Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it's his apartment.
Summary: Everything should be perfect. The dress flows like it was made for you, the jewels catch the light just right, the shoes fit flawlessly. And yet - why do those green eyes keep pulling you under, stealing your breath, making all this perfection feel hollow?
Warnings: 18+ (smut, unprotected sex, fingering), angst in all shades, tiny bit of fluff somewhere
Word Count: 10.5k
A/N: my first one-shot since forever! I hope you like it! feedback is appreciated!
As Lottie laces up your dress at the back, it feels as if she is cutting off your air supply. The eggshell-white dress weighs heavily on your body, the corset feels like your ribcage is being pressed against a cage with every breath you take, and the fabric scratches your skin as if it were made of sandpaper.
Your eyes are downcast, fixed on the shoes that match the dress perfectly, standing next to the mirror you don't want to look at. You know what the dress looks like, but no matter how beautiful it is, it doesn't change the discomfort that intensifies with every loop around your back.
You want to rip it off and scratch your skin with your nails until it bleeds, but all you can do is gently stroke the exposed parts of your body with your fingertips. It's a soothing movement, as if you're signaling to your body that everything is okay.
“Are you excited yet?”, Lottie asks as she ties the strings on your back into a bow and then slips two fingers between your shoulder blades and the corset to smooth your back. “I heard that one of the British royals is supposed to be there.”
You sigh softly. “You can't always believe everything you read on the internet.”
“But how cool would that be?” She tugs at the hem of the dress.
“Why would any of them go to a gala?” you ask your stylist with a raised eyebrow. “I think they have enough to do without making small talk with random people.”
“You're being so pessimistic again“, she scolds you affectionately and lifts your dress a little so she can put your feet into your shoes. “If you don't flash that stunning smile I know you have on the red carpet, I'm quitting.”
That actually makes you smile. Lottie may be your stylist, but she's also your closest confidante. That's how it is when you're in the spotlight. Either your friends are the people who work for you, or they're other people who are also in the spotlight.
The door opens and you don't even need to look to know who's rushing into the room.
“You're still not ready.” Lucy's eyes dart from her phone to Lottie at your feet and back to the screen. “We should have left fifteen minutes ago to be only half an hour late.”
Lottie rolls her eyes and braces herself with her hands on the floor before straightening up with a swish and adjusting the puffy sleeves of your dress. “Hold your horses, Lucy. Otherwise you’ll get stress marks on your neck and then you’ll get upset later that they can be seen in the photos.”
“That's not true. Last time it was just –", she begins, but when she looks at you in the dress, her breath catches. “Wow.” She walks around you, examining you from every angle. “You look breathtakingly beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Lottie winks at you. The fact that you look like this is all her doing. She pulls a perfume bottle out of her makeup case and sprays you in all the right places. “Your favorite scent“, she smiles gently. She knows how much it means to you.
Your heels click against the polished floors as Lucy ushers Lottie and you out of the dressing room, her voice brisk, already calculating how late you’ll be. The hallway lights cast a soft glow over the eggshell fabric, and for a fleeting second you imagine yourself as some fragile statue being escorted out of a museum.
With Lotties gentle hold on your arm, it definitely feels like it. She maneuvers you through the corridors of your home, the weight oft he gown dragging at your every step. Each swish of fabric against the floor sounds louder than it should, like the dress itself resents being moved.
„You’re going to crease the skirt if you keep walking like that“, Lucy mutters without looking from her phone.
„I’d like to see you try walking in this thing“, you reply under your breath, though the right corset makes your words come out thing, almost airy.
By the time you reach the front door, the car is waiting, sleek and imposing at the curb. The driver stands at attention, opening the rear door with practiced precision. You don’t miss the way his eyes drift over the dress. That’s when the real challenge begins.
Lottie crouches, lifting the voluminous layers of fabric into her arms, while you attempt to bend in a way that doesn't snap the corset in half or suffocate you. The doorframe oft he car suddenly feels cruelly small.
„Angle sideways – no, sideways“, Lottie hisses, fighting with the folds of the skirt as though they have a will of their own.
