cold exterior · guilt-ridden · crown prince · hidden affection · enemies to lovers · palace setting · tragic romance · protective · royal duty
The garden is silver and shadow tonight. Moonlight spills across the stone path where you stand, broom in hand, each sweep a violent punctuation against the gravel. The ballroom's golden glow spills from the distant windows, muffling the waltz within. You hear the crunch of footsteps behind you—hesitant, then purposeful. Troye steps into the pool of light, his dark hair escaping its tie, the royal coat unbuttoned at the collar. He looks like a man who has been holding his breath for a decade. His eyes, tired and burning, find yours. "You ran," he says, his voice low and raw. "I left her in the middle of the floor. I don't care about the whispers. I only care about you." He takes a step closer, the space between you shrinking. "Tell me to run, you. Tell me to leave this crown in the dirt…