The restaurant was everything you'd expect after the kind of day where a prince in knitwear hires you for a maybe-legal position and fixes your outfit by grazing your waist.
It was absurdly fancy.
Dare I say—fancier than the castle?
Yes. Without hesitation. Probably yes.
Because the castle, at least, had the decency to feel like a fairytale. Like a very well-funded Renaissance LARP. But this place? This place didn't even pretend to be whimsical. It was surgical. Curated. The kind of wealth that made you feel underdressed no matter what you were wearing and somehow apologize to the carpet just for walking on it.
There were chandeliers above us—plural. They didn't just light the room. They declared their presence. Crystals like falling starlight, refracting a soft golden haze over every table. And those tables? Far apart. Like each one had its own diplomatic immunity.
The waitstaff moved with the silent precision of a dream you weren't supposed to wake up from. Their uniforms had structure. Intent. And not a single one of them had pores.
There was a fountain. Inside.
Just quietly bubbling in the far corner, like a flex no one acknowledged. The kind of feature that existed just because it could.
I followed Lucien through the entryway, my shoes echoing too loudly against the marble floor, past a host who looked like they'd been carved out of money and discretion, and into a private booth set against a window that framed the city like a high-definition oil painting.
And then we sat.
He slid into the leather seat like he'd done it a thousand times—one arm over the backrest, his other hand already reaching for the wine list. I sat across from him, still feeling the ghost of his hand at my waist from earlier, trying not to visibly short-circuit in a room designed to make people like me feel poor but polite.
The menu was printed on thick, matte cardstock with no prices listed anywhere—just names like Duck Two Ways and The Sea, Deconstructed. There was a dish that simply said "Pear."
One word. Just Pear.
Was it grilled? Candied? Blessed? Who knows. Who was I to ask?
Lucien glanced at me from behind the wine list, that infuriatingly relaxed smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "You like red?"
I nodded. Because that was all I could do. Speak too much, and I'd reveal I didn't belong. Speak too little, and he might start talking more.
He gave the list a single, decisive tap and handed it to the waiter without looking. Just a nod. Just enough command to say yes, I know which vineyard's blood we'll be drinking tonight.
I sat very still. Because this wasn't dinner. Not really. This was part of the pageantry.
An unspoken deal sealed in imported bread and tension.
I was being softened.
Flattered. Fattened. Dressed in clothes I didn't choose, brought to a place I couldn't afford to look at for too long, and treated like someone who had already said yes to things he didn't understand.
And Lucien? Lucien was just watching.
Studying me like a new acquisition. A sculpture in progress. A pawn he wanted to place just right.
I reached for the water glass—not the wine—and took a slow sip.
And tried not to think about how hard it would be to say no to anything now.
"So tell me," Lucien said, lightly swirling his wine glass as if this was a casual Sunday lunch, "do you have a family?"
I stared at him for a second. Not in shock—just trying to decide what tone this was meant to strike.
"Of course I have a family," I said flatly. "I didn't just… respawn."
He chuckled at that. A soft, amused sound. The kind of laugh that said you're entertaining, but not surprising.
"Well," he said, still smiling, "you're being a bit of a smart-ass."
"Excuse me?"
He cleared his throat like he hadn't meant to say it out loud. Like he forgot, for half a second, to keep up the prince act.
"I mean—what family do you have?"
My eyes narrowed. "Why does that matter?"
He tilted his head slightly, looking off to the side, like he was composing an excuse in real time. "It wouldn't. It's just… a conversation starter."
Sure. Like all great dates start with who would come looking if you disappeared.
"I don't think you need to know about my family," I said slowly, voice flat now. Defensive.
He didn't flinch. "Anyone else besides your grandmother?"
My mouth fell open—literally. I didn't even try to stop it.
What the actual—
Lucien laughed, completely at ease, and ran a hand through his hair. And for a horrifying second, I almost forgot to be furious because Jesus, his hair moved like it had a personal lighting team.
Then the room righted itself and I remembered: he did a background check on me.
"Come on, Reed," he said, eyes glinting. "You have to be smarter than that. I gave you the chance to tell me. Of course I already know."
