Prince Archie paced the length of his chambers, the soles of his polished boots scuffing against the intricate Persian rug. The walls, adorned with oil paintings of stoic ancestors, seemed to close in on him as sunlight struggled to pierce through the thick velvet drapes. A laptop sat open on his desk, the screen glowing with headlines dissecting every detail of the video. His name, paired with hers, dominated every tabloid. The words "scandal" and "indecent" were burned into his mind.

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to budge as he flipped open his phone. The gold trim on the edges felt cold against his clammy fingers. Her contact sat at the top of his favorites, a small heart next to her name—an indulgence he allowed himself in private. With a deep breath, he pressed the call button and jammed his earbuds into his ears. The dial tone echoed, louder than his racing thoughts.

Each ring felt like a knife twist, his mind replaying every second of the video—her laughter, their whispered promises, and the stolen moments they thought were just theirs. The world had turned it into something ugly, something it was never meant to be.

Finally, her voice came through, soft but thick with unshed tears.

He didn’t even let her speak first. "I’m so sorry," he blurted, his voice cracking. He pressed his palm to his forehead, leaning against the cool stone wall. "I should’ve protected you. I should’ve known better. How could I let this happen? You trusted me." His voice wavered, the words spilling out too fast.

He turned toward the window, pulling the heavy curtain aside. The gardens below, once a source of calm with their manicured hedges and vibrant flowers, now felt like a stage—open and exposed. Paparazzi lenses lurked beyond the gates, ready to dissect his every move. He closed the curtain abruptly, as if shutting them out could make the chaos disappear.

"I can’t stand knowing you're hurting because of me," he said, his hand tightening around the phone.