"...My prince?"

The same voice, soft and female, pulled him back to the present with a gentle snap, like the click of a piano lid closing.

Louis.

Of course.

His mother, the Queen, hadn't come with him for his first day. Of course she hadn't. She had more important things to do - damage control to oversee, illusions to maintain. So she sent her most trusted assistant in her place. Louis, with her immaculate smile and quiet hands.

In a second car trailing behind them, Camille was seated with a court photographer in tow - ready to capture his "new beginning" in flattering lighting and angles. Something they could spin later in glossy magazines: The Prince Returns to the People. The Scandal is Over. Redemption Begins.

"We've arrived," Louis said, glancing out the window as the car pulled to a halt. "You'll be greeted by the headmaster, and then taken to the assembly hall where the welcome event will take place."

Gabin blinked.

"Event?" he echoed, lifting his head from where it had been leaned against the cold window. His voice was tight with confusion, with the quiet dread of surprises wrapped in protocol.

"Yes," she replied, as if it was the most mundane thing in the world. "There will be a small celebration of your arrival, followed by a formal luncheon."

He scoffed, a dry, breathless laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

"Of course there is."

He shook his head slowly, jaw tensing. "And I'm only hearing about this now? Why does this have to be a thing?"

"It was the school board's decision," Louis explained gently. "Approved by your mother. They believed it would reflect positively on your transition - set the tone, perhaps shift public focus."

Right.

Shift focus. From Padma to Prince Gabin arrives at Saint-Rémy.

Polish the crown. Blur the cracks.

The car rolled slowly through the circular driveway, past a small water fountain crowned with a lion carved in pale limestone, and came to a smooth stop directly in front of the building.

Saint-Rémy's main hall towered above them like a cathedral carved from ivory and old gold. It was breathtaking in its severity - an elegant blend of Gothic and Neoclassical architecture. The building stretched wide, with intricate stone façades, arched windows, and heavy wooden doors etched with the school's crest in shimmering brass. Ivy crawled across the pale stone in thick, disciplined rows, not wild but trimmed, as if even nature bowed to the institution's prestige. Spires rose above the roof like pointed fingers of judgment, and at the highest arch of the main hall, a stained glass window glowed faintly from within - crimson and gold catching the light.

The place didn't look like a school.

It looked like a throne built to produce kings.

The car door opened. A young woman in her thirties - likely an assistant, dressed in the school's navy uniform with red trim - stood holding it with a practiced smile and quick curtsy.

Gabin stayed still for just one more second, his hand curled loosely in his lap. Then he stepped out.

The sharp September air met him like a slap - brisk, clean, perfumed faintly with stone and old books and something sweeter, maybe lilies. His shoes landed crisply on the stone path. Behind him, Louis exited her side, fixing her blazer collar with a single flick. Camille followed last, already straightening her posture for the cameras.

The assistant who opened the door curtsied once more, then stepped aside.

Gabin turned his head - and saw them.

Five adults stood lined up just beyond the carved entry steps of the school, hands neatly folded in front of them. A blend of men and women, some in robes, others in academic blazers with gold-stitched trim, all bearing the Saint-Rémy crest over their hearts.

As one, they bowed or curtsied with elegant synchrony.

And then, in perfect unison, they spoke - 

"Your Royal Highness, Prince Gabin Louis Alexandre."

The man at the center of the welcome committee took a dignified step forward. He was short and stout, his round frame cocooned in a school blazer a size too snug, and a polished gold pin glinted against his chest like a badge of self-importance. A pair of perfectly round spectacles perched precariously at the end of his nose, catching the sunlight as he looked up at Gabin with a wide, rehearsed smile.

He looked to be his mother's age, maybe older, with a halo of white fluff curling just above his ears like fog refusing to part.

Gabin, despite the pressure pressing hotly against his throat, remembered his etiquette. The years of tutoring. The bone-deep instinct to smile when needed, bow slightly at the neck, and extend a hand in greeting.

The man took it with both of his pudgy palms, shaking with a kind of exaggerated reverence, as though Gabin were already wearing a crown rather than just the weight of it.

"Welcome to Académie Saint-Rémy, Your Highness," the man said in a voice oiled with pride. "I am Julius Bernard, the school's current headmaster. The academy has been under the stewardship of my family for three generations now. In fact, I had the honor of being classmates with Her Majesty, your mother."

Of course you were, Gabin thought flatly, his smile remaining politely frozen in place.

Headmaster Bernard continued without pause. "We are thrilled you have chosen to continue your education with us. The entire board, the faculty, and the student body are honored to receive you."

Gabin nodded through the monologue, only half-hearing the words as the sun burst off another blinding camera flash. The royal photographer clicked relentlessly, capturing every practiced blink and movement like he was a museum artifact being returned to public display.

"May I introduce Your Highness to the board?"

"Yes," Gabin said, voice steady, already bored.

With an arm extended like a master of ceremonies, Bernard gestured for him to follow. Gabin fell into step beside him, his entourage trailing behind: Louis just behind his shoulder, Camille a few paces back, and the photographer orbiting them like a second shadow.