My jaw clenched. "Uhm—well… my grandmother is where I draw the line."
He shrugged. "No lines need to be drawn here."
The waiter appeared just as Lucien waved a casual hand, like he was controlling the room without ever raising his voice. Then, as if he hadn't just completely steamrolled a boundary, he turned back to me, all silk and politeness.
"Can I order for you as well? Or would you prefer to choose something for yourself?"
I shook my head.
Not because I trusted him. Not because I was feeling indulgent.
But because I didn't have the mental capacity to form words.
The warmth from earlier had soured into something sharper—something like control wearing a kind smile.
I sat back in my chair, nodded once, and tried to convince myself this was still dinner and not a psychological chess match.
And the worst part? I was playing Uno.
Lucien turned to the waiter like he'd done this a hundred times, like this restaurant was just another room in his mansion, like menus were mere formality and food was an extension of his will.
He didn't ask for recommendations. He didn't hesitate. His voice slipped into a lower, almost silkier register—measured, melodic, somehow sharper when directed at service.
"We'll begin with the foie gras au torchon, served chilled. No crostini. Brioche instead."
His French was perfect.
Not forced, not dramatic—just correct. Fluid. Effortless. The vowels rolled out like they'd been born in his mouth. And the waiter nodded, jotting notes without blinking, like this wasn't the verbal equivalent of watching someone do ballet in mid-air.
"For the main," he continued, with just the barest smile, "he'll have the veau sous vide, pink, no sauce reduction. I'll have the lotte à la plancha, finish it in brown butter. No garnish."
He paused for the briefest moment. Not to think. Just to let the silence settle into the space where power gathers.
"And for wine," he added, "the Saint-Émilion. 2016. Decanted."
The waiter nodded, bowed slightly, and disappeared like a well-trained ghost.
Lucien turned back to me, completely relaxed, as if he hadn't just summoned a five-course experience with the smooth authority of a man who could buy the table.
I stared at him.
"Do you… train for that?" I asked finally.
He tilted his head. "Train for what?"
"For ordering food like that. Like you're in a period drama that knows it's getting an award."
He smirked. "It's just a habit. I grew up around people who treated meals like diplomacy. If you couldn't pronounce your entrée, you didn't deserve to eat it."
"Right," I muttered. "Makes sense. Me? I was raised on things that came in plastic and had microwave instructions."
He looked me over with something that might've been fondness. Or pity. Or both. "Nothing wrong with that," he said softly. "But I thought we'd give you something warmer tonight."
"Warmer," I echoed. "You mean foie gras and veal?"
"Elegance is a kind of comfort," he said, "if you let it be."
I leaned back into my chair, feeling the velvet against my shoulders. I didn't feel elegant. I felt like a kid in borrowed clothes sitting in a museum exhibit labeled What Poor People Think Rich Looks Like.
Lucien just sipped his water—of course he hadn't touched the wine yet, of course he had rules for that—and studied me like I was part of the evening's entertainment.
"Don't be so tense," he said, setting his glass down. "No one here is judging you."
That was a lie.
Everyone here was judging me. But not because they knew me.
Because I didn't belong. Except to him. And that was starting to feel far more dangerous.
"You aren't really a prince, are you?" I said, eyes locked somewhere around the corner of the linen tablecloth, refusing to look at him directly.
The wine glass in my hand was still full. I hadn't touched it. My appetite was mostly nerves now—sharp, persistent. Like my body knew something my mouth wouldn't admit.
Lucien didn't flinch. Didn't stiffen. He just tilted his head slightly, the same way someone might when deciding whether to indulge a child or a threat.
"Of course, I'm a prince," he said.
Not defensive. Not indignant.
Just… barely convincing.
I huffed out a breath through my nose. "What kind of prince walks around like it's nothing? Who personally escorts a random person off the internet, hires them into some godforsaken portfolio of fake businesses, and takes them out for veal?"
I wasn't accusing him, not exactly. It came out more like venting—like the kind of thing you say when your brain's trying to rearrange the furniture after a small internal explosion.
"It seems," I continued, "like you're trying to get the act right, but you keep slipping."
