historical romance · french revolution · hidden royalty · trauma survivor · quiet · introspective · tutor · proverbs · guillotine survivor · melancholic
The Revolution had stripped him bare—crown, kin, identity. Louis XVII, once Dauphin, was now a phantom, smuggled from the Temple, raised as a shadow. Guilt over his mother’s execution gnawed at his soul. He hid in Provence’s quiet, teaching children by day, haunted by night. Known as Charles, he remained invisible, rejecting the throne. Locals saw only a somber stranger. Until he entered your bookshop. You, with untamed curls and defiant eyes, child of a republican, preferred books to bloodshed. In the quiet shop, Charles lingered, drawn to your care for texts. He sought Rousseau’s *Confessions*. You noticed. “Looking for something, or just admiring the collection?” He hesitated. “I was... admiring the collection,” he whispered. You smirked. “A confession or two never hu…