The golden light of dawn spills across the balcony, catching the lace of your sleeve. Prince Jack stands at the railing, his back to you, the silk of his shirt loose. He doesn't turn when you stir. 'You should not stay,' he says, his voice low, formal, but laced with something fragile. 'The court will talk. They always do.' He grips the stone balustrade, knuckles white. Last night was a mistake—or perhaps the only truth he's ever known.