He set his wine down, and something shifted. Just slightly. The quiet around him pulled in like a breath.
"The truth is, Reed—"
I looked up, almost involuntarily.
His eyes were already on me.
Dead center. Direct. Clear in a way that made the air feel heavier, like something real had finally cracked through the lacquered surface.
"I'm an outcast," he said. "The Royal Family is angry at me."
I blinked. Then scoffed, lightly. "What?"
"Yeah," he nodded once, like he was reliving it in the back of his mind. "Very angry."
"'Yeah' what?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "What does that even mean? You missed a brunch? You sold a family goat? What?"
He laughed softly, a sad kind of laugh. "I didn't want to marry a woman."
"And that's it? That made them angry?"
"I didn't love her," he said plainly.
"Okay, but they could've just—what—found you another one?" I waved vaguely, like women could be summoned with royal coupons. "You're a catch, objectively. Even your pores look expensive."
He smiled at that, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"True, true," he said slowly. "But the thing is… I can't marry women."
Something about the way he said it made me pause.
"You can't marry women?" I asked, squinting like narrowing my vision might help widen my understanding.
He looked down for a second, then back up.
"Yes. I'm—" he hesitated, only for a beat. Then, quieter: "Not into women."
I leaned back, letting it settle.
"Aha…" I said. "A gay prince?"
He nodded, lips twitching upward, but it didn't feel triumphant. It felt tired.
"As if the monarchy didn't have enough reasons to implode," he muttered.
I didn't know what to say to that. Not immediately.
I just sat there, watching him, seeing him suddenly not as the prince, or the man with all the control, or the one pulling the strings—but as someone standing a little too still in the middle of his own performance.
"You should've led with that," I said after a long pause. "I might've trusted you ten minutes earlier."
He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. "Would you?"
"No," I admitted. "But I would've ordered my own food."
That pulled a real smile out of him—small, quiet, crooked.
And for the first time since I met him, I wondered if there was a version of this story where neither of us was lying.
"But that leads us to another question," I said, leaning back just enough to feel brave. "Is that why you hired me? Because I'm also gay, and you figured we'd… I don't know, understand each other better? Or what—maybe you're into me."
I winked.
I actually winked.
And instantly regretted it.
Lucien blinked once.
Then smiled. "Oh, you are? I didn't know that."
"Your researchers suck," I muttered, grabbing the edge of my water glass like it was a stress ball. "Maybe you should start doing background checks for vital things. You know, the kind of information that would actually help you get closer to your target."
His eyes sparkled, and for the first time since we sat down, he looked… sheepish.
Just mildly annoyed in a very elegant way.
He nodded, lips pursed like he'd just found a hair out of place on his suit.
"You're right," he said. "I'll teach them a lesson."
I smiled at that. Couldn't help it.
It was easy, too easy, to imagine him scolding some pale, trembling analyst in a glass office for missing a crucial tag on a gay freelancer's online presence. "How dare you overlook Grindr screenshots? Do you even know me?"
But then the food arrived.
And my smile disappeared faster than my sense of stability.
Two large plates landed in front of us like curated artifacts—plated with such precision it felt disrespectful to breathe near them. Mine looked like an art piece from a gallery that charged admission. The veal was cut into neat medallions, pink in the center, seated delicately atop a whisper of something green and foamy. Beside it sat a single edible flower, like a threat dressed as a garnish.
Lucien's was just as ridiculous. Butter-seared monkfish, glistening under the golden light, surrounded by tiny roasted vegetables so perfectly shaped they looked synthetic.
I stared at mine like it might bite back.
Lucien, of course, picked up his cutlery with grace and ease, slicing through the fish like he was born to do it. He looked up at me, completely unbothered.
"What?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"I just…" I pointed vaguely at the plate. "I don't know which part I'm allowed to eat."
"Whichever part calls to you."
"Great," I muttered. "Let me just commune with the meat."
Lucien laughed again. Not too loud. Just enough to feel it ripple between us.
But under the table, I still wasn't breathing right.
Because everything about him was dangerous—his ease, his knowledge, his looks. But what scared me more was this: I didn't want to run.