Chapter Text
Buzzing, bumbling, and bright.
Amidst the ionic columns of Seokjojeon Hall, a live orchestra accompanied the awed hums of the guests at the ball. Crystal chandeliers hung from coffered ceilings, highlighting the golden plum flowers ornamenting the walls while fine delicacies were served to those invited on platters of pure silver.
They swirled their glasses of expensive wine, its fruity aroma rich in the air, and its sweet taste loosening their tongues. Some murmured about their hopes of finding love or gaining riches; others snickered about the impending ridicule looming over the imperial house.
All had their eyes fixed on the grand clock. Every little tick and every little tok drew them closer and closer to the crown prince’s arrival.
He was standing in his dressing room, his personal stylist buttoning up the frills of his dress shirt. The classical piece echoed faintly from below, yet the whispers of those in attendance rang loud in his mind. Ruthless and cruel.
Their foul mouths must be relishing smearing his name, slimy fingers just itching to drag him through the mud.
Beneath his practiced composure, Minho’s erratic heart thumped against his stylist’s expert hands, who cocked an eyebrow in his direction. Minho straightened his back and stuck out his chin, much like his bodyguard by the door, feigning indifference.
Jeongin chuckled at the attempt. He circled around him, wrapping a black sash belt around his waist. With the younger out of view, Minho took a deep breath. Then choked on it.
His bodyguard was pulling Jeongin’s arm away in a second.
“At ease, Changbin.” Minho raised his hand, recovering from the sudden squeeze around his stomach.
Changbin did as he was told, releasing his grip and resuming his stance. This time, much closer to the pair.
Pleased with himself, Jeongin tightened the belt further, his wicked smile widening when Changbin jerked at the slightest grunt from Minho.
“You’re so easy to rattle, hyung,” Jeongin poked fun. He skipped on over to the clothing rack, gliding through the hangers. “Don’t you worry, I won’t be the one stealing his imperial highness’ breath away tonight.” He looked back at Minho, wiggling his eyebrows. “Isn’t that right, Your Highness?”
“That you’re a little shit? I’d be inclined to agree.”
Jeongin fake gasped. “Your Highness! Do you kiss sick children with that mouth?” he walked back to Minho, admiring the pearls sewn onto the blue royal jacket in his hands. “Or do you save your kisses for a certain special someone?”
“Oh, Jeonginnie, you know I only yearn to seal your lips. With duct tape. And hardwire.”
“Kinky, Your Highness.” Jeongin went around, putting the jacket sleeves through Minho’s arms. He peeked his head from the side. “Your betrothed will be very pleased.”
Minho rolled his eyes, a faint smile threatening to spread in the corner of his lips. If only pleasing his betrothed were the source of his anxieties.
His secretary barged through the door, startling them all but Changbin.
“Yang Jeongin! I have 140 guests already tipsy on bubbly, a shit ton of reporters who can only take so many pictures of the hors d’oeuvres, and a permanent angry boss induced ringing in my ears. Why the fuck are you still playing dress up with the prince?” then, as if an afterthought, he bowed to Minho. “Your Highness.”
Minho simply chuckled.
“Perfection takes time, Seungmin hyung,” Jeongin responded, not taking his eyes off his lip brush as he coated it with a dusty pink shade. He looked Minho up and down. “And hard work.”
Minho raised an eyebrow. “Should I be offended?”
Jeongin’s cheeky smile spoke for itself. He tilted Minho’s chin, ignoring his scowl as he applied the lipstick with careful precision.
Seungmin was tapping his foot against the floor. “His imperial highness looks fine to me.”
“Of course you would think so. You wear toe socks out of your own free will.”
Seungmin scoffed. “I’ll have you know—Yes?” he tilted his head, bringing his hand to his in-ear. “Yes, of course.” He nodded. “We’re on our way.” With a calming inhale, Seungmin steadied his voice, “Jeongin. Her imperial majesty is waiting.”
Jeongin sighed. “Fine.” He dropped the lip brush in his makeup bag, frowning at Seungmin. “We’re only missing the centerpiece anyway.”