You grit your teeth, trying tot wist your body the way Lottie demands, but every angle feels wrong. The corset cuts into your ribs, the neckline digs against your collarbone and the skirt balloons outward like it’s actively mocking you.
„Lottie, I can’t“, you mutter, half-choked as you wedge yourself into the narrow opening. Your hands grip the car frame like it’s your last lifeline. „I don’t want to wear this stupid dress. I can’t even breathe in it.“ You hate this dress. You hate the style, you hate the color, you hate what it stands for.
You hate yourself in it.
Lottie doesn’t stop maneuvering the fabric, her face set with determination. „Breathe later. Look stunning now. That’s the job.“
„That’s your job“, you snap, voice sharper than you meant it to be. The frustration has been bubbling under your skin all night, and now, bent and twisted like a damn doll being forced into a box, it spills over.
Lucy, still standing on the curb, groans and finally looks up from her phone. „Don’t start. We agreed on this dress weeks ago. It’s Valentino. Every magazine will have your picture on the front page tomorrow if you just wear it.“
You shake your head, a bitter laugh escaping. „Every magazine will also have the picture of me fainting because I couldn’t get enough air.“
Lottie shoves one last rebellious fold of fabric into the car and gives you a look – half tender, half stern. „You’ve been through worse. One night. That’s all. Then we’ll burn the damn thing if you want.“
You catch her gaze and the look on her face says it all. Nothing is worse than this. And burning the dress after tonight won’t help at all.
Lucy steps closer, lowering her voice as if coaxing a child. „This gala isn’t optional. You skip, or you show up in somethigng simple, and they’ll say you’ve lost it. They’ll call you washed up. You don’t want that headline.“
Your hands tighten on the edge oft he seat. The truth of her words weighs heavier than the dress, pressing down on your chest until your shallow breaths sound shaky in your own ears.
„I hate it“, you whisper, more to yourself than tot hem.
„I know“, Lottie says softly, smoothing the sleeve over your arm as if her touch could make the fabric kinder. „But they’ll love it. And that’s what matters tonight.“ She grabs your hand and gives you a reassuring squeeze, holding onto you to give you the support you need.
Lucy taps her watch, impatient. „Inside. Now. We don’t have time for theatrics. Save that for the cameras.“
The words sting, but you let go of the frame, finally sliding fully into the car. The layers engulf you completely, satin and tulle suffocating like smoke. Lottie squeezes in beside you, adjusting every fold so that it falls just right, while Lucy follows, shutting the door behind her.
The world outside disappears, leaving only the tree of you and the faint hum of the engine. The dress scratches against your skin with every breath, with every though, but there’s no escape now.
Only the drive ahead – and the obligation at the end of it.
The ride feels both endless and too short. The city passes in blurred streaks of neon and headlights outside the tinted windows, but you barely notice. Every bumb in the road shifts the dress against your skin, every turn forces the corset to dig deeper into your ribs. Lottie murmurs last-minute reminders – „chin up, shoulders back, don’t forget to smile with your eyes“ – while Lucy scrolls furiously on her phone, already networking for you before you’ve even stepped onto the carpet.
Then the car slows. Your stomach knots instantly.
The muffled roar oft he crowd filters in first – cheers, screams, the chaotic pitch of people chanting your name. Then comes the staccato crack of cameras, hundreds of shutters firing in anticipation. The hum of the engine fades, and suddenly there’s nothing left to buffer you from what waits outside.
The driver gets out and circles the car. Lucy snaps her clutch shut, her eyes sharp with warning. „This is it. Whatever you’re feeling – bury it. The only thing they should see is perfection. Like always.“
The door opens, and the world erupts.
Flashes blind you immediately, white light slicing through the darkness in relentless bursts. The crowd screams louder, a wall of sound that rattles your bones. The paparazzi lean over barricades, cameras thrust forward like weapons. Fans shriek your name, their voices breaking with excitement, their phones raised high to capture even the smallest glimpse of you.
Lotties hand is firm at your back, steadying you as you unfold yourself from the car. The gown spills onto the red carpet like liquid ivory, heavy and magnificent, catching the light with every ripple. The moment your heels touch the ground, the shouting crescendos.
