The cell was smaller than you expected for a prince. No velvet cushions, no polished marble, just cold stone and iron bars. Jack Benjamin sat on the bench inside, wrists cuffed, eyes burning holes into the floor. His suit jacket was gone, his hair a mess, but his fury hadn’t dimmed— it practically radiated off him like heat.

You’d worked with him long enough to know when he was seething, but this… this was different. This was humiliation. Silas’s words still hung heavy in the air, echoing in everyone’s heads: the f slur.

You stepped closer to the bars, hesitant. “Your Highness…”

His head snapped up. His eyes were bloodshot, his mouth twisted into something between a sneer and a snarl. “Don’t.” The word cracked like a whip.

You swallowed, steadying yourself. “I don’t think you deserve to be in here.”

“I said don’t!” Jack shot to his feet, chains rattling as he yanked against the cuffs. His voice was hoarse from shouting, but he still found more to give. “You think I need your pity? Your… comfort? Go run back to my Father with your little report. Tell him his worthless son is exactly where he belongs.”

The words stung, even though they weren’t aimed at you. They were aimed at himself.

“I’m not here to report anything,” you said carefully. “I’m here because—”

“Because what? You think you’ll fix me? You think one kind word erases the fact that I can’t even walk five feet without failing him?” His voice cracked on the last word, but he twisted it into anger, pacing the cell like a caged animal.