The introductions were tedious. One by one, each of the five adults flanking the entrance stepped forward to deliver stiff little speeches - each more perfumed with flattery than the last. Professors of Politics and Philosophy. The Dean of Conduct. A woman who oversaw the Virtue & Heritage Society, whatever that meant. The Head of Cultural Affairs, with an uncomfortably long monologue about the "privilege of legacy." And finally, a grey-haired man who looked like he hadn't interacted with society since Napoleon, introduced himself as the Chief Curator of Academic Nobility.

Each one bowed or curtsied. Each one said something unbearably long. Gabin nodded mechanically, hands clasped neatly in front of him, eyes drifting to the horizon beyond the courtyard where real life probably still existed.

At last, with the formalities complete, the headmaster clapped his hands together, satisfied. "Shall we proceed to the Salle de Maréchant for your welcome ceremony?"

Gabin didn't answer, only fell into step behind him.

They walked through the tall, arched entrance of the building, and immediately, the atmosphere shifted.

The interior of Académie Saint-Rémy was like stepping into another century. Polished limestone floors stretched out like a cathedral's nave, gleaming beneath chandeliers that dripped with crystal and gold. The ceilings rose so high they seemed to vanish into painted clouds, frescoed with allegorical figures - saints, scholars, kings. Their painted eyes followed him as he passed.

Dark oak panels lined the walls, carved with ancient family crests and flourishes of Latin script. Massive portraits stared down from their golden frames, their subjects frozen in oil: young nobles of ages past, all solemn, all beautiful, all long dead. Velvet-lined benches sat beneath stained glass windows, their colored light bleeding onto the floor like spilled jewels.

Even the air inside smelled old - book leather and beeswax, the soft musk of parchment and time.

It was painfully quiet. Their footsteps echoed through the corridors, the only sound in the heavy, reverent stillness. It was the kind of silence that didn't welcome you, but measured you - judged whether or not you belonged.

They reached a pair of towering double doors. Mahogany, inlaid with gold filigree and crowned with the school's crest: a lion curled around a crown, just like the one pressed against his chest.

The Salle de Maréchant.

It was the academy's most prestigious hall - used for official ceremonies, visiting dignitaries, and, apparently, royal apologies in disguise.

The doors opened.

Inside, the hall unfolded in grandeur.

Vaulted ceilings soared above polished parquet floors, and rows of tiered seating fanned out in a semi-circle like a theater. Red velvet banners hung from each arch, each stitched with the school's motto, and small vases of white lilies sat on every ledge.

At the center of the room stood a small marble podium with a golden microphone. Waiting.

Gabin's stomach twisted.

He took one breath.

Then another.

And walked inside.

The moment he stepped inside Salle de Maréchant, the sea of scarlet, navy, and gold turned to face him.

About a hundred students filled the velvet-lined rows - more boys than girls - all polished to perfection. Glossy loafers, brogues, and Mary Janes squeaked faintly as they scraped against the gleaming parquet floor. The low hum of conversation that had previously rippled through the hall fell away like a dropped curtain the instant the headmaster came into their sight.

And when Gabin followed - every single student stood.

In perfect synchrony.

A quiet choreography of reverence and etiquette so well-practiced it chilled him.

They didn't rise for him.

Not for the boy.

They rose for the symbol. For the image.

To them, he wasn't real. He was a headline wearing a uniform. A scandal sewn into navy wool. A prince paraded before them like a museum exhibit dragged from the archives of shame and displayed for their inspection.

Their stares pierced through him. Curious. Cold. Careful.

Some students looked like they were already composing letters to their mothers about how underwhelming he seemed. Others soaked him in with wide eyes, likely picturing what their last name would look like next to his. A few looked... indifferent - too legacy-drunk to care about a prince unless he brought influence with him.

But none of them - none - knew him. Not the boy. Not the breathless, suffocating ache behind his eyes. Not the hands he clenched behind his back to keep them from trembling.

They knew what they were told.

They knew the title. The speech.

The edited version of what happened.

And they judged anyway. Quietly. Politely. Brutally.

He kept his chin raised, his jaw set like marble - not out of pride, but from the sheer weight of fatigue. If he bowed, he feared he wouldn't come back up. 

But now, here he was  -  not out of choice, but exile dressed up as opportunity.

Dragged into polished hallways and orchestrated applause, because damage control demanded a crown-shaped sacrifice.

But even before, he hadn't chosen private tutors to excel.

God, no. He already knew more than most of the country's future politicians and trust fund brats combined.

He chose it because he hated people.

Because being around them felt like drowning with his eyes open - every conversation rehearsed, every smile weaponized.

Except for her.

Padma had been the only exception.

The only softness in the static.

He stayed hidden behind tailored education and solitary schedules because that meant he could spend time with her. Quiet, golden hours stolen in the palace's back corridors, in the rose garden, in the forgotten corners of the library. There, he could touch her fingers like they were a secret and kiss her like he was just a boy.

He had carved out a life in the shadows just to have her.

Now that the heart he gave her had been torn from his chest, now that there was nothing left of their soft, secret world - what did it matter? Saint-Rémy was just another cage.

He thought, maybe, at least here he'd be free of his mother's shadow. That he could live in the margins, unnoticed, untouched. But this - this felt worse. Like exile dressed in silk gloves.

Instead of two judgmental monarchs, now he had a hundred.

A hundred sharp stares.

A hundred quiet knives.

And the show had only just begun.