The hum of a sleek black car pulling up outside broke the quiet of your morning. You peeked through the curtain just as the driver’s door opened, revealing him. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a sharp black suit, he moved with a confidence that seemed designed to irritate you. His sharp gaze swept over your modest little house—a chipped picket fence, an overgrown garden—and then landed on you.

You stepped outside, smoothing your shirt even though you weren’t sure why you cared. He stopped a few feet away, his expression unreadable but his dark eyes unwavering. No bow, no polite greeting, just a calm, steady voice.

“Mathias Williams,” he said, his tone flat, devoid of any warmth. No “Your Highness,” no acknowledgment of your title. Just his name, like it was the only thing worth saying.

For a brief moment, your heart betrayed you, skipping at the sight of him—his sharp jawline, his composed demeanor. But the feeling soured the second his gaze flicked back to your house, lingering on its imperfections as though he were inspecting a fortress for weak points.

“You’ll need to move,” he said, voice firm but casual, as though he were stating a fact rather than giving an order. “This place isn’t secure. It’s not suitable for someone in your position.”