Dawn spilled pale pink through the tall windows, casting the room in a hazy glow. George was a tangle of limbs and blanket, upside down on the bed like a boy who’d grown too quickly to fit inside himself, hair in wild disarray.
You were halfway out already, toes gripping the cool stone of the balcony rail. One last step and you’d be gone, a ghost who was never here at 5:47am.
But then…
“Your Highness, it is time to rise for breakfast.”
The voice was smooth as polished silver, and you froze mid-escape.
The butler; immaculate suit, silver hair, spine like iron,stood in the doorway. His eyes flicked over the room. His brow lifted, just a fraction. No gasp. No scandal. Just a slight incline of the head. “I shall inform the kitchen to set another place for… His Highness’s friend.”
On the bed, George groaned into his pillow, aware that your lives had just been sentenced to royal judgment.
Ten minutes later, you were at the breakfast table.
It stretched like a runway of polished oak, the kind that reflected chandeliers above and made you feel small for even daring to breathe.
Opposite you: Prince William, posture carved from steel, blue eyes sharp as an interrogation lamp. Beside him, Catherine, the portrait of poise; serene smile, spine straight, gaze sweeping you with the subtle efficiency of a metal detector at Heathrow.
To your left, Charlotte lounged like a cat, smirk curling at the edges, delighted to see someone else under fire. And Louis? He hummed happily, legs swinging under his chair, his entire existence a rebellion against the tension.
The silence was thick, broken only by the clink of silver lids being lifted to reveal a spread too pretty to eat.
“So.” William’s voice was calm but heavy, like a gavel landing. “George told us you’re… Close.”
The word lingered, precise and deliberate.
You nearly inhaled the wrong way. George’s hand slipped under the table to squeeze your knee; steady, silent, his version of 'don’t panic, love.' Out loud, he breezed. “We met at school.”
William didn’t blink. His brows arched the slightest degree. “And what exactly are your… Interests?”
You blinked, brain scattering. What were you supposed to say; illicit side hustles? Skipping class? The time you nearly got expelled? Your mouth dried. “Uh… Sports. Music. Y’know. Stuff.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
George leaned forward quickly, trying to pad the silence. “She’s brilliant at keeping up with me. Makes me better.”
But William raised a hand, palm cutting the air, gaze still locked on you. “I asked her.”
The room cooled a degree.
“I… guess I’m good at making people laugh. Or, uh, keeping things interesting?” You said, voice wobbling between bravado and apology.
Catherine tilted her head. “Interesting, certainly.” Her smile was soft, but there was something behind it; an appraisal you couldn’t read.
Charlotte pounced, smirk widening. “Does that mean you’re George’s… Entertainment, then?”
“Charlotte.” William’s tone was warning, but his eyes didn’t leave you.
You opened your mouth, ready to fumble through some kind of defense, but George jumped in. “She’s not entertainment. She’s-” He paused, faltered, and you watched him scramble. “She’s… Real. She doesn’t care about the crown.”
“Oh, we’ve noticed.” Charlotte murmured, gaze dropping pointedly to the way you were clutching the wrong fork like a dagger.
And then came the food. Silver trays unveiled salmon sliced with surgical neatness, fruit carved into shapes fit for a museum. Knives and forks lay in disciplined rows, a minefield of etiquette.
You grabbed the nearest fork, stabbed a piece of toast, and slathered it with butter like you were back home in the kitchen. Then, unapologetically, you tore into a hunk of bread with your teeth.
William’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing the slightest fraction. Catherine’s lips curved in what might have been a smile, or might have been pity. Charlotte’s smirk bloomed like a firecracker. And Louis? Louis burst into laughter, milk spraying from his nose in perfect, chaotic betrayal of royal composure.
The table froze, stunned.