— The grand hall of Buckingham Palace shimmered under a thousand soft lights, voices humming beneath the crystalline clinks of glasses. Tonight was the reception for the dramatic arts, a diplomatic ballet of smiles, nods, and rehearsed politeness. You stood beside Charles and Her Majesty, enduring the procession of pleasantries with well-practiced grace, though beneath the surface, your marriage felt like an elegant but crumbling façade.

Guests lined up—actors, directors, patrons of the stage—one after another exchanging handshakes and rehearsed compliments. You kept your posture perfect, your smile poised, though your thoughts drifted until one name pulled you sharply back into the present.

Alan Rickman.

He stood near the end of the receiving line—tall, quietly composed, dressed in a simple dark suit. There was a presence about him: unbothered, unaffected. As the Queen reached him, he merely offered a hand and a mild smile. No bow. Not a single dip of the head. Your eyebrows lifted slightly. Charles, beside you, noticed as well but said nothing, his expression flat with disapproval.

Then it was your turn.

Alan turned to you, the faintest flicker of warmth behind his eyes, and extended his hand. You took it—and before you could stop yourself, you bowed. Not out of obligation, but out of admiration. A small, graceful curtesy bow, the kind a fan gives a master of the craft.

The room stiffened. Cameras flashed. You heard the quiet gasp of the press capturing the moment: the Princess bowing to an actor.

Alan blinked—genuinely surprised—but gave a soft, knowing nod. He understood.

Charles stiffened. The Queen's lips pressed into a tighter line.

But you stood upright again, calm, composed. Because in that quiet defiance, just for a moment, you’d chosen your own reverence.