The air inside the shelter carried the scent of antiseptic and warm bread, the usual mix of comfort and necessity. Theo barely glanced up from the supply list on his iPad, mind focused on distributing rations and organizing aid.

  Outside, the noise of the city hummed steadily—buses screeching, vendors calling, distant chatter blending into the heartbeat of Bellemont.

  Everything was running smoothly.

  For once.

  Then, a scent—subtle but familiar—drifted past him.

  Theo didn’t need to turn around to know. Sandalwood and citrus, clean and sharp, laced with something unmistakably Cassius.

  He forced himself to ignore it.

  But, of course, ignoring Cass was impossible.

  “Busy as always, I see.”

  Theo sighed through his nose, fingers tightening around the iPad. “If you’re here to help, grab a clipboard. If not, leave.”

  Cass grinned, unfazed, and plucked a clipboard from the nearest table as if it had been his idea all along. “Well, since you insist.”

  Theo gave him a flat look. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

  Cass ignored him, scanning the volunteer lists with an exaggerated hum. “You know, I didn’t take you for the clipboard type. Thought you’d be more of a ‘scream orders and storm off dramatically’ kind of leader.”

  Theo huffed. “You don’t know me.”

  Cass’s smirk didn’t waver. “Maybe.”

  His eyes flicked over the shelter, taking in the neatly arranged food stations, the stacks of medical supplies, the organized rows of blankets.

  “You run this place like a machine.”

  Theo ignored the way something in his chest tightened at the words. Instead, he muttered, “Someone has to.”

  Before Cass could reply, movement outside caught Theo’s attention. A shift in the energy—subtle at first, but growing.

  Then came the voices.

  Low murmurs at first. Then, a ripple of excitement.

  Theo knew exactly what was happening before he even turned around.

  The crowd had noticed him.

  Or rather—The Golden Prince.

  Cass’s presence had been subtle at first, but now, it was unmistakable. The whispers grew into murmurs, murmurs into movement, until the shelter’s quiet efficiency was broken by a growing group of onlookers pressing closer.

  Phones lifted. People called out. Some were curious, some awed, others skeptical—but all of them were looking.

  Theo’s jaw clenched.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  “This is exactly why I told you to stay away,” Theo snapped under his breath, stepping closer to Cass. “This isn’t your royal meet-and-greet. People don’t need a damn spectacle; they need help.”

  Cass’s expression barely shifted, but there was something in his gaze—something unreadable. “You think I don’t know that?”

  Theo scoffed. “Really? Because it looks like you’re enjoying this.” He gestured sharply to the crowd. “Congratulations, Your Highness. You just turned a relief shelter into another photo op.”

  Cass’s smirk faded. Just slightly. “I didn’t ask for this.”

  “No,” Theo muttered. “But you never stop it, either.”

  The tension between them thickened, unspoken words hanging between the noise.

  Then—

  A sound cut through.

  A different kind of shift in the crowd.

  The murmurs changed—excitement twisting into something else.

  Something darker.

  Theo turned just in time to see it.

  A small argument near the entrance had escalated. A shove. Raised voices. More movement—too much, too fast.

  Then—

  Chaos.

  A riot.

  The shelter, once a haven, was about to become something else entirely.

  And neither of them were ready for what was coming.

  The tension in the air shifted—electric, volatile.

  Theo could feel it before he saw it.

  The crowd surged.

  Chaos erupted, spilling outward like water through shattered glass.

  Someone threw something—he didn’t see what. A cup, a bottle, a fist—does it matter? It flew, and the crowd swallowed the moment whole. The people at the back surged forward. The ones in the front tried to escape. The shelter, once a haven, became a wave of movement too fast to predict, too loud to stop.

  Theo moved on instinct.

  He reached for Cass. “Stay back—”

  Too late.

  Cassius had already stepped forward, arms raised—not in surrender, but in command.

  "This isn't the time for this!" His voice cut through the air, clear and strong despite the growing storm. "We're here to help—"

  They did not listen.

  The voices drowned him out, a tide of desperation and fury.

  A woman shoved past, eyes wild. Someone else stumbled. A child cried out—lost, alone—Theo turned toward the sound, toward the movement, toward the place where things were about to break—

  Then—

  A sharp, bright pain.

  It bloomed fast, searing up his arm before his brain caught up.

  Theo hissed through his teeth. He turned his head, saw the crimson staining his sleeve, dark and spreading.