He opened the box on the dresser, revealing the diamond-embellished masquerade mask tucked inside. It was a beautifully intricate garment, handcrafted with delicate white and blue lace to sit perfectly on Minho’s sharp nose.
“There.” Jeongin secured the mask, taking a few steps back. “I have finally turned you into a real-life story book prince.”
“I was literally born a prince.”
“And now people will believe that.” Jeongin curtsied. “You’re welcome.”
“I should have you beheaded.”
“Can it wait ‘till next week? I have a hair appointment in two days.”
“Ok, Jeongin, thank you,” Seungmin cut in, opening the door for Minho. “Your Highness, would you please follow me? I’ll schedule Jeongin’s execution later.”
Jeongin tittered, tidying up as Changbin followed Minho outside the dressing room. “Make yourself useful and send in the maids for me instead.”
Seungmin grinned. “No.” Then shut the door. He turned to the maids waiting in the corridor. “Good news, ladies. You have the next half an hour off.”
They thanked him, moving along with a cheerful bounce in their step.
“Alright, here’s the memo.” Seungmin scurried away, flipping through his clipboard. “We’re already way behind schedule. As soon as you arrive, her imperial majesty will make a speech to introduce you—”
“Slow down, Kim Seungmin,” Minho groaned, struggling to keep up with his haste. “A prince does not rush.”
“And en empress does not wait.” He shot daggers his way. “After her speech, you will walk down the stairs together for the first dance to commence the ball. Keep it short. You will obviously be expected to dance with some hopeful suitors after that. Keep it very short. Once your betrothed—”
“My betrothed,” Minho mocked. “We’re not even engaged.”
“Officially. Yet. Regardless, the moment your promised enters those doors, every single camera will be solely on you. You are to stay by each other’s side and dance the night away. We need quality pictures for the press tomorrow.”
“I am well aware, Kim Seungmin. I, too, attended all the meetings.”
“Doesn’t mean you were paying attention,” Seungmin taunted, but softened his tone at Minho’s glare as he added, “Your Highness.”
Minho pushed past him, Changbin trailing behind as they reached the hall where the empress was waiting by the ballroom door.
Poised and elegant, the sheer cape on her green ball gown swept the floor behind her, falling from shoulder pads of the same gold as the embroidery around her bodice.
Her gaze was hidden behind the extravagance of her butterfly mask—every inch made purely out of gold, emeralds, and diamonds—as she greeted Minho with the pert smile they both shared.
“So he lives,” she teased.
“Oh, but at what cost?” he quipped back, coming to a stop by her side.
Immediately, the empress’ secretary leaned into her in-ear, informing the guard on the other side of his arrival.
“That of my precious time, it would seem,” answered the empress.
“How fortunate you get more beautiful as time passes, mother.”
Her secretary stepped in. “They’re ready for you, Your Majesty.”
Minho’s mother nodded, holding his face with her soft hands while everyone else got into place. “And how unfortunate time has yet to make you any wiser.”
Minho ducked his head, his mother’s thumbs gently stroking his warm cheeks. With a chuckle, she kissed his hair, releasing him to stand before the door.
There was grace in her walk and power in her stance; she carried herself with an innate grandeur Minho labored to emulate for years, and as of tonight, scrutiny will demand he live up to her eminence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the guard’s prominent voice resounded through the door, “may I present the Empress of the Korean Empire: her imperial majesty, Lee Minji.”
Reverent silence welcomed her as every head below bowed upon her entrance. No matter the room, Minji’s presence emanated respect. From appointing Korea’s first female prime minister to legalizing marriage equality for all, she has earned the acclaim that was once only bestowed onto her husband.
When she spoke, firm and composed, you listened.
“Rise,” she commanded, and they obeyed.
At once, the flashing lights were capturing her every word.
“It is an honor to receive you all into our home in celebration of our crown prince’s 25th birthday. As is tradition, tonight, he will dance with Korea’s finest in order to find the one who will sit beside him now that he is to assume the throne.
“If you were invited here on this day, it is because you embody our proud empire’s core values and ideals. Either one of you could be the future head of our nation. As is, let the anonymity of your masks reveal your true, inner selves once your chance to bond with the prince arises.
