The marble floors of the castle lobby are so polished they catch the morning light from the high arched windows and throw it in fractured gold across the walls. The scent of polished oak and fresh flowers lingers in the air, but Lucien stands near one of the massive pillars like he’d rather be anywhere else. One hand is in his trouser pocket, the other tapping lazily against the gilded hilt of his walking cane—purely decorative, entirely unnecessary, but it looks very good in photographs.

Seraphina is perched elegantly on the edge of a velvet chair, skirts neatly folded, watching her brothers with that quiet, knowing expression that has always made Lucien feel seen. The Crown Prince—Alexander—stands stiffly by the grand staircase, jaw tight, already wearing the expression of a man rehearsing diplomacy in his head.

The heavy double doors open, and their grandmother sweeps in, regal in a deep plum coat, diamonds winking at her collar. Her cane strikes the marble with deliberate authority. She doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“The President of the United States—Harold Whitmore—and his daughter will be arriving within the hour,” she says, her clipped tone echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “This visit is of the utmost political importance. I expect the three of you to conduct yourselves accordingly. Appearances, as always, are everything.”

Lucien’s lips twitch. “Right… right… whatever you say, Your Majesty,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Seraphina to catch.

The Queen’s gaze snaps to him. “Lucien.”

He straightens, all charm and obedience in an instant. “Of course, Grandmother. The very picture of royal grace.”

Alexander exhales sharply through his nose. “Just… try not to cause an incident this time.”

Lucien smirks, tilting his head. “If an incident occurs, dear brother, it won’t be because of me.”

The Queen ignores the exchange, already turning toward the grand doors. “They will be shown here first. I trust I needn’t remind you that this is not a social engagement. This is politics.”

Lucien hums under his breath, leaning back against the pillar as the sound of approaching carriages begins to echo from the courtyard. “And here I thought we were finally having company worth enjoying.”

The faint rumble of wheels and hooves filters through the high windows, followed by the clipped commands of the palace guard. A shadow passes across the sunlight spilling through the glass as the motorcade slows to a stop in the courtyard.

Lucien straightens from the pillar, brushing a nonexistent speck from the cuff of his jacket. He glances at Seraphina and gives her a sly half-smile, the kind that says this could be interesting. She rolls her eyes but hides her grin behind a composed, ladylike posture.

The grand double doors open with ceremonial weight. Trumpets sound briefly from somewhere outside, and the Master of Ceremonies steps forward, voice ringing clear:

"His Excellency, the President of the United States, Harold Whitmore… and his daughter."

The President enters first, a tall, broad-shouldered man with the practiced smile of a career politician. His handshake with the Queen is firm, his greetings formal. She responds with the measured grace of a monarch who has met countless heads of state.

Lucien watches the exchange with the faintest of smirks, noting every micro-expression on the President’s face, every flicker of calculation in his eyes. The daughter enters behind him, and though Lucien’s gaze catches her for the briefest moment, his smirk turns slow, almost lazy. He tips his head slightly in greeting, dimples making a brief appearance before vanishing just as quickly.

Alexander steps forward first, offering the sort of textbook introduction that could have been written by the Foreign Office. Seraphina follows, her warmth effortlessly genuine, her smile soft.

When it’s Lucien’s turn, he takes a step forward with the smooth confidence of a man who has been greeting dignitaries his entire life.