He could feel his body temperature rising and crashing in waves, like a fever had set in. His breathing turned sharp and uneven, his heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown out Camille’s silence, the murmurs behind her, even the faint ringing in his ears.

His vision blurred as he scrolled - too fast, too frantically - through the articles stacked one after another on the glowing screen in his lap. Headlines. Photos. Blocks of text that didn’t make sense at first. They hit him all at once, like being thrown headfirst into a cold ocean. He couldn’t breathe.

With trembling fingers and a growing sense of dread, Gabin skimmed past the images - his face, her face, their bodies pressed too close in places they never should have been.

He glanced up at Camille, helpless. Only for a second. Her expression was unreadable, tight-lipped and professional, but her satisfaction was thinly veiled. She wasn’t here to comfort him. She was here to watch him fall apart quietly.

His eyes dropped back to the tablet. He began to read.

[Crown in Crisis: Prince Gabin Spotted at Underground Paris Nightclub With Unknown Woman]

A grainy shot - his arm around Padma near the bar, both of them laughing, the dim club lights flashing red against their skin.

[Heir to the Throne Seen Kissing Mystery Woman in Public Late Saturday Night]

A clearer photo this time. On the sidewalk. His hands in her hair. Padma’s face tilted up to meet his. His expression soft, lost in her.

[Sources Identify Prince Gabin’s Rumored Girlfriend as Palace Staff Member’s Daughter]

The photo had changed. Now it was of Padma alone, taken long ago, maybe from a staff directory or social media. Her name printed below.

[Royal Scandal Unfolds: Queen Returns to Paris Amid Reports of Improper Relationship Between Prince and Servant’s Daughter]

And beneath it, the article began. Sharp. Unforgiving.

“The French royal family faces a mounting scandal this morning as leaked images and reports indicate His Royal Highness Prince Gabin Louis Alexandre of France, Duke of Orléans, has been involved in a long-term secret relationship with a young woman identified as Padma Arin - the daughter of longtime royal staff member Mireille Arin, a former nanny to the prince himself. The pair were seen exiting an underground Paris nightclub late Saturday evening and later photographed in an intimate moment on the street. Sources within the palace say the Queen has canceled her engagements abroad and is returning to France ‘immediately and without comment.’ Discussions are reportedly underway regarding security protocol breaches, public image damage control, and potential disciplinary action. The palace has yet to issue an official statement.”

“They know her name.”

His voice cracked like porcelain.

“They know who she is.”

The words barely came out. They clung to the air between his lips and collapsed into something more fragile than sound - almost a sob, barely held back. His breath hitched painfully in his chest, and his eyes, already red-rimmed and heavy with exhaustion, began to glass over.

For the first time since the tablet had landed in his lap, he looked up.

He looked at Camille. Not with hatred. Not with defiance.

But with panic.

With the unspoken desperation of a boy who had built a secret world with someone he loved and was now watching it burn to ash in front of him.

His gaze begged her. Do something. Say something. Fix it.

People weren’t supposed to see this.

They weren’t supposed to know her.

He could live with the scandal. With the headlines. With the country whispering about what a disappointment he was. He’d lived his entire life under the weight of other people’s expectations. But Padma - Padma was never supposed to be dragged into it.

Not like this. Not ever.

She had just been in love.

That’s all she’d done.

Loved a boy who happened to be heir to a throne he never asked for.

And now the world knew. The photos were out. The headlines. Her name. Her face.

The whispers would turn to jeers. The curiosity would turn to cruelty.

Because in the public’s eyes, they weren’t just a boy and a girl kissing under a streetlight.

They were a prince and a servant’s daughter.

A scandal waiting to happen. A mistake in the bloodline. A betrayal of class and crown.

And Gabin knew exactly how this would play out.

They would tear her apart.

Because she had no shield. No title. No protection.

They wouldn’t see her smile or her kindness or the way she made him feel like a person instead of a puppet in velvet. They wouldn’t care that she was brave, that she had given him everything, that she had waited in the shadows for years because he had asked her to.

