The world ended at 2:17 a.m.
Not with fire or war, but with a video.
A single clip, barely a minute long, enough to destroy a monarchy.
"It's not the end of the world. It's just a video. Something else will come up and everyone will forget it."
That's what they told him.
That's what they always said when the headlines turned ugly — smile, wave, pretend the crown didn't crack.
But this time, it wasn't a rumor.
It wasn't a grainy tabloid photo or a whispered scandal.
It was him.
All of him.
Prince Adrian Vale sat alone in the dim glow of the palace's communications room, the air heavy with static and shame. The walls were lined with screens streaming news channels from every corner of the world. Every monitor showed the same frozen frame — his body tangled in sheets, his mouth parted, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.
The golden heir of Alderia.
The man raised to be king.
Reduced to a scandal on loop.
The hum of the machines was the only sound — until the soft click of the door broke through.
"Your Majesty wants to see you," said a quiet voice.
Henry, his secretary, stood in the doorway — pale, sweating, eyes refusing to meet Adrian's.
Adrian didn't turn. He just stared at the frozen image on the main screen, at the version of himself the world now owned.
"I said I'll be there soon." His voice came out hoarse, metallic.
Henry hesitated. "They're saying it's spreading faster than we can contain. Every outlet has it now. The palace lawyers are—"
"Leave it." Adrian's jaw tightened. "No one can stop the internet."
When the door closed, silence returned.
Heavy. Mocking. Absolute.
He leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair, the motion trembling. His pulse pounded in his throat.
The image burned into his mind — Liana's face, her breathless laughter, the candlelight across her skin.
He'd trusted her.
The memory of that night still lived under his skin — the warmth of her mouth, the way she'd whispered, I don't care who you are.
It had felt real. Safe. Human.
Now, the entire kingdom had seen what was meant to stay between them.
⸻
In another part of the palace, Queen Isabella stood by the tall arched window, the glow of her phone reflecting off her sharp, perfect face.
"We raised him to lead," she said coldly, "and he's made a spectacle of himself."
Across the room, Duke Rowan Vale — her husband's younger brother — stirred his drink lazily, watching the ice melt.
"The boy's young," Rowan murmured, "too young to carry the weight of a throne. Scandals like this don't fade easily."
The Queen's gaze shifted to him. "You sound almost pleased."
He smiled faintly. "Pleased? No. But we must think of the monarchy. If the public loses faith, the Council might demand… temporary leadership. Until the dust settles, of course."
Isabella's silence was her answer.
Rowan turned to the window, hiding his smirk behind his glass.
⸻
By nightfall, Adrian's name had become the kingdom's curse.
#RoyalLeak trended worldwide.
Sponsors withdrew.
Foreign dignitaries canceled visits.
The stock markets wavered.
Every sound in the palace echoed like judgment.
He walked the marble corridors like a ghost, each portrait of his ancestors watching him in silent accusation. Servants turned away, bowing too quickly, terrified of seeing him — or being seen by him.
He ended up outside the east wing — the only part of the palace untouched by cameras.
Beyond those doors was the small private office where he and Liana had first met.
He hesitated, then pushed the door open.
The faint scent of her perfume still lingered in the air — soft vanilla, threaded with something sharper. Her papers were gone. Her laptop wiped clean.
Only a single file folder sat on the desk.
Royal Image Consultancy.
He opened it.
His schedule.
His speeches.
Her notes.
Smile when nervous.
Don't touch your cufflinks — it makes you look defensive.
The people love humility. Pretend to be human.
And at the bottom — a printed photo of the two of them laughing at a charity gala.
Someone had drawn a red X over his face.
Adrian's stomach dropped.
She hadn't just left.
She'd been sent.
⸻
Two hours later, he stood on the palace balcony, the city below flickering with a thousand judgmental lights. The wind carried the sound of sirens and the faint hum of drones.
He thought of her again — Liana.
Her voice.
Her eyes.
The way she'd looked at him that night — something between desire and sorrow.
Now it all made sense.
"Your Highness." Henry appeared behind him, hesitant. "They want a statement by morning. The King—"
Adrian turned slowly. "Tell them I'll handle it."
Henry blinked. "Handle it how, sir?"
Adrian's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "If they want a show, I'll give them one."
⸻
Far across the city, in a dim hotel room, Liana Monroe sat on the edge of her bed, clutching her phone like a lifeline.
The name on the screen read Boss.
She didn't answer.
Her laptop glowed beside her, the screen showing a massive bank transfer. The job was done. The target destroyed.
Her reflection on the dark screen looked like a stranger — beautiful, haunted, ashamed.
But guilt clawed through her chest like fire.
She opened a hidden folder, one she wasn't supposed to keep. Inside were recordings, emails, proof of what they had planned — and how deep the conspiracy went.
Her finger hovered over delete.
Then froze.
"No," she whispered. "Not this time."
She plugged in a flash drive and began copying everything, her pulse racing.
⸻
Back at the palace, dawn broke over Alderia.
Adrian watched the horizon turn gold, light spilling over the rooftops like a promise and a warning. Reporters would flood the gates soon. His mother would demand silence. His uncle would call for mercy.
But beneath the wreckage, something darker had awakened.
He wasn't the golden heir anymore.
He wasn't the obedient prince.
He was a man with nothing left to lose — and the one thing every enemy should fear.
Because in Alderia, scandals didn't destroy kings.
They created them.