"I will stay here. I command it," Andre declared in a tone of unwavering authority.
"And who are you to command?" King Phillipe countered, his voice firm. "In the presence of the King, you are nothing but a mere subject."
André exhaled deeply, frustration curling in his chest. He didn't want to go there. Not tonight. Not ever, if he had a choice.
This week had already drained him. Every conversation, every expectation—it was suffocating. He glanced at Lucas, whose head was slightly bowed. Lucas, who had always been there. Through thick and thin, through duty and defiance.
Being a prince had its privileges, sure. But it also came with shackles—ones he had spent his whole life trying to slip out of. And Lucas was the only person who never tried to tighten the chains.
"You will join us for the annual meeting in Italy. We'll be staying at the Hotel Belmond Splendido. No more debate," King Phillipe continued, his voice brokering no room for discussion.
Andre looked down for a moment, gathering his thoughts before raising his head again, his voice laced with the weight of compromise. If he couldn't have his way, he would still assert his position—he was, after all, the prince. To his father, he was nothing more than the heir to the throne, a pawn to be traded in the name of treaties or alliances.
"I will travel in economy. With Lucas," André stated firmly. "And you will not interfere. No royal guards. Only then will I comply. Your Highness."
King Phillipe's voice thundered. "André!"
André met his gaze, unwavering. "Father."
The King exhaled sharply, eyes dark with warning. "Fine. Take this as your last wish before you marry Claire."
Andre gritted his teeth, his anger bubbling to the surface. He refused to acknowledge the engagement—a mere contractual agreement-a deal. He was a puppet in a play he had no say in.
At 23, Prince André Beaumont was the epitome of royal charm—magnetic, poised, every move rehearsed to perfection. He carried himself like the world was his stage. Yet beneath the regal mask lay a quiet dissatisfaction—a yearning for freedom few could ever understand.
Andre and Lucas decided to depart earlier than planned, knowing the royal guards would greet them at the airport. The flight was high-risk, and each passenger had undergone multiple security checks before boarding.
Just as the plane was about to take off, Andre and Lucas excused themselves for a restroom break. It was then that they seized the opportunity, abandoning their luggage and making a hasty escape.
But they couldn't run forever.
By the time André stepped off the plane, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. The long-haul flight to the USA had been anything but restful—cramped seats, endless turbulence, the low murmur of passengers that never quite faded. Economy class was a far cry from the luxury he was used to, but that wasn't what bothered him. It was the weight pressing on his chest, the knowledge of what awaited him on the other side.
Claire.
He had spent the entire flight thinking of what to say, how to reason with her, how to make her understand. Maybe if he explained, if he laid it all out—the suffocating expectations, the life planned for him without his consent—she would listen. She had to.
But the moment he saw her, standing there with her arms crossed and her expression unreadable, he knew.
He was wrong.
"Claire, please, you have to listen," André began, his voice thick with frustration and urgency. He stepped closer, almost pleading. "I'm not asking for much. Just a chance to explain. To make you understand—"
"You think I'll understand?" Claire interrupted, her voice tight, but trembling with anger. "You've been gone for weeks, André. You've barely spoken to me. Now, you show up here, expecting what? That I'll just forgive you?"
André's brow furrowed, his patience thinning. "It's not that simple, Claire. You don't know what it's like—"
"I do know!" She snapped, taking a step forward, her hands shaking with restrained fury. "You think I don't know what it's like to feel invisible? To be a pawn in someone else's game?"
"Claire—"
Before he could say another word, she slapped him across the face with a sharp, resounding crack. The sting of it was nothing compared to the cold fury in her eyes. Her gaze burned through him, a mix of betrayal and wrath that left no room for forgiveness.
"You think you can escape this, Beaumont?" she hissed, her voice low, venomous. "You think you can just walk away from me? From this? From us? "
Andre staggered back, the sting of her slap still tingling on his cheek. His breath caught in his throat, the weight of her words pressing on him like an unbearable weight. His chest tightened. He had never seen her like this—not this ruthless, not this cold.
"You will be tied to me," she continued, her words now a dangerous promise. "You and I will never be separated. You will learn what it means to belong to me, Andre. You'll suffer. I'll make sure of it."
Every word felt like a knife twisting in his gut. This wasn't a mere quarrel. She wasn't just angry—she was claiming him, binding him in a way he couldn't escape. The image of his freedom, his hopes of running away, shattered in an instant.
His voice trembled for the first time. "Please, Claire... I never wanted this. I didn't ask for any of it."
Her smile was cruel and knowing, a twisted triumph playing across her lips. "Oh, but it doesn't matter what you want, does it? You don't get to choose anymore, Andre. You're mine. And you'll never escape. Not this time. Not ever. Sweetheart"
The finality in her words made his heart race. He had been foolish to think he could simply walk away. There was no way out. No escape.
With a flicker of hopelessness in his eyes, he met her gaze. There was no turning back now.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his chest rising and falling with each strained breath. Then, without a word, he turned away. He had no luggage, no belongings—nothing but the harsh reality of what awaited him in Italy. He had nowhere to run.
Upon their arrival, Andre found the royal guards fiercely patrolling the area, clearly on the lookout for him.
Or perhaps they were searching for the collateral—the sacrificial lamb who had dared to run. His father was immediately informed, and his reaction was swift and furious.
The air split. A slap.
"Andre , how dare you?" King Phillipe's voice boomed, filled with fury. "You thought I wouldn't know? I've allowed you to roam free for far too long. Mr. Kafka, escort him to his suite. He is not to leave the premises until I say so. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Your Highness," the guard replied, bowing in respect, as they dragged Andre away.