  Blood.

  The command in Theo’s voice was sharp. "Get him inside. Now."

  His personal bodyguard didn’t hesitate, moving to pull Cass away from the chaos. Cass barely registered it, barely felt the grip on his arm—his focus was locked on Theo.

  Theo, who was already moving forward.

  Theo, who had always thrown himself into danger without a second thought.

  Cass resisted, twisting slightly. “Theo—”

  But Theo wasn’t listening.

  He was already disappearing into the chaos, pushing through the bodies, through the riot that had swallowed the shelter whole.

  Cass tried to follow.

  He barely made it a step before he saw it.

  The blood.

  It stood out in stark contrast against Theo’s white shirt—a deep, spreading stain across his sleeve, blooming like something unnatural.

  Cass stopped breathing.

  For a second—just a second—he wasn’t here.

  The noise of the riot dulled. The crowd blurred.

  All he could see was the blood.

  It was on Theo’s sleeve, but it wasn’t just on his sleeve.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  It was on his own hands.

  Cassius tried to blink, tried to breathe, tried to make sense of the moment—but the world had gone wrong.

  He saw Theo.

  His mind shifted, slipped. His skin felt wrong, too thin, too fragile, like the world would rip through him if he let it.

  Theo turned, his face sharp with focus, his body alight with motion. His shirt, white as bone, was blooming red.

  Blood.

  Theo’s lips moved—words, commands, orders—but Cassius couldn’t hear them. The sound was muffled, distorted, like voices through water.

  He could only see the color.

  Crimson on pale.

  Cassius clenched his fists. He tried to move, but his body refused. His limbs were distant, uncooperative. The weight of something unseen pressed against his chest.

  Theo turned again, his eyes catching Cassius’.

  Theo barely felt the sting of the wound.

  He was too focused—on the volunteers, on the people still caught in the chaos outside. With sharp commands and steady hands, he guided them back inside the shelter, making sure no one was left behind. The shouts from the crowd still echoed beyond the doors, but here, inside, they were safe.

  For now.

  His chest rose and fell with deep, controlled breaths as he swept his gaze over the room.

  “Anyone hurt?” His voice was firm, steady. “Check for injuries. If you’re bleeding, sit down. We have med—”

  A sharp gasp cut through the air.

  “Oh my god—Theo, you’re—”

  Theo turned, frowning—only to realize everyone was staring at him.

  Or rather—at his blood.

  It soaked into the white of his shirt, deep crimson against pale fabric. Someone whispered his name, fear laced in their voice. A volunteer reached toward him, wide-eyed. “You’re hurt—”

  But Theo barely heard them.

  Because just beyond them, against the wall—Cass.

  Cass, pale. Cass, rigid. Cass, gasping for breath as if the air had been stolen from his lungs.

  Theo didn’t think.

  He moved.

  He ignored the blood on his own body. Ignored the throbbing sting where glass had sliced him. None of it mattered.

  Because Cass—Cass wasn’t breathing right.

  Theo crouched in front of him, voice cutting through the panic. “Cass. Look at me.”

  No response.

  Cass’s hands were clenched against his chest, his eyes unfocused, fixed on something that wasn’t here.

  Theo swallowed.

  He had seen him argue, laugh, spit sarcasm like venom—but he had never seen Cass like this.

  “Cass.” Softer this time. Steady. A hand on his shoulder. “Breathe. You’re safe.”

  Cass’s breath hitched—sharp, shallow.

  Theo pressed a little firmer. “In. With me. One, two—”

  Nothing.

  Theo’s stomach twisted.

  He didn’t know what was happening to Cass. He didn’t know why.

  But he knew one thing—

  Cass wasn’t okay.

  Theo’s grip on Cass’s shoulder tightened. “Cass,” he called again, firm but not unkind.

  Nothing.

  “Cass, damn it—look at me.”

  Still no reaction. His chest rose and fell too fast, his hands still curled into tight fists. His pupils were unfocused, caught somewhere far from here.

  Theo clenched his jaw. One more time.

  “Cassius!”

  His voice was sharp, half a yell, half a plea.

  Cass flinched—and finally, his gaze snapped to Theo.

  “There you are,” Theo muttered, steadying him with both hands now. “I’m here. Breathe.”

  Cass’s breath was ragged, uneven.

  Theo exhaled slowly, deliberately. “Follow me. In.” He took a deep breath, his own chest rising. “Out.” He exhaled.

