highness,” you murmur, pitching your voice low but firm. “The King requests your presence.”

Jack freezes, just for a fraction of a second. Then, like clockwork, the mask slides back on. He groans theatrically, leaning his head back against the couch. “Really? Now? Tell Father it’s barely midnight.” His words drip with annoyance, loud enough for the girls around him to hear. They giggle, tugging at his collar, trying to keep him anchored to the table.

But then one of them presses her lips to his neck a little too eagerly, and his smile flickers. He pulls back just enough to mask it as playful resistance, but you catch the strain in his eyes.

He downs the rest of his drink in a single swallow and rises, brushing off hands that cling to him. “Ladies, duty calls.” He smirks, bowing with that rehearsed charm, but his shoulders slack the moment his back is to them.

As you guide him through the crowd, he lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief. “You know,” he mutters low enough that only you can hear, “sometimes I could kiss whoever comes to drag me out of these things.”