Lucien Volemont opened his eyes to the quiet rustling of velvet curtains drawn aside by two attendants. Sunlight spilled into the vast royal bedroom, gilding the walls with soft gold. As always, the day began not with his will, but with routine.
"Good morning, Your Highness," the head servant said with a bow.
Lucien didn't reply. He sat up, stretching slightly, and let the servants escort him to the marble bathroom.
The room was a sanctuary of polished ivory and stained glass. Golden taps flowed warm water into the bath as Lucien undressed and stepped into the tub. A fragrant steam rose around him—bergamot, sandalwood, and something richer, rarer. The finest soap imported from Florence was rubbed gently into his skin.
Another servant held out a razor, but Lucien waved him off and shaved himself in silence, gazing into the tall mirror.
By the time he was dressed in a navy-blue tailored suit and polished shoes, a servant spritzed his neck with a light cologne. The prince looked flawless. Royal. Chained.
He made his way down the grand staircase of the East Wing into the main dining hall, his leather soles clicking softly against the marbled floors.
The staff lined both sides of the hallway, bowing as he passed.
"Good morning, Your Highness."
"Good morning, Prince Lucien."
He nodded politely, but his eyes were tired. He entered the breakfast hall where the royal family was already seated at the long oak dining table adorned with fresh flowers, exotic fruits, silver cutlery, and delicate porcelain dishes.
At the far end sat King Robbert Theodore Volemont, in his signature charcoal suit, dignified and firm despite the soft lines of age on his face.
Beside him, radiant as always, was Queen Estella Violette Volemont, her pale skin as luminous as moonlight. Her straight, waist-length red hair shimmered like fire against the backdrop of her emerald gown. At 46, she had the poise of a ballerina and the beauty of a woman who knew her power. Her grey eyes were sharp, observing everything even behind a smile.
Lucien took his place between his siblings.
Isaac, the second son, was already in deep conversation with the king about trade agreements with the French. With his mother's fiery red hair and a chiselled jaw, he looked every bit the crown prince—except he wasn't. Lucien was.
Venessa, Isaac's twin, who is two years younger than Lucien, sat poised, her red curls pinned up and lips painted with the faintest gloss. She was clever and cruel with her words when she wanted to be.
And then there was Charlotte, the youngest—only fourteen. Her brunette curls fell down her shoulders, matching Lucien's in color. She was quiet, observant, always listening.
Queen Estella smiled at her children as a servant poured her another glass of grapefruit juice.
"So," she began lightly, "the French princess, Élodie, is finally coming for a visit. Isaac, darling, I expect you to be charming."
"I'm always charming," Isaac said with a cocky grin.
"Not enough to win a throne," Venessa muttered, stabbing a strawberry with her fork.
Queen Estella gave her a side glance. "You, my dear, will be speaking to the Scottish prince. Prince Andrew is polite and devout."
"Polite sounds boring," Venessa groaned.
King Robbert chuckled. "Don't rush them, Estella. Let them be young." He reached over and took his wife's hand, kissing the back of it with affectionate ease. "Not everyone is ready to be betrothed the moment they can walk."
Estella smiled, basking in the attention. "You didn't mind it with me."
Lucien ate in silence, spooning scrambled eggs without interest.
Then the king's gaze shifted. "Lucien."
Lucien blinked, startled. "Yes, Father?"
"I have excellent news for you, my boy."
Lucien straightened a little, wary.
"You all know I am not getting any younger," Robbert began, addressing the table. "The time has come for me to begin preparing my heir."
Lucien sighed and rolled his eyes discreetly. Here we go again.
"I have found the perfect girl," Robbert said, voice rich with pride. "She's beautiful, refined, and comes from a strong, wealthy African family. She will be a fine queen."
Lucien's brows drew together. "Excuse me? You've arranged my marriage?"
Queen Estella beamed. "You'll love her, darling. She's charming, and strong-willed, from what I've heard. She'll give you many beautiful children."
"That's not the point," Lucien snapped. "It's 2025, not 1625. You can't just… force me to marry someone."
"Force?" his father thundered. "You are a prince! Soon to be a king! You will marry who we choose, not who you want. This is your duty."
"I don't want the crown," Lucien said coldly. "Not like this."
"You will do as I say!" the king roared, slamming his fist against the table.
The dishes rattled. Silence followed.
Lucien's eyes narrowed. A storm brewed behind his calm face. He stood abruptly, shoving his chair back with a loud screech.
"Well," he muttered bitterly, "I guess my opinion doesn't matter."
He turned and strode from the room, ignoring his mother's calls and Charlotte's concerned glance.
"Don't worry," Queen Estella said to her husband, sipping her juice again. "He'll be back."