  Cass didn’t move at first, his body still stiff, his breath still shallow.

  Theo did it again. “In.”

  This time, Cass followed.

  It was shaky, but he did it.

  “Good,” Theo murmured, nodding. “Again. In.”

  Cass inhaled.

  “Out.”

  Cass exhaled.

  Theo gave him a small nod. “You’re doing great.”

  Someone rushed forward, pressing a bottle of water into Theo’s hand. He cracked the cap open and handed it to Cass, watching as he took slow sips.

  That was when Julien’s voice broke through the haze.

  “Your Highness, your wound—”

  Theo blinked, as if remembering.

  He glanced down—his white shirt was stained deep crimson, the blood still fresh. He could feel the sting now, the delayed pain settling in.

  But Cass—

  Theo turned back to him. “You good?”

  Cass swallowed hard, nodding once.

  Theo didn’t move for another second. Just watching him. Making sure.

  Then, finally, he pushed himself up, brushing off his bodyguard’s concern.

  “Stay here,” he told Cass, voice low. “I’ll be back.”

  And then he walked off, leaving behind bloody footprints.

  Theo returned after what felt like forever, his arm bandaged, his white shirt now a ruined mess of bloodstains and hastily cleaned fabric. The wound stung beneath the layers of gauze, but it wasn’t deep. Not enough to slow him down.

  He found Cass exactly where he’d left him.

  Sitting on one of the cots, hands clasped between his knees, head bowed. The half-empty water bottle dangled loosely from his fingers. His breathing was steadier now, but there was something distant in his expression.

  Theo exhaled and sat down beside him. Not too close. Just enough.

  Neither of them spoke at first.

  The shelter was quieter now—only murmurs of volunteers checking on each other, the occasional clatter of someone picking up fallen supplies. Outside, the riot had been contained, the crowd dispersed. But the tension in the air lingered, heavy and unshaken.

  Theo drummed his fingers lightly against his knee.

  “You’re still here.”

  Cass let out a small huff of laughter, humorless and quiet. “You told me to stay.”

  Theo glanced at him, taking in the sharp edges of his profile. Even now—after everything—Cass still looked put together. Like a prince.

  Except for his eyes.

  There was something raw in them. Something cracked.

  Theo sighed and leaned back, stretching out his legs. His bandaged arm throbbed.

  “Didn’t think you’d actually listen.”

  Cass turned his head slightly, giving him a sidelong glance. “Neither did I.”

  Silence.

  Theo stared ahead, at nothing in particular. Then, after a beat—

  “You want to tell me what that was?”

  Cass didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled around the water bottle, knuckles whitening for just a second.

  Then—

  “I don’t know.”

  Theo turned to him fully now. “Cass.”

  Cass let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “I said I don’t know.” His voice was quiet, but sharp at the edges. “It just—happened.”

  Theo studied him for a moment. The way his shoulders had tensed, the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

  He recognized it.

  Not fear.

  Theo didn’t push. Not yet.

  Instead, he exhaled and leaned back again.

  “Alright.”

  Cass blinked, as if surprised he wasn’t pressing further. He turned his gaze forward again, staring at the opposite wall.

  Theo stayed there, beside him. Not asking. Not leaving.

  Just there.

  ---

  Theo arrived at the palace exhausted, the weight of the night pressing down on him like lead. The moment he stepped through the grand entrance, he knew something was off.

  The silence felt too expectant.

  Then—

  “Theodore.”

  His father’s voice rang through the marble hall, smooth and deliberate. Theo’s jaw clenched as he turned toward the main sitting room, where the king lounged in his usual chair, a crystal glass of whiskey in hand.

  The sight was as familiar as it was grating.

  Across from him, a tablet sat propped against a gilded table, the screen displaying a news article. Even from a distance, Theo could make out the bolded headline:

  "Golden Prince Humiliated in Public Shelter Riot—A Royal Disgrace?"

  Theo’s stomach twisted.

  The king took a slow sip of his drink before speaking. “Well done.”

  Theo froze. “What?”

  His father set the glass down with a quiet clink, gesturing lazily toward the screen. “It’s all over the media. How Ravensford's perfect prince found himself in the middle of a disaster. The optics are…” He let out a low chuckle, eyes gleaming. “Unfortunate for him. Fortunate for us.”

  Theo’s blood ran cold.

  “This wasn’t—” He stopped, inhaled sharply. “This wasn’t intentional.”