“I, for one, am elated at the prospect of ushering in a new member to the imperial house. So without further ado, your crown prince, and my son, his imperial highness Lee Minho.”
As the guests bowed, Minho plastered on his prince charming smile for the cameras, imitating the posture that came with such ease to his mother while they walked down the stairs hand in hand; his clammy palms giving away his nerves to her alone.
With a reassuring squeeze, Minji led him to the dancefloor, every head rising as they encircled them for the first dance. The orchestra resumed its tune, and Minho swayed his mother to the melody, waltzing as he’s been taught since he was five.
Focusing on the ingrained movement was a welcomed distraction from the hundreds of eyes peering at him on all sides. Judging. Calculating. Fidgeting his feet so much he’d trip and stumble if his mother weren’t holding him steady.
“My Minho,” she cooed, “even with the mask I can tell your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.”
At the care in her voice, Minho’s façade cracked. Just a little.
“Mom, I’m scared.”
“I know you are, baby,” she smiled softly. “I was too. Shitless.”
Minho had to bite his lip to suppress his laughter, giving his mother a twirl. It was easy to forget she had been a commoner before marrying the crown prince—the imperial chef who charmed his highness with late-night pastries and intimate conversations shared solely between the two.
To Minho, the glow of her bold and lively demeanor suited her best; but for the past few years, that spark has been hidden away, rarely making an appearance even within the secluded palace walls. That Minji would risk breaking character in front of so many for no more than to soothe away his worries alleviated the constraint around his chest.
“Your father dragged me out of the kitchens at his own succession ball, covered in flour and reeking of oil,” she recounted the story, Minho’s favorite, with a fond giggle. “I was so embarrassed. I swear those stuck-up chaebols were trying to annihilate me with their eyes.”
Minho chuckled, imagining the scene. His mother has cried herself to sleep, then woken up and stood before an empire as a self-evident symbol of strength and resilience. A time where she could be looked down upon was hard to grasp.
“I wanted the ground to swallow me whole,” she continued, “but Jungho… He always managed to take my fears away. I could be brave when I was with him, and when he died, I had to learn to be brave on my own.”
“How?” Minho whispered, slowing down with the music.
“In all honesty, baby, I don’t know how I did it either.” They laughed, Minji pulling her only child close. “But I do know why I did it.
“I needed my authority to be taken seriously. I needed you to still have a parent you could rely on, and I wanted you to be able to stand proud of who you were every day without ever being made to live a life that is inauthentic.
“Fear is how you know you’re doing something that matters.” She stepped away, the song reaching its end. “Embrace it.”
The applause as they bowed failed to be as overwhelming as the abundance of warmth melting down the tension in his muscles. Even as an adult, his mother’s ever-kind, ever-sound words easily hushed the noise pounding in his skull.
When she was whisked away into another dance, Minho repeated her advice like a mantra as he faced the crowd. The masks did nothing to cover the intrigue edging their sly smiles, and their hands did little to hide the question being muttered all around him: will any man dare dance with the gay prince?
To Minho’s ease, one did.
He approached with his back hunched, eyes darting behind his modest mask as he chewed on his bottom lip.
“Your Highness”—he bowed awkwardly, stuttering his question—“would you like to dance? Um, with me, I mean?”
Minho’s shoulders unwinded. He wasn’t the sole bearer of tonight’s pressures. With a tender smile, he replied, “It would be my pleasure.”
The man’s face lit up. “Neat!” he bounced, giddy. “Um, I don’t— Do I—” he faltered with his hands, making Minho chuckle.
“I could lead. If you’d like.”
The man nodded, a slight blush to his cheeks that reddened further once Minho placed his arm over his.
“Have you waltzed before?” Minho asked.
“No, but I watched a lot of YouTube tutorials before coming.”
Cute, Minho thought.
As he guided his clumsy partner across the dancefloor, the rest of the guests pairing up amongst themselves, his nerves slowly gave way to confidence. He could be brave. Whatever mumbles caught his ears would not torment him. If not for himself, then for the stranger whose current focus was not stepping on his toes.
“I apologize if this comes off as rude,” Minho started, jolting the other, “but I’m having a difficult time pinpointing where I might have seen you before.”