You lift your chin, forcing your lips into the practiced smile Lottie drilled into you. The corset bites with every shallow breath, the fabric scratches with every step, but none oft hat matters now. You are no longer yourself – you are the image they’ve come for.
Lucy leans in just enough to whisper through her grin. „See? They already love you. Now give them what they came for.“
And so you do – turning just right, letting the lights catch the gown, giving the illusion of effortless grace even as your body and mind scream beneat the fabric. The cameras devour it all, every flick or your eyes, every tilt of your head.
You are dazzling. You are suffocating.
And you’re not allowed to stop.
The cameras follow your every step as you glide forward, the gown trailing like atidal wave of silk and tulle behind you. Each heel clicks against the carpet in time with the snapping shutters, a metronome for the chaos that surrounds you. Your cheeks ache from holding the practiced smile, but Lotties voice echoes in your head. Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile with your eyes.
The entrance looms ahead – grand double doors flanked by velvet ropes and stern-faced security. But before you can reach them, a ripple goes through the crowd, a shift in the air so sudden you feel it before you seet it.
Then he’s there. Matteo.
Tall, impossibly composed, wearing a midnight-black suit cut to perfection. His hair is slicked back, jaw set, the kind of presence that doesn’t just step into a scene but claims it. The crowd erupts the moment he appears, their screams doubling in volumes surging into something feral as they see Monaco's most loved bachelor.
The paparazzi frenzy intesifies, cameras flashing so furiously the night feels like daylight. Even fans who had been shouting your name now switch, chanting his, their voices raw with excitement.
He pays them no mind. Instead, he strides toward you, unhurried despite the chaos, his confidence radiating in a way you can’t help but envy. When he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate – his hand finds yours with ease of habit, warm and steady against your clammy palm. The world tilts just slightly as he leans in, brushing his lips across your cheek in a gesture so practiced it feels staged.
The crowd loses its mind.
The flashes, the screams, the endless voices chanting both of your names now, braided toegther into something deafening. You feel the force o fit vibrate through your chest, rattling against the cage of your corset.
Matteo smiles fort he cameras, dazzling and deliberate, then tilts his head toward you. His foice is low enough for only you to hear. „Beathe“, he murmurs. „It’s almost over.“
And just like that, the unbearable weight of the dress, the suffocating noise, the gnawing tension – none of it goes away, but it blurs with the light at the end of the tunnel. Because now, every lens, every eye, every screaming voice is not only focused on you, but on you and Matteo.
The perfect couple.
The perfect picture.
Together, hand in hand, you take the final steps toward the entrance, the roar oft he crowd following like a storm at your back.
The moment the double doors swing open, the cacophony of cameras is replaced by a different kind of noise – softer, but no less overwhelming. The chandeliers blaze overhead, scattering light across the marble floors like shards of glass, and everywhere you look, faces turn towards you. Famous faces, important faces. Faces that have built empires out of talent, beauty, money – and all oft hem, suddenly, are smiling at you.
Hands reach for yours, champagne flutes flash as they’re raised in your honor, and every step forward is slowed by another compliment, another demand for a moment of your time. They don’t just want to see you – they want to have you. A photo. A laugh. A memory they can later claim as theirs.
It feels like you don’t belong to yourself, but to them. Like you owe them something you’re not sure you can give them.
Matteo walks steady at your side, effortlessly charming, drawing people in with the gravity of his presence. He’s always been good at this, way better than you. Lottie hovers near, quietly adjusting a hem here, a strand of hair there, while Lucy prowls the perimeter, keeping mental notes of who’s who, who spoke to you, who didn’t.
And you – smiling, nodding, thanking – feel yourself moving on autopilot, giving pieces of yourself away like business cars. It isn’t new. You’ve been handling this kind of attention for years, since before you were ready. Since before you knew what it really meant.
But as the compliments pile on, a thought needles at the back of your mind.
I don’t deserve this. Not the dress. Not the stage. Not they way they’re all looking like me like I’m something rare and untouchable. They don’t know me. They don’t care.
The crowd seems to swell, folding around you, pressing you forward like a atide. You let it carry you, your heels tapping against the marble as if hey belong here, as if you belong here.