  The king raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  “No.” Theo’s voice was firm, controlled, but a fire burned beneath it. “I was there to work. Cass was there to work. The riot wasn’t—” He exhaled, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t about him.”

  His father studied him for a long moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

  “You’re defending him.”

  Theo’s fists curled at his sides. “I’m telling the truth.”

  The king hummed, unconvinced. “And yet, the truth is irrelevant when the world has already made up its mind.” He tapped a finger against the tablet. “He was seen as weak today. That’s all they’ll remember. And whether you meant to or not, you were standing strong while he was left reeling.”

  Theo’s stomach churned.

  It wasn’t true.

  Cass had tried. Cass had stood his ground, stepped forward when he shouldn’t have, fought against the tide of a situation neither of them could control.

  But no one would see that.

  They would see The Golden Prince brought low.

  Theo forced himself to breathe. “You don’t know what happened.”

  His father smirked. “I don’t need to.”

  Theo’s fingers twitched with the urge to shove the tablet off the table, to shatter the illusion his father was so damn pleased with. Instead, he held his ground.

  “Cass isn’t weak.”

  His father only raised his glass in a mock toast.

  “Maybe. But that’s not the story the world is telling.”

  Theo turned on his heel and left before he did something reckless.

  ---

  The shelter was still in ruins.

  Theo stood in the wreckage, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, as the early morning light cast long shadows over the broken tables, overturned chairs, and the remnants of shattered supplies. The place smelled of damp concrete and burnt plastic—evidence of the fire that had broken out in the chaos, quickly extinguished but leaving its mark.

  The riot had lasted only minutes. The consequences stretched far beyond that.

  Theo exhaled, his breath curling in the cold air. Volunteers moved around him, picking up what they could, assessing what needed to be thrown out, what could be salvaged. Someone approached him—an older woman, her weathered hands clutching a clipboard.

  “We’ll need new flooring in the west wing,” she said. “And the storage room… It’s not safe. The walls took too much damage.”

  Theo nodded. “We’ll rebuild it.”

  She hesitated. “The funding—”

  “I’ll handle it.” His voice was firm. There was no room for doubt.

  He would rebuild it. With or without the palace’s help.

  He had already spent the morning making calls, securing donations, arranging meetings with the city council. There was no time to waste. The shelter had to reopen—fast. People depended on it.

  And yet—

  Theo’s jaw clenched.

  Despite everything that needed to be done, his mind kept circling back.

  To the riot.

  To Cass.

  To the way he had frozen, gasping for breath like the world was closing in. The way his hands had trembled, his eyes unfocused.

  Theo had seen injuries before. He had treated wounds, carried people out of danger, held them steady when they needed it. But this—

  Cass hadn't been bleeding.

  But something inside him had been breaking.

  Theo exhaled sharply and pushed the thought aside. He needed to focus. There was work to do.

  He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the latest reports—updates on the shelter damage, donation offers, logistics for rebuilding—until his notifications caught his eye.

  A flood of headlines.

  At first, he expected more of the same. Political articles dissecting the riot, commentary on the unrest in Bellemont. He was used to it.

  Then he saw his name.

  And Cassius’.

  Theo stilled.

  He opened the first article.

  "Golden Prince Falters: Cassius of Ravensford Exposed in Public Shelter Riot."

  His stomach twisted.

  Another one—

  "A Royal Disgrace? Cassius’ Weakness on Full Display."

  Theo’s grip on his phone tightened.

  They called him weak. A failure. They picked apart the way he had frozen, the way the shelter had crumbled around him. The way Theo had been the one to take control instead.

  It was what Theo had feared. Cass had tried. Cass had stepped forward, had tried to calm the chaos—

  But no one cared about that.

  They only cared that it hadn’t worked.

  Theo’s pulse pounded in his ears as he kept reading.

  And then—

  "Was Harrington's Bastard the Real Winner?"

  Theo’s breath caught.

  The article spun a different narrative. Not about Cass. About him.

  "While Prince Cassius struggled, Prince Theodore controlled the crowd. While Prince Cassius faltered, Prince Theodore stepped in. Is it any wonder the people are turning their eyes to him? Perhaps it’s time Bellemont embraced the leader who’s always been willing to get his hands dirty."

  Theo felt something ice-cold curl in his chest.

  He swiped to the next one.

  "Theodore Harrington: Rising Star or Opportunist?"

