They reached the stage in measured steps, teachers already making their way up in single file like a line of chess pieces taking their places. The headmaster, still smiling with that perfectly composed pride, turned to Gabin. With a slight bow of the head and a flourish of the arm, he gestured toward a solitary desk placed just before the sea of students - separated, elevated, and far too theatrical.

"Your Highness, you may take your seat there with your staff," he said, palm open as if presenting a crown.

Gabin gave a silent nod, already suffocating under the gaze of a hundred watching eyes. He made his way to the ornate desk, every step echoing against the polished floor like a countdown. When he arrived, he spotted a single golden name card waiting for him, thick cream cardstock with his name written in calligraphy that looked like it belonged on a grave.

He wanted to crumple it. Or burn it. Or tear it in two and walk away.

Instead, he sat down - right in the center, between Camille and Louise - boxed in by the two faces that had shadowed him all week. He kept his expression still, even as his hands clenched into pale fists under the desk.

The headmaster took his place at the podium, adjusting the microphone with exaggerated care. His voice rang out through the vast hall, calm and ceremonial.

"Good morning, students, faculty, and esteemed staff," he began, hands folding with weighty grace. "Today marks a most exceptional moment in the history of the Académie Saint-Rémy. Since its founding in 1627, this institution has stood as a sanctuary of tradition, virtue, and academic distinction. We have shaped diplomats, artists, thinkers, and rulers - each bound by the same code of honor that echoes in these halls."

He paused, letting the silence breathe before continuing.

"But it is not every year that we are entrusted with the education of someone born into legacy itself."

A ripple of breath moved through the crowd. The headmaster's faint smile didn't waver - it simply grew sharper, like a blade held politely.

"It is with great pride that we extend our hand - our values, our discipline - to a young man raised among the symbols of sovereignty, who now walks among us not as a prince, but as a student. His presence today is a symbol not just of nobility, but of humility. And we hope, in the spirit of this institution, that he finds not only rigor, but purpose. Not only brilliance, but character."

Gabin's throat tightened. The weight of that word - character - landed like a slap. As if he hadn't been dragged here in disgrace. As if this weren't damage control in designer shoes.

A dramatic pause. Cameras clicked. Gabin wished the floor would split open and swallow him whole.

"To mark this extraordinary occasion," the headmaster continued, "classes will be suspended for the remainder of the day, and a formal luncheon will be held in the Grand Hall following the ceremony. Dress accordingly."

A soft murmur of excitement trickled through the students, but Gabin barely registered it.

"And now," the headmaster said, turning toward him once more, "it is with warmth and admiration that I invite His Royal Highness Prince Gabin Louis Alexandre to say a few words."

The applause was controlled, respectful, and far too practiced.

Gabin's eyes widened. His heart plummeted like a stone into freezing water.

What?

He turned sharply to Louise, his voice a hissed whisper between clenched teeth. "What? What the hell am I even supposed to say?"

Louise gave him a look that hovered somewhere between pity and apology. Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes flicking briefly toward the stage.

"Your Highness should say whatever comes to his mind."

If he said what was actually in his mind, tomorrow's headlines would be bloodied in gold. And Louise must've known that too - because she quickly inhaled, and added more gently:

"Greet them. Thank the school. The headmaster. Say something about values. Honor. That sort of thing."

She nodded once, as if packaging that suggestion with a bow of false calm.

Gabin exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. After a brief moment of silent swearing and mental flailing, he gave the smallest, most exhausted "Okay," and rose.

His chair scraped loudly against the antique floor.

Then he walked.

Each step toward the stage felt like dragging a throne behind him - ornate, heavy, unwanted. The air was stiff, thick with expectation and the subtle perfume of too many designer colognes. When he reached the microphone, he stared at it like it might lunge at his face. He had spoken in front of international ambassadors before. Smiled for more cameras than he could count. But this - this was different.

He wasn't just a prince today. He was a scandal in uniform.

"Good morning," he said.

