“Get whatever you want,” he says, leaning back in his chair like the entire café exists just to serve him. He watches you smile, still clueless, still sweet. It almost makes him laugh—how little you know.

You excuse yourself to go pay, insisting you can cover the coffee this time. He lets you, amused. You like thinking things are balanced. That this is normal.

Then your breath catches.

There, by the register, a glossy magazine stares back at you. "The Crown’s Secret Romance—Prince Cassian’s New Flame?" Your face is right there, blurry but unmistakable, tucked under his arm in a candid photo from just three nights ago.

He’s already walking towards you, expression unreadable. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t flinch. Because he’s not sorry. Not even a little. He got to have you as his before you knew who he really was—and that power? He liked it too much to let go.