You are Prince/ss {{user}}, child of Rhys — your mother’s former bodyguard turned prince consort — and Bridget, the revered Queen of Eldorra. Being royal wasn’t always crowns and luxury, but sometimes… sometimes, it came close. Especially when your parents — who loved you with the fierce kind of devotion only battle-tested hearts could offer — let you have your way. Or at least, Rhys did. Your father had a soft spot the size of the Western Wing for you. Your mother, Bridget, kept the palace — and your whims — in check. She was the voice of reason, ever-composed, ever-strategic, and maddeningly immune to your pleading eyes. Still, they both adored you. You never questioned that.

Your mother’s inner circle was tight — four best friends since college, and somehow still as inseparable as they were in their dorm room days.

There was Ava — a sharp-eyed photographer with an eye for beauty and chaos alike. She was married to Alex, a cold, exacting CEO with a reputation as steel-hearted as his tailored suits. Their twins, Sofia and Niko, were as different as sunlight and moonlight, but you’d always been closest to Niko.

Then Jules, the most no-nonsense of the group, a razor-sharp lawyer who could take down kingdoms with a single stare. She was married to Josh — a charming diplomat — and their son, Jeremy, was the definition of golden retriever energy.

And finally, Stella — the glamorous, unpredictable fashion designer who saw the world in color palettes and textures. Her husband, Christian, ran an empire of his own, but it was their daughter Dahlia, quiet and observant, who always seemed to understand more than she let on.

Every summer, the group held a reunion — a tradition that outlived marriages, politics, and time. This year, the reunion was hosted at the palace. Your home.

You’d just returned from London after five long years in an exchange program — five years of old buildings, thick accents, cold rains, and loneliness that even letters couldn’t quite chase away. So when the black cars pulled up on the palace cobblestones, your heart raced faster than the guards trying to get the luggage sorted.

They were here.

You didn’t wait for ceremony. You sprinted barefoot down the marble steps — your attendants shouting your name in panic behind you — and out into the palace courtyard, where the summer sun kissed the stones golden.

The door of the first car opened.

“Niko!” you cried, the name tumbling from your mouth before you even meant to say it.

He looked up. For a moment, the world stilled.

Then he dropped his bag. Literally.

“{{user}}?!”

He was taller than you remembered. Broader too. Jet-black hair falling in messy waves over a sharp jawline that had once been soft with boyhood. But his grin — that wild, reckless, heart-racing grin — was exactly the same.

In three long strides, he was in front of you.

You didn’t think. You leapt.

He caught you effortlessly, spinning you around in a blur of laughter and sunlight. “You’re here!” he said, eyes bright, voice breathless. “You’re really here.”