All they would see was a common girl who had touched something they believed belonged to them.

And they would ruin her for it.

Gabin’s heart thudded violently in his chest.

It’s my fault.

He gripped the sheets between his fists. His entire body felt like it was pulsing with stress, humming with helpless rage and shame and fear.

It’s my fault she’ll suffer. My fault she’ll be humiliated. My fault we could never be free.

Camille sighed.

The sound wasn’t dramatic. It was sharp. Efficient. The sigh of someone who had already moved on to the crisis management stage. She plucked the tablet from his lap, tucking it under her arm like it was a clipboard.

“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” she said, voice clipped and smooth. “They know her name. And they know who she is. They know her mother was once the nanny to the heir apparent. They know she was in your private quarters late last night. They know you were seen drinking in public. And they know - ” she paused, the word curdling on her tongue “ - that you are having a scandalous affair with a commoner.”

That last word was said like a slur. Like it tasted foul in her mouth.

Commoner.

As if loving someone without a title was a sin. As if Padma’s mother had not given her entire life to this family. As if Padma herself had not grown up walking the same marbled halls, breathing the same Versailles air.

“Camille,” Gabin said, voice suddenly hoarse. He ran a hand through his tangled curls, fingers tugging at the roots like he needed pain to focus. His brows furrowed, drawing together with a force that deepened every line of his too-young face.

“You have to do something. Please. They’ll tear Padma down.”

He didn’t care about dignity anymore. Or posture. Or the way he must’ve looked, sitting hunched and flushed and broken in the middle of his royal bedroom, dressed in frosting-stained clothes and panic.

He just wanted her to be safe.

He just wanted the girl he loved to survive this.

“His Royal Highness needn’t concern himself with that girl,” Camille said, her voice cold and flat, like she was reciting lines she’d memorized years ago. “What you should be focused on is preparing yourself.”

She paced slowly toward the window, as if the morning light spilling through the velvet curtains belonged to her too.

“Her Majesty nearly had a stroke when she phoned me. I’ve never heard her voice like that - tight, furious, shaken. We had to activate crisis protocol immediately. A full team was assembled within the hour. We’ve been working through the night contacting digital publishers, social media platforms, and press syndicates to issue takedown notices and formal retractions. But it’s too late to stop it completely. There are already thousands of reposts. Screenshots. Captions. Speculation. It’s trending everywhere, internationally. We have a full-blown media disaster on our hands, Your Highness.”

The words felt far away. Like she was speaking underwater.

Gabin barely heard them.

The only thing he could think of was Padma.

He didn’t stop to think - his body moved before his mind could catch up. He threw back the covers and climbed out of bed in one quick, dizzy motion, feet hitting the polished floor with a soft slap. He brushed past Camille, his shoulder knocking into hers, too frantic to offer apology or explanation.

He had to see her.

He had to.

He needed to know if she was safe, if she was okay, if she was even still here. He couldn’t just sit here like some porcelain figure while the world devoured her name.

But he didn’t make it to the door.

Two bodyguards, stationed on either side like statues, immediately stepped forward. They were swift, professional, and firm.

“Prince Gabin,” one of them said calmly, “you are advised to return to your quarters. Her Majesty has issued a direct order that you are not to leave this room until she arrives.”

Gabin halted. His breath caught, and for a second, his disbelief looked almost like a smile. He let out a dry, incredulous chuckle.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

His hands curled into fists. Without thinking, he tried to push past them - but one of the guards lifted an arm and held it out, stopping him clean with a palm against his chest.

He stumbled backward, rage igniting in his eyes.

“Get out of the way!” he shouted, voice raw with desperation. “I need to see Padma! I need to know she’s okay!”

His voice echoed off the high walls, sharp and unfiltered. He turned to Camille and the guards, eyes blazing now with something beyond panic - something like fury.

But they didn’t move.

The guard met his eyes with unflinching calm.

“Her Majesty’s orders, sir.”

Three words.

And with them, everything slammed shut.