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The ballroom is bathed in soft gold light, all string lights and velvet shadows. The grand piano gleams like obsidian in the corner, untouched. Crystal glasses clink against each other like distant windchimes. It’s all a little too perfect for Wilhelm’s mood.
He stands with a glass of something non-alcoholic—probably sparkling apple cider, because God forbid the Crown Prince be caught doing anything reckless again. His suit is sharp, tailored to perfection, yet he feels stiff, like a mannequin propped up in someone else's story.
Across the room, laughter erupts. Wilhelm’s gaze snaps to the source like a trigger pulled.
There Simon stands. Smiling. Laughing. Radiant in that way that makes Wilhelm’s chest ache with something that feels like both nostalgia and want.
And standing far too close to Simon is Marcus. Simon leans in as he talks, head tilted, eyes bright with attention. Marcus touches his arm in that too casual way—fingers just grazing bicep like it’s nothing.
It’s not nothing.
Wilhelm clenches his jaw, the pressure running up his temples.
“Are you okay, Your Highness?” Stella’s voice pulls him slightly out of it. She’s standing beside him, glass in hand, brow raised in polite curiosity.
“I’m fine.” It comes out sharper than intended. He doesn’t apologize.
She follows his line of sight and lets out a soft, knowing hum. “You know, if you keep staring at them like that, someone’s going to get stabbed with a salad fork.”
Wilhelm doesn’t laugh. “What’s he doing with Marcus?”
“Talking?” she offers, but there's an edge of amusement in her voice. “Flirting, maybe. Simon is single now, right?”
He glares at her.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m just the messenger.”
“He doesn’t even like Marcus” Wilhelm mutters.
“Doesn’t seem to matter tonight.”
Wilhelm swallows hard. Jealousy tastes bitter. It makes him feel seventeen and powerless and still far too in love with someone who won’t even look at him for longer than a second unless it’s with cold eyes or pity.
Simon is laughing again. He tips his head back, the column of his throat exposed, beautiful. Wilhelm’s hand curls tighter around his glass.
Stella pats his arm. “You should talk to him. Before Marcus becomes more than just a distraction.”
Wilhelm is already moving.
Simon feels the heat of someone approaching before he sees who it is. The atmosphere shifts—tighter, more electric.
He turns and finds Wilhelm there, standing too close like he always used to, like gravity’s pulling him forward and pride’s the only thing holding him back.
“Can I talk to you?” Wilhelm says, eyes flicking toward Marcus with something borderline murderous.
Simon straightens. “I’m in the middle of a conversation.”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
Marcus looks between them, brows raised. “I can take a hint. Catch you later, Simon?”
Simon doesn’t answer fast enough for Wilhelm’s liking, but eventually nods, and Marcus melts away like a smug ghost.
Wilhelm waits until they’re alone near a quiet balcony door before he speaks. “What was that?”
Simon blinks. “What was what?”
“You were flirting with him.”
Simon’s laugh is short, sharp. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”
“I’m not jealous,” Wilhelm lies. “I just don’t trust him.”
“Right,” Simon says slowly, crossing his arms. “You don’t trust Marcus, but you trusted the press with my face and my voice.”
Wilhelm flinches like he’s been struck. “That’s not fair.”
Simon steps forward. “Isn’t it?”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen. I was trying to protect you.”
“No,” Simon says, voice rising. “You were trying to protect yourself.”
The words hang in the air between them, sharp and true and familiar.
Wilhelm looks away, then back, eyes storm-dark. “So what, you’re just moving on? With him?”
Simon exhales hard through his nose. “Maybe I am. Maybe I deserve someone who isn’t ashamed of me.”
Wilhelm’s face twists, wounded. “I’m not ashamed of you.”
“You act like you are.”
The silence between them is louder than the music inside. Wilhelm steps closer, not touching, but enough to feel the tension vibrate like a live wire.
“I never stopped loving you,” he says, voice low, desperate. “Even when I couldn’t show it. Even when I was stupid and scared.”
Simon looks at him, torn. His eyes are glassy but unreadable.
“You don’t get to say that now,” Simon whispers. “Not when you couldn’t say it when it mattered.”
“I still matter,” Wilhelm says. “Don’t I?”
Simon looks away, as if the answer is too dangerous to say out loud.
Wilhelm’s hand brushes his wrist, tentative. “Please don’t do this with him. Not just to get back at me.”
Simon stiffens. “This isn’t about you.”
“It always is.”
And maybe that’s the problem.
Simon steps back, and the distance between them feels wider than the whole ballroom.
“You don’t get to be jealous, Wilhelm,” he says, quiet but firm. “Not when you chose the crown over me.”
Wilhelm’s voice breaks. “What if I regret it?”
Simon’s expression softens—but only for a second. “Then you live with it. Like I’ve had to live with the silence. The headlines. The pretending.”
A pause. Then Simon adds, quieter, “You’re the one who left me. Don’t look at me like I betrayed you just because someone else makes me laugh now.”
Wilhelm’s breath hitches. His hands drop to his sides like they’ve forgotten how to reach for anything.
“I’m not over you,” he whispers.
Simon blinks quickly, biting the inside of his cheek. “That’s not enough.”
And then he walks away, back into the ballroom, toward the music and the lights and maybe, just maybe, toward someone who won’t hesitate.