The Prince and Mia

tises, the text blurring into meaningless symbols. The weight of his kingdom was a familiar phantom, but it was the hollow ache in his chest that truly defined his solitude

marked him as a prince, yet his heart remained

textbooks. Her beauty wasn't merely the porcelain perfection of her English complexion or the delicate curve of her lips; it was the fire of her mind, the wa

als that turned to ash in his mouth, the profound loneliness that clung to him like a damp fog. He wrote of everything and nothing, just to reach the only words that mattered: Thinking of you. Did you g

ries of their childhood with his sister, Myar. The ghosts of their library kingdom populated his sterile room: Myar, her bronze skin aglow under candlelight as she braided Mia's golden hair; himself, a clumsy, playacting knight, blushing furiously when Mia's voice wove the fabric of a love

a boy's foolish fancy? Had his mother, the formidable Queen Faya, discovered their kiss and silenced her with a threat? Or the most unbearable thought of all: had their connection, that desperate, soul-searing kiss, meant nothi

omen on his arm-Parisian debutantes, Roman actresses, ambitious students seeking the thrill of a royal liaison. Each practiced smile, each meaningless dance, each hollow night was a performance of indifference, a defiance of the pain he refused to name. It was another brick in the wall he was building

a man shaped by loneliness. Ramzi, his aide and the one person who had witnessed the slow erosion of the boy into the man, joined him, two g

i said, his formal tone softened by years of fri

t the familiar ache. To admit the truth felt like lancing

ng observation. He knew exactly who the "she" was who h

e exhaled, the fight draining out of him, leaving only the hollow truth. He stared at the city's lights,

A desperate attempt to prove she didn't matter." He turned to his friend, his own polished mask finally cracking. "And all it