“Oh, um, yeah, I was honestly really surprised when I got the invitation to this. I didn’t think I would be on your radar but um, I started a non-profit to rescue abandoned animals last year and make sure they were being adopted into loving homes. It’s called CARE.”
Minho gasped. “You’re Kim Songhoo? I love all the work that you do, it’s truly amazing!”
“Oh! Uh, thank you, I don’t know what to say, I didn’t think you’d—I, wait… Are you the one behind all the generous anonymous donations we get every month?”
Minho dropped his eyes. “A prince does not boast about such matters.”
They separated as the song ended, Songhoo endeared by the sudden bashfulness tinting Minho’s ears red.
He bowed. “Thank you, Your Highness. For the donations you may or may not have secretly made.”
Before Minho could bow back, another masked suitor bumped Songhoo out of the way; and to Minho’s dismay, his identity was no secret: insufferably dull, obscenely rude, and unbearably arrogant—heir to the largest oil conglomerate in the country—Park Jiwae.
“Can I have this dance?” he asked, bearing the trademark smirk Minho’s nails have been clawing to tear off since they met.
He counted to three, appealed to all his training, and smiled like a diplomat. “As you wish.”
His mother should be proud he has resisted all the painstaking eye rolls begging and pleading to be freed. Every other word from Jiwae’s mouth has been: Money. Status. Power. Money. Money. Influence. Money.
The wall had more personality.
In the corner, Seungmin was berating whoever was on the other end of his in-ear; no doubt demanding the whereabouts of his betrothed. A part of Minho wished he would never show, the other prayed for his merciful deliverance from Jiwae.
“Are you even gay, Jiwae?” he cut him off.
Jiwae narrowed his eyes. “Does it matter?”
The moon itself couldn’t brighten the rest of the night.
Between the Jiwae clones, the mothers advertising their daughters, and the said daughters pushing their breasts against his chest, Minho was craving the bitter numbness of alcohol.
“I don’t really care if you’re gay,” said the heiress whose name he had forgotten. “You can have as many male concubines as you’d like so long as we keep up appearances!”
Someone else’s swift cough salvaged what remained of his sanity.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” apologized his savior, freckles adorning his winsome smile. “Could I please borrow my cousin for a moment?”
“Oh, of course, Your Excellency!” she bowed to them both, retreating hopeful towards her expectant parents.
Minho sighed in relief. “What took you so long?”
Felix laughed, low and deep, wrapping his arm around his shoulder. “Come on, Prince Charming, you need a drink.”
In the imperial kitchens, Felix and Minho sat indulging in all the sweets they were reprimanded for sneaking out to eat as children; only this time, they could chug down the glasses of champagne yet to be served instead of settling for apple juice.
Minho groaned, rubbing his maskless eyes. “I can’t believe I’ve been forced to go through this sober.”
He went for another swig but Felix promptly seized the glass from his hand.
“Slow down there, mate. I’m not having auntie hang me for getting her golden boy drunk at his succession ball,” he said in English.
“Mate?” Minho switched to English as well—one of the five foreign languages he’s mastered. “Have you undergone your full aussie transformation, blondie? It’s ‘hyung’ for you.”
“Aw, do I still get ‘hyung’ privileges?” Felix batted his eyelashes. As Minho’s only dongsaengs in the imperial house, Felix and his sisters were of the few unrequired to address him by his title. “Thanks, mate, that means a lot.”
Minho rolled his eyes, smile unwittingly fond. He shifted the conversation back to Korean. “You sound just like him.”
“Ah, let’s see. It only took you”—he counted Minho’s empty glasses—“one, two, three, four glasses of champagne to mention him this time. A record.”
Minho side-eyed him. “Don’t make me poke your eye out.”
Felix chuckled, unthreatened. “The kids at the center love him, you know. He always brings them gifts whenever he’s in Sydney visiting family.”
“And yet he can’t even be bothered to show up on time, if at all, tonight. What a gentleman.”
“All I’m saying is he’s a really nice guy.”
“A pain in my ass is what he is.”
Felix simpered, poking Minho’s side. “You would know, huh, hyung?”
