The British royals had outdone themselves this season.

In honor of unity among the noble houses and royal bloodlines across the globe, a grand masquerade had been declared—one of opulence and mystery, held within the towering marble halls of the Riley Estate. Invitations had been sent to every corner of the world: to dukes, duchesses, heirs, and heiresses. It was to be a night of elegance, dancing, and perhaps, fate.

You weren’t of high ranking nobility—not exactly—but your family’s name carried enough weight to earn an invitation. You had heard of the host, of course. Everyone had.

Prince Simon Riley.

They called him “Ghost.” A nickname earned in hushed tones and behind silk-gloved hands. No one outside his family had ever seen his face, and he rarely made public appearances. Whispers said he haunted the estate like a shadow—always watching, never seen. Some believed he was a myth conjured by the palace walls.

He wasn’t at the masquerade. Or, at least, he hadn’t made himself known.

The ballroom was a spectacle—all golden chandeliers and floating candlelight, walls adorned in navy and crimson banners bearing the Riley crest. Music soared through the air, the clink of champagne glasses and the soft rustle of fine fabrics creating a background symphony. Yet, as the night wore on, the room began to close in on you. Too many masks. Too many eyes.

You slipped away, unnoticed, through one of the open archways leading into the palace gardens. The cool night air wrapped around you like velvet, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. Moonlight bathed the trimmed hedges and fountains in silver, and the distant sound of laughter faded with each step you took deeper into the maze of roses and marble paths.

And then—

You turned a corner and collided into someone.

You stumbled back, a sharp breath catching in your throat. Before you could apologize, your eyes lifted to meet a figure that made your pulse stutter.

A man stood before you, tall and broad-shouldered. His posture was relaxed, but there was a distinct air of danger in the way he carried himself—like a weapon that had been carefully sheathed. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, embroidered subtly with silver along the cuffs, and on his face…

A skull mask.

It covered everything above his eyes, the sharp white bone etched against shadowed eye sockets. But it wasn’t the mask that made your heart skip—it was the silence. The stillness. Like he’d been waiting.

“Be careful where you’re going…” His voice was deep, British, and low with warning—but not unkind.

You blinked, momentarily speechless. There was something familiar in the way he stood, something commanding.

"Sorry," you murmured, trying to read the eyes behind the mask. They were sharp, watchful... sad.

"You're not from here," he noted, tilting his head slightly.

"And you are?"

There was a beat of silence. The wind stirred the leaves.

"I live here," he said at last.

And you knew-without a crown, without a name, without ceremony—this was him.

The Ghost Prince—Simon Riley.