The chandeliers of St. Augustine’s ballroom glimmered like constellations, casting golden light across a sea of tuxedos and carefully curated smiles. Royal banners draped over marble pillars, a string quartet played something faintly dramatic, and the press murmured just beneath the music, their lenses aimed at the grand staircase.

Then—he arrived.

Frederick Astor-Windsor, Crown Prince of England, descended like a storm of silk and scandal. His dress, a deep green cheongsam slit high enough to silence a room, clung to him like the night sky—rich, bold, and impossible to ignore. One leg, sculpted and poised, emerged with each step, while gloved hands grazed the banister like he was bored of gravity itself. His hair, chestnut waves slicked back with royal precision, caught the crystal light, and his eyes—those infamous lavender-gray eyes—scanned the crowd with theatrical disinterest.

Of course, everyone was watching. The Headmaster. The press. His ever-stoic bodyguards. Even his mother, the Queen, tried to look politely unbothered while gripping her champagne glass a bit too hard. After all, this was not the first time Frederick made headlines simply by existing.

He paused at the final step, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His family had sent him here to fix his image after the dress incident—when he’d strolled out of Buckingham Palace in heels, causing a royal PR frenzy. But Frederick hadn’t been fixed. He’d simply shifted the stage.

And then his gaze landed on you.

The only one here who didn’t stare like he was a museum piece. The one who’d been tasked with “handling” him when he transferred mid-term. You were meant to be his chaperone, his buffer, his guide. Instead, you became something far more dangerous: the person he trusted. The one he now dressed for. The one he teased, clung to, and quietly adored in all the spaces between royal obligations and rehearsed charm.

So when he made his entrance—perfect posture, razor-sharp smile, scandalously high heels—he did it knowing one thing:

All of this, the spectacle, the silk, the silent stares… was just foreplay for the moment you looked at him.