“Alright.” Minho grabbed the closest butter knife. “Which eye is your least favorite?”
“Uh… The left one?”
“Ok, right one it is then.” He aimed for it, Seungmin barging through the door yet again before the plunge.
“Your Highness, what are you doing in the kitchen?”
Minho held the knife in mid-air. “Cutting Yongbok up for dinner,” he stated, much preferring the roll of Felix’s Korean name on his tongue. “Obviously.”
Seungmin sighed, bowing to Felix. “I apologize for the intrusion, Your Excellency. I hope the trip back to Korea was a pleasant one.”
“Thank you, Seungmin.” Felix smiled. “It’s good to be back.”
“It’s good to have you back.”
Minho used the knife to fake a gag. “Gross. You never talk to me like that,” he accused Seungmin.
Felix replied in his stead, “That’s because people actually like me, hyung.”
“That’s it.” Minho drew his weapon-wielding arm again.
“Your Highness!” Seungmin interrupted, clearing his voice at his loss of patience. “It is imperative we get back to the ball.”
“Fine,” Minho grumbled, tossing the knife on the counter with a frown as Felix tittered in glee. “How did you know I was in here anyway?”
“Changbin hyung is parked out front like a rock.”
Minho smiled as he put on his mask. Of course he was.
“Is mother looking for me?” he asked.
“Yes, she is. Her imperial majesty is entertaining your betrothed as we speak.”
Minho’s smile dropped.
No amount of calming breaths could prevent his legs from giving in, head light and tummy swirling at the mere sight of him.
Across the ballroom—loud laughter as he threw his head back still as heart racing, cropped blazer riding up his abdomen still as mouth watering—he captured everyone’s attention.
International movie star. Dedicated social activist. Prime minister’s son.
Bang Christopher Chan.
Beside him, stood the other two members of the media-dubbed “Kkonminam Trio”: French-Korean super model Hwang Hyunjin, and K-hip hop sensation Han Jisung.
Inseparable, the three friends were the internet’s favorite it boys to fawn over.
Every reporter was taking their picture as they engaged in conversation with the empress and prime minister—Chaewon pulling her son into a tight hug and Chan kissing her forehead just as dotingly.
Minho let his gaze soften at the display, only to snap away the moment Chan’s eyes met his. Even with a mask, Chan’s stare could pierce through his skin and burn him hot with sweat.
As soon as he registered Chan’s intent to approach, Minho hauled a confounded Felix further away.
“Dance with me, Yongbok.”
He spun Felix around, glaring at Chan who simply smiled, wide and cheeky, as if amused by his antics. How infuriating.
More so when a young woman asked Chan to dance not half a second later and all but swooned when he accepted with a kiss to the back of her hand.
Minho scoffed. Fine. He, too, could act as engrossed by Felix as Chan was with the girl—latching onto her every word with fascinated attention. Prick.
“So how are the charities in Australia going?” Minho asked him.
Felix looked askance. “You’re pathetic, hyung.”
Perhaps, Minho stomped on his shoes.
Felix rumbled in pain. “You know you’re gonna have to dance with him eventually, right? Seungmin’s been sending you death threats since you dragged me here.”
Behind the crowd, Seungmin was indeed flaring his arms in Minho and Chan’s direction, peering at the former like lasers could shoot out of his eyes if fueled with enough hell-bent irritation.
Minho ignored him.
“Not if I hold you hostage,” he answered Felix.
“Hyung—”
“If you don’t stick with me, I’ll leak that video of you shaking your drunk, bare ass on a tree at your birthday party last year.”
Felix gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Try me.”
Felix scowled. Considered. “I want all expenses access to your private villa in Jeju for a month.”
“Deal.”
“Make it the whole summer.”
“Done. Just don’t leave my side tonight.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Good evening, Your Highness.” Hyunjin neared, strut powerful and controlled. “Your Excellency.” He bowed to them both. “Would you care to dance?” He offered Felix his hand.
“Absolutely.” Felix beamed, hooking his arm around Hyunjin’s. “Later, hyung.” He waved Minho off.
