You heard it before you saw it—that soft but sharp hum of an engine clearly not made for ordinary roads. It pulled up in front of the palace like it already knew the way by heart. Gleaming under the Lyndenhold lights, it looked like a black panther under a cold moon.
All the staff straightened. The butler double-checked his gloves. Even the guards—who usually stood like statues—suddenly looked alert.
Then, the car door opened.
Two aides approached—skilled, careful, but without fuss. And that's when he emerged.
Prince Lucien Throne didn't walk.
He was lifted out. Yes, literally. It should've looked awkward, but it didn't. The timing was flawless, the angle perfect, and every movement controlled. He didn't look helpless—he looked like a king descending from his throne. The moment he settled into his impossibly sleek custom wheelchair, it was like a switch flipped—he was back in command.
He didn't glance around. He didn't need to. People moved out of the way instinctively, like he had his own gravity. And even in a wheelchair, there was flair in the way his coat moved. The silver embroidery? It shimmered exactly where the light hit, like it planned the spotlight.
One gloved hand casually adjusted the hem.
He said nothing.
But you could feel it—when he was around, mistakes weren't allowed.
---
In the Kitchen
Me? I was in the kitchen. Holding a cup of coffee that tasted like regret, leaning against the pantry while listening to the never-ending staff gossip.
"Did you hear?" whispered Cleope, resident queen of royal tea. "They say the Prince can't walk anymore."
"Huh? But didn't he use a cane before?" I asked, sipping the coffee even though it tasted like burnt paper.
"PR move, girl. Just for image. But now? Nada. He can't even stand on his own. That's why—"
Boom.
The door swung open.
Captain Hendric. Head of Security. Always looks sleep-deprived, still terrifying.
"Miss Broke," he said. No hello. No emotion. Just pure stress.
"Y-yes, sir?" I stood straighter than a lamppost.
"Prince Lucien is requesting your presence. Now."
No explanation.
Cleope and I exchanged glances. Her eyes were wide. I felt my soul freeze.
"Chambers?" I asked, pretending to be calm but clearly already in panic mode.
"Now," he repeated, turning on his heel.
---
Inside Lucien's Office
One knock.
"Enter."
His voice alone? Carried the weight of a marching band made of authority.
He was behind a perfectly polished black desk. In his wheelchair, obviously. But even like that, he owned the entire room. His aura? Like the oxygen itself was under strict instructions.
His fingers tapped lightly on the wheel's rim. Thinking. Still not looking up.
"Name," he said, eyes on a document like it personally disappointed him.
"Nixie Broke, Your Highness. Your new personal secretary-slash-scheduler-slash-human Google Calendar."
Silence.
Then—eye contact.
Boom. X-ray stare. I swear he saw all my childhood sins and academic regrets.
"You're late."
"Actually, I'm on time. Maybe the universe is just running behind."
One eyebrow rose.
"Do you always talk this much?"
"Only when I'm nervous. And I'm always nervous. So yes."
He didn't sigh. But it felt like he wanted to.
"Sit."
I stepped forward. And then—tripped on literal air. My knee hit the chair. Embarrassment Level 3000.
He just watched. Like he was witnessing a slow-motion car crash.
"First task: Reschedule the ambassador's dinner. Draft a press statement. Organize next week's security briefings. And find out who ordered the wrong tea—and fire them."
"So… four intense things, or one group project from hell?"
Deadpan stare.
"Noted!" I said cheerfully, promptly dropping my pen because, of course, my dignity wasn't done yet.
But then I noticed—maybe, just maybe—a glint? Or maybe that was just my desperate brain hallucinating.
"You're lucky I don't fire people on the first day."
"You're lucky I haven't had a spontaneous existential meltdown."
He spun one wheel with control and style. Even basic movement had flair.
"Don't flatter yourself. You're merely... inefficient entertainment."
"Efficient chaos, actually. It's kind of my brand."
That's when I saw it—the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Success? Maybe.
Firing? Not today.
---
At the Fundraiser
They said it would be simple.
Speech. Photos. PR. All I had to do was follow Lucien, hold the cue cards, and try not to combust from anxiety.
But of course, that's not how it went.
He entered like he owned the venue. Navy and silver, flawless. His wheelchair looked like it had a designer. His gaze? Relaxed but commanding—like he knew more than you, and didn't need to prove it.
And now that I knew the truth—that he couldn't walk, that he had to be lifted into the car—it was even clearer: his power didn't come from his body.
Every movement said: "Yes, this is who I am. And I still belong here."
Me? Holding the cue cards, pretending to be composed while still smelling the scent of antique money in the air.
Then—boom.
The wheel snagged. Barely. But I saw it.
And him? He didn't.
The chair tilted slightly—toward an antique vase that looked like it came with its own insurance company.
Instinct. I moved. One hand on the back of the chair, one hovering near his shoulder.
He froze.
So did the ballroom. The Duchess didn't move either.
"What are you doing," he muttered—low, sharp, dangerous.
"Assisting. Ninja-style. Panic ninja."
"I don't need help."
"You almost turned that vase into modern art, Your Highness."
"I missed it by two inches."
"Two inches away from international scandal, sir."
He adjusted. Pulled the chair back on track. Smooth recovery.
Me? Still awkwardly mid-hover.
"I said I don't need assistance."
I dropped my hand. "Noted. Stealth mode: off."
We walked on. Him—graceful. Me—walking ball of nerves.
Then I heard:
"Your reflexes were… not terrible."
I turned. "Was that… a compliment?"
"A temporary suspension of judgment."
I grinned.
"You're welcome, by the way."
"You nearly touched my shoulder. In public."
"Better that than headlines: 'Prince vs Vase: A Royal Collision.'"
He said nothing.
But I saw it. Twitch. Corner of the lips.
Twitch #2.
And in that moment—I saw it wasn't just pressure. Not just poise.
But the weight of a promise.
To himself. To his father. To the nation.
That no matter what—
He wasn't giving up the throne.
And me? I was just a side character, trying not to ruin the scene.
---
At the Speech
He stopped at the podium. Adjusted his gloves. But something was off—too slow. Too deliberate.
Silence.
This was different. Not just composed—hesitant.
"I can—" I whispered.
"No. You've done enough."
Okay. Step back.
Then—the chair jolted.
Didn't move.
I saw it—jaw tight, hand gripping the armrest.
Something was wrong.
"Do. Not. Interfere."
But I saw it.
The wire. Loose.
No one else noticed.
But I did.
I moved. Like I was fixing my shoe. Quick. Calm. Crouched. Click.
Fixed.
Just in time.
The announcer's voice echoed:
"Presenting His Royal Highness, Prince Lucien Throne."
The chair moved.
Smooth. Perfect. Like nothing happened.
Me? Still crouched in the background, heart racing.
He started his speech.
And while the applause filled the room—
His eyes found mine.
And he mouthed one word.
"Office."
Then he turned back to the crowd.
And smiled.
---
Diplomatic death. Royal edition.
But somewhere, deep down—
I knew he saw it.
That I helped. That I didn't bring him down.
And in a world like his—
That's everything.