  Another—

  "Harrington’s Uncrowned King?"

  And another—

  "The Bastard Prince Stands While Prince Cassius Falls—Did He Let It Happen?"

  Theo sucked in a sharp breath.

  His entire body tensed.

  This wasn’t praise. This wasn’t recognition of the work he had done, the risks he had taken, the people he had tried to protect.

  This was a game.

  A fucking game.

  They were twisting the truth—spinning it into a story of power and failure.

  Cass had lost control. Theo had kept his grip. And now, the world was rewriting the moment into a political shift.

  He should have stopped it.

  The thought struck him like a physical blow.

  The riot.

  He had seen the signs—the tension in the crowd, the way the energy had shifted. If he had been faster, if he had acted sooner—

  Maybe it wouldn’t have escalated.

  Maybe Cass wouldn’t have been caught in it.

  Maybe—

  Theo gritted his teeth and locked his phone, shoving it back into his pocket.

  None of this mattered. The articles, the politics, the palace’s endless games—

  He didn’t have time for this.

  The shelter needed rebuilding.

  Cass—

  Theo exhaled sharply.

  He didn’t know what Cass needed.

  But whatever it was, the world wasn’t going to give it to him. Not like this.

  Theo turned back to the wreckage, scanning the remains of the shelter.

  He had work to do.

  ---

  Cassius Pov

  The study was suffocating. Heavy with the scent of old paper, polished wood, and a fire that did nothing to warm the cold knot in Cassius’ stomach. His father stood behind his desk, the articles spread before him like a collection of sins.

  Cassius already knew what they said. He had read them all.

  "A Prince Unfit to Lead." "Cassius of Ravensford: A Crown Without a King?" "Prince Theodore Saves, the Heir Stumbles."

  The headlines were everywhere, dissecting his failure in ruthless detail. The riot at the shelter had been a catastrophe. The people had turned violent, the air thick with panic, and in the chaos—Cassius had frozen.

  The King’s voice sliced through the silence.

  “You humiliated the Crown.”

  Cassius forced himself to look up, but his father’s glare burned through him. He had seen the King angry before, but this was different. This was disgust.

  “They saw Theo.” His father spat the name like a curse. “Protecting you.”

  A cold weight settled in Cassius' chest. He had known this was coming. The moment he had seen the articles, he knew how his father would see it. How the world would see it.

  Cassius Hartwell, heir to the throne, brought low by a riot he couldn’t control. And Theo—his rival, his father’s greatest disappointment—was the one the press called a protector.

  Of him.

  Cassius gritted his teeth. “They don’t say Theo was perfect.”

  “No,” his father agreed. “They call him an opportunist. A fraud.” His lip curled. “A performer using charity for fame.”

  Cassius hated those articles just as much as the ones written about himself. Because they twisted everything Theo had done—the way he had fought to save the shelter, how he had held the place together when it crumbled around him. They took his work and reduced it to a cheap publicity stunt.

  It wasn’t fair.

  But none of this was.

  The King exhaled sharply, eyes still locked on Cassius. “And yet, despite the accusations, Theodore walks away from this with something.” He gestured at the newspapers. “What do you walk away with?”

  Cassius' throat tightened.

  “They doubt him,” the King went on, voice like ice. “But they mock you.”

  Cassius said nothing. He had no defense.

  “Ravensford does not need a prince who must be saved,” his father continued, each word hitting harder than the last. “It needs a ruler. A leader. And yet, at the first true test of your strength, you failed.”

  Cassius' nails dug into his palms.

  “You stood there, while he acted.”

  His father’s disappointment had always been a shadow hanging over him, but this was different. This was something deeper.

  Cassius wasn’t just a disappointment.

  He was an embarrassment.

  The King’s voice dropped lower, sharp and final.

  “You have one purpose in this family, Cassius. You are not a person, Cassius. You are a symbol. And symbols cannot afford to bleed."

  Cassius inhaled sharply, hands curling into fists beneath the table.

  Symbols.

  Not people.

  Never people.

  The King’s voice softened, but it was no kindness—just another weapon. "Do you know what I saw when I watched that footage?"

  Cassius didn’t answer.

  His father smiled. "I saw a prince who isn’t ready."

  The words struck deeper than he wanted them to.

  The King leaned closer, lowering his voice to something cold and final.

  "Next time, if you insist on playing the hero—at least learn how to win."

  Cassius didn’t move.

  Didn’t flinch.

  ---