To Felix’s luck and Minho’s distaste, looks could not, in fact, kill.
Traitor.
Minho moved to turn; but froze in place. Shivers ran up his spine, standing the hair of his nape on end. He closed his eyes, lulled and entranced by that distinctive sweet and syrupy vanilla scent, driven to wake only by the familiar voice that always accompanied the enchanting aroma.
“May I have this dance, Your Highness?”
He was impossible to disregard.
Minho did turn, slowly, then gazed into dark brown eyes, slower. They were too deep. Too easy to sink into. And those dimples promised the same fate.
Minho’s words came out breathy, hushed, “Yes, of course.”
How cruel his hand in his still fit just right. How wicked his arm around his still set him alight just right.
Further away, Seungmin was staging the ideal scene for the media: the dimming of the lights, the slowing of the music, the flashing of the cameras.
All eyes were on Minho yet again; and the confidence he had faked could not substitute the bravery he lacked. As was once his custom, on instinct, Minho searched for solace in the man before him.
Chan smiled, sweet. “Shall I lead?”
Minho’s voice cracked like his resolve, “Please.”
So Chan swept him away, and Minho could only follow.
Chan set the tone and the pace, the orchestra stringing along to his every whim. The melody picked up when he spun Minho around, and slowed as he lingered when he dipped him low.
While Chan lured him back up, Minho was hyper-aware of every single inch of his body that was being pressed against his; and of every single inch that to his displeasure wasn’t.
Like the full lips only his shuddering breath could grace.
Those lips quirked into a smug smile. “Do I make you nervous, Your Highness?”
Minho stiffened, nearly losing Chan’s rhythm.
“N-no,” he stammered out, to Chan’s satisfaction.
“Hm,” he pondered, sliding his hand across Minho’s waist to tug him closer. “Your ears give you away,” he whispered into them.
The tingle of static coursed through Minho’s system. Against his better judgment, he buried his face in the crook of Chan’s neck, hiding his flushed state from those in attendance.
Chan chuckled. “You’re still so easy to fluster.” He held him tighter. “I’ve missed having you this close.”
Minho stopped. So did the music.
Pulling away, he rushed a bow and took off, stranding a concerned Chan amidst the scattered applause.
Seungmin sped after him, bewildered, but Changbin stopped him with a hand to the chest. He would go; and that was final.
Minho flung his mask into the bushes the second he stepped foot in the garden, inhaling the chilly, late October air like a lifeline.
One, two, three, he breathed in; one, two, three, he breathed out.
Though the swooshing stream of the fountain aided in calming him down, his mind truly settled when it sensed Changbin’s presence.
Changbin was a master of discretion, but a lifetime by his side has attuned Minho to his very aura.
As a child, Minho would throw fits and tantrums for the freedom he was being deprived of experiencing. As he grew, learning painfully that most cared not for him but for what he could give, he came to appreciate the unwavering loyalty of a true friend.
Now, when Changbin wasn’t near, Minho was incomplete.
“I don’t think I can do this, Binnie,” Minho confided in him.
Changbin has never been one to speak without purpose; and the pair has never needed to fill their shared space with mindless words. Changbin listened, earnest and patient, so Minho would always be heard.
“The pressure,” Minho continued. “It’s suffocating. I feel like everyone is staring me down. Waiting to find a flaw. A reason to disapprove.
“I know I’ve been in the public eye my whole life. I know how it goes. That’s why I’ve always put on my best persona… But this feels real now. Like I’m laying myself bare to them and I don’t think they’ll like what they see.” Minho’s lips trembled. “I don’t want to be emperor to a nation that despises me.
“And I just… I can’t fake it with Chan. I can’t pretend that I’m put together. I can’t act like he doesn’t live under my skin, pulsing through my veins, and ridding me of oxygen whenever he feels so inclined. I just—”
“Talking to ourselves now, are we?”
Minho tensed. Fuck. He turned, eyes to the sky as he mumbled a prayer to whoever would listen, begging he had somehow misheard the voice he could never confuse with another. Alas, the deities must have greater matters to attend to.
“How much did you hear?” Minho asked, voice strained.
“It’s a bit early in your reign for a descent into madness, no?”