It came out weird. Thin. Slippery. Like his voice had slipped on a wet floor and smacked its head.

A pause.

He cleared his throat - too loud - and tried again.

"Um. Good morning," firmer this time, but still too fast. Still not right. His tone didn't sound princely. Or confident. It sounded like a kid doing a presentation on a book he didn't read.

His eyes darted to a spot on the back wall - there, a chip in the paint. Perfect. He focused on that, like if he stared hard enough, it would open a hole he could crawl into.

"Thank you to the... faculty. And the headmaster. For welcoming me to Saint-Rémy."

He could already hear Camille's voice in her head: Tone. Posture. Pronunciation.

Shut up, Camille.

His hands were gripping the podium like it might try to run away.

"It's... a privilege to be here," he said, each word sharp and wooden like bricks stacked in the wrong order. "At a school with... a very long and... respected legacy."

Jesus Christ.

He could feel himself spiraling. Like an astronaut tumbling out of orbit, but in expensive shoes.

"I'm, um... I'm excited to learn. A lot. From all of you. And, uh, about the school. And its, um... virtues. And the importance of, you know. Responsibility."

Someone in the back coughed.

He blinked. Three times, rapid-fire. His whole mouth felt dry. His tongue, useless.

"And... becoming a better version of myself, I guess."

He hated that sentence the second it left his mouth. I guess? What was this, a therapy circle?

He could practically hear Padma's voice in his head. That tiny wheeze of a giggle she used to do, half-warm, half-mocking, always affectionate.

"God, you're so bad at this. Want me to do it for you?"

She would've teased him for this. Would've sat cross-legged on the carpet with a fake clipboard, pretending to be a PR coach. She would've watched this speech and covered her mouth with both hands to stifle the laughter, then kissed the top of his head and said, "You're cute when you panic."

His throat tightened.

She was gone.

The thought came like a slap in a locked room - silent, private, brutal.

He inhaled through his nose, jaw twitching.

"Anyway," he added, voice scraping a little deeper now, rougher. Less prince. More boy.

"I hope I... do well. And live up to expectations. Thank you."

He stepped back. Every part of his body screamed at him to run. His blood was humming in his ears like a blown speaker. The back of his neck burned.

Silence.

The kind that hurts. Like being slapped in a room full of statues.

The students all stared, unmoving. Their gazes weren't hostile - but worse - they were detached. Measuring. Like he was some ancient artifact that just didn't live up to the rumors.

And then, Gabin's eyes locked with someone in the crowd.

A boy. Near the center row. Maybe seventeen or eighteen. Tall, with black styled hair that fell just imperfectly enough to be intentional. His posture was immaculate, his jawline sharp, and his uniform sat on him like it had been made by a Parisian tailor in a fever dream. He was smirking - just slightly. That kind of smirk that didn't move the mouth so much as the soul. Arrogant. Effortless. The kind of boy who had always been told he was important, and believed it so deeply he no longer questioned it.

It wasn't just a smirk. It was a dare. Or maybe a warning. Or maybe  -  worse  -  interest.

Beside him, a smaller boy with wide green eyes leaned in. Whispered something. And then both of them laughed under their breath.

But the tall one never looked away.

Gabin's jaw tensed. Heat rose behind his ears. He wanted to wipe that smirk off the boy's face. Or maybe disappear.

Why is he still looking at me like that?

And then - mercifully - Louise started clapping.

Polite. Measured. Dutiful.

The sound was like a crack in the surface. And slowly, like a glass shattering under pressure, the rest of the hall followed. One by one, hands began to join in - dry, restrained applause that felt more like protocol than praise.

A ripple of obedience. No warmth. No joy. Just the sound of obligation filling the room like cold water.

Gabin stepped back from the podium, breath tight in his chest.

So this was it.

He hadn't even finished his first day, and already, they'd all seen him - heard him - and decided exactly who he was. Not a prince. Not a student.

Just a performance.

And the curtain had barely gone up.