The golden Prince Vittorio held his solid golden grin as he strode past the glass doors, barging through the army of watchful eyes that no longer feigned disinterest.

His face grew numb and he felt his eyes being pulled toward the floor. A lowered gaze is a cowardly disgrace on his royal blood, so he resisted, eyes locked on an imaginary point on the wall.

After 19 years of training in the brutal world of the noble courts and in combat, the Prince had perfected his poker face. So even when his heart tugged against his ribcage, threatened to pull his whole body back onto the balcony to his closest friend, he did not let it show.

Even when each step felt slower and heavier than the last, he pressed on, step after step until he ascended the marble steps, draped in velvet carpet to take his seat on his golden throat once more.

It pained him to walk away. But he was not 16 anymore, he did not have the freedom, time or privilege of privacy to go on spontaneous adventures anymore. He was to be king one day. He was to marry Lady Ophelia Guerriero, the only daughter of the Grand Duke of the Empire.

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He pressed his cheek into one of his hands, sighing with a grimace now that the wandering eyes of the people returned to their cliques. He absently swirled his fresh glass of champagne in his free hand, lost in thought as he stared at the golden bubbles surfacing.

Oh.

Gold.

What a flattering new way to describe his fiance’s eyes. The little flecks of gold in Ophelia’s irises were the exact shade of a golden flute of fine champagne. He chuckled to himself at the thought.

Prince Vittorio loved Lady Ophelia Guerriero. It was a well-known fact. He loved her as much as a man could love a woman.

But the hidden truth is he was not in love with her, not in the slightest. She was the only one he could imagine himself married to, the only one he considered to know the real him. But he was not in love with her.

He couldn’t be. His smile grew solemn and sour, brow furrowed and creased.

If he, Vittorio - the man, not the prince; the one who dreams of another man, who yearns for a lover with calloused hands and a strong back - were ever to see the light of day? Lia would be the first to know of him.

Maybe the only one ever to know of him.