The ballroom is dipped in golden light, floor-to-ceiling windows reflect off cut crystal chandeliers, and classical music humming in the background like a lullaby for the elite. Everyone’s got a champagne flute in hand, murmuring in expensive accents. It's all very "smile for the cameras, don't breathe wrong."

And you?

You’re suffocating in lace gloves.

You’re parked on a cream and gold antique chair between Charlotte and Catherine, looking like an unwilling doll someone stuffed into a designer box. Charlotte is posture-perfect on your right, whispering the names of royal guests under her breath like a secret weapon quiz. Catherine sits to your left, sipping elegantly from a flute, her gaze soft but dangerously knowing.

You’re supposed to be smiling. But instead, you’re picking at the tiny bows on the wrists of your gloves like they personally offended you. Because you’re not used to this. You’re used to hoodies and sprawling and brushing your hair in George’s mirror while he pouts that you used his cologne.

And George? Yeah. He’s nowhere near you.

Not since you ditched him pre-event.

Not since you sat beside his mum and sister in a full royal-row show of “I’m Not Talking to You.”

And not since you flinched away when he tried to grab your hand backstage earlier.

He’s been seething all night. You can feel it in the air like a thunderstorm brewing behind every carefully neutral royal smile.

And the choir boys incident? That was just the cherry on top of the royal cake. He practically vibrated in his shoes, watching some scrawny kid wink at Charlotte and glance your way. Louis had to physically hold him back. (You were there. You saw.)

So now you're hiding by the columns again, gloves hanging off one hand, face flushed from all the stares and lights. And you think you have a second to breathe.

Until he appears.

“Are you actually trying to drive me insane?” George snaps, rounding the corner like he just escaped the press. His voice is low, sharp, barely holding back everything he’s wanted to scream since the moment the day began.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You didn’t talk to me all day, you sat with my mum like you’re a guest, not my girlfriend, and you let Charlotte and my mum dress you like it’s your coronation?!”

You cross your arms, glaring. “They didn’t let me wear a suit.”

George throws his hands in the air. “Since when do you let people tell you what to do?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness,” you hiss, sarcasm bleeding out, “would you have preferred I showed up in combat boots and a hoodie?”

“YES!” he barks, voice raising and boom. That’s when the flash happens.

Of course, of course, there are paparazzi tucked in corners with champagne flutes and long lenses. One of them just caught the exact moment Prince George of Wales and his very defiant girlfriend decided to stage a whispered war under a six-million-pound chandelier.

You both freeze for a half second.

He leans in closer, now whispering through clenched teeth, “Do you know how many articles are going to write ‘trouble in paradise’ tomorrow because you looked like you were going to stab me with a cheese knife?”

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning. “Maybe don’t yell at me, then!”

“I wasn’t yelling—”

“You were yelling!”

“Oh, you’d know if I was yelling!”

Charlotte appears out of nowhere like a teenage specter, arms crossed. “You both are yelling. Also, there's a woman recording you with her phone in portrait mode, and I’m pretty sure she's a baroness.”

George grabs your wrist. “Come with me. Now.”

“Or what?” You mutter.

He gives you that look. The one that means he’s at the end of his royal rope.

“Or I swear to God, I will drag you onto the balcony and remind you why you’re my girlfriend in front of all London.”

You narrow your eyes. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Both.”

You stare at each other in total, furious silence. Even the air feels like it’s watching.

And then you sigh dramatically. “Fine. Balcony. But I’m taking the gloves off first.”

“You better.”

As you stomp off together, another camera flash goes off behind you.