“Chan—”
“Unless of course I’m the one driving you mad in which case—”
“Chan!” he burst at the older man. Members of the imperial house needed not address anyone else with honorifics. He steadied his voice, “How much did you hear?”
Chan smiled, always sweet. “Nothing at all.”
Air found its way back to Minho’s lungs.
Chan could be many things, but never a liar. Warm, reliable, honest to a fault Chan who could only ever be considerate of others. He listened with genuine care, spoke with effortless charisma, and acted with pure intentions.
All adored him for his authenticity, admired him for his vulnerability; while Minho decayed alone behind the walls he had guarded himself with.
“Good.” Minho straightened his back. “Those words were meant for Changbin, not you.”
Chan looked back, surprised at not having noticed Changbin standing nearby. “Right. He’s always around, isn’t he?”
“I’m the crown prince of the Korean Empire.” Minho sat by the fountain. “You’re lucky he’s the only one around. Why? Do you have secrets to share with me, Channie?”
Minho cursed himself; instantly regretting the pet name Chan used to so easily coerce from his lips with every stolen kiss.
Chan’s soft smile was one of recognition.
“No,” he responded, “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
Minho huffed out a laugh. How very Chan.
“And make sure you were ok,” he added.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, you just suddenly bolted. I thought you might be having second thoughts about the arrangement.”
Minho scoffed. “Worried you won’t get the crown?”
“You know I’m not like that, Minho.”
Changbin let out a cough, and Chan got the message.
“I mean, Your Highness,” he corrected himself.
Minho sighed. As much was true: Chan was not like that; and it aggravated Minho further.
“I am perfectly capable of fulfilling my imperial duties, Chan.”
“I know you are, I just—” Chan paused, moderating his tone before starting over. “I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier, Your Highness. It was never my intention. This is a lot to take in for anyone and we didn’t get to talk to each other before being thrust into all of it.
“I just want to reassure you that if you’ve changed your mind, if you want out, then we can do that. I would never want to force you into anything that makes you unhappy.”
Minho closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the fountain. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you care!” Minho raised his voice. “Don’t talk to me like you care!”
“I do care!” Chan removed his mask, frowning. “I care about you. Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because you left, Chan!” Minho shot up, storming towards him with an accusatory finger. “When I needed you most, you left!”
“I left? You pushed me away!”
“No, you ran away! Straight into her arms!”
Chan stepped back, licking his teeth. “That’s not fair. You know that’s not how that happened.”
“How would I know? You never bothered telling me.”
“I texted you, I called you—”
“I had to learn that you were with someone else—”
“I left you hundreds of messages—”
“From the tabloids, Chan! From the press!”
“You never answered!”
“I had to see you sun-bathing with her on a yacht on the cover of every magazine! You didn’t even tell me you were going to America!”
Chan shook his head, exasperated, running his fingers through his curls. Minho clenched his fists, infuriated Chan was holding his tongue, refusing to bite back.
“I suppose you couldn’t be blamed,” Minho provoked. “It must have been nice not having to be her little secret.”
Chan dropped his arm, giving up. “If this is how you really feel, then we don’t have to do this.”
Minho’s heart hardened.
“I must be so easy to abandon, huh, Chan?”
Chan took a step forward, but Changbin’s firm hand on his shoulder held him in place. Instead, he attempted to speak. “Minho—”
“It’s ‘Your Highness’,” Minho cut him off. Chin up, he stepped into Chan’s personal space, chest to chest. “And you don’t get to walk out on me again. It is my duty as crown prince to wed before I ascend the throne. The Cabinet has deemed you to be the only male candidate worthy of sharing that title with me, and unless I want to take my chances with a woman, it is in my best interest not to go against them.
“We will see this arrangement through. Tomorrow, we will be all over the news and will try our best to convince the world that we are in love moving forward. Privately, we must simply be civil with one another. Can you do that?”
Chan nodded, head down. “Of course, Your Highness.”
“Good. I’ll have Seungmin send someone to escort you back inside. For the rest of the night, you just smile for the cameras and stay out of my way.”
With a shove, he walked past Chan, leaving him behind without a second glance.