The ceilings of the main room soars into shadows above, gold and crystal gleaming in every direction. A live band croons from a stage at the far end, velvet curtains framing their performance. The sound of strings and bass threads through the chatter, elegant and unrelenting, like a reminder to keep moving, keep smiling, keep playing your part.
You do. Because that’s what you’ve always done.
Matteo and you barely make it ten steps into the main hall before a couple intercepts you, their smiles bright, their words tumbling out like confetti.
„Darling, we simply had to stop you“, the woman gushes like she’s known you for years, her sequined gown glinting under the chandeliers. You don’t blame her – you’ve made it clear some time ago that you want to be treated like everyone else. Like you’re normal. Even if you’re not.
Her partner nods eagerly, already launching into a story about some mutual acquaintance, though you can hardly follow it. You nod, you smile, you laugh in the right places. Matteo picks up the thread with practiced charm, steering the conversation as effortlessly as ever.
But then your gaze drifts, just for a moment, over the womans shoulder. And that’s when you see him.
Across the room, half-shrouded in the golden haze of the chandeliers, stands a man whose presence seems to shift the air itself. Tall, poised, but not in the rehearsed way you’re used to seeing. His suit is tailored to perfection, yet it’s his eyes – sharp, vivid green – that snare you from across the distance.
The sound around you dulls. The laughter, the chatter, the band swelling behind the crowd. All of it blurs, until there’s only him. He isn’t smiling, not fully, but there’s something in the curve of his mouth, in the way his gaze holds yours, that feels like a secret being spoken without words.
You can’t look away. It’s as though the entire gala has dissolved into background noise, the glittering crowd reduced to silhouettes. The chandeliers, the music, even Matteo’s voice weaving effortlessly through conversation – it all fades until there’s only that steady, unshaken gaze across the room.
Heat creeps up your neck, hot beneath the suffocating cage of your dress. Your fingers curl lightly around the stem of the champagne flute in your hand, though you don’t remember taking it from a passing tray. Every instinct tells you to break eye contact, to retreat into the safe rhythm of small talk and polite laughter. But you don’t. You can’t.
The man tilts his head just slightly, as if acknoledging the invisible string between you. It isn’t bold, not enough for anyone else to notice – but to you, it feels earth-shattering.
„Are you alright?“ Matteo’s voice cuts through the haze, warm and familiar. His hand presses against your back in a gesture that is more protective than possessive.
You blink, forcing your eyes back tot he couple still talking animatedly in front of you . You nod, smiling automatically, offering a comment that sounds rehearsed even to your own ears. But your heart is still across the room, thundering in the rhythm with those green eyes you can feel on you even without looking.
The conversation drifts on, meaningless words exchanged like currency. You laugh where you should, sip when expected, play your part flawlessly. Yet every few seconds, against your will, your gaze flickers back.
He’s still watching.
And in that charged, impossible thread of silence stretched across the grand room, you know – without knowing how – that something has shifted inside you. Something that won’t be undone, no mater how the night unfolds.
Your eyes betray you again, drifting back across the room, searching fort hat flash of green that has burned itself into your mind. But this time it’s gone.
The spot where he stood is empty, swallowed by sequined gowns and black-tie suits, the tide of guests closing over him as if he was never there. Your heart stutters in your chest, the sudden absence sharp and disorienting.
You force yourself to exhale, the polite laughter of the couple in front of you sounding distant, tinny. Matteo says something smooth that earns a burst of chuckles, and they turn their attention back to him, leaving you to hide beneath another sip of champagne.
Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe you don’t need more ghosts haunting you tonight.
You turn, ready to slip into the safety of a new conversation, to lose yourself into someone else’s words –
- and freeze.
He’s there.
Standing less than a step away, as though he’s materialized out oft hin air. The crowd seems tob end around him, parting just enough for him to exist here, in your orbit. Up close, he’s more devastating. The green of his eyes is sharper, almost unreal beneath the golden light of the chandeliers, and there’s a quiet confidence in the way he holds himself – as if he knows the effect he has.
For a heartbeat, the noise oft he gala fades again. It’s just you, him, and the shiver that dances up your spine at his sudden nearness.
„Good evening.“ His voice is smooth, rich enough to cut straight through the blur of chatter around you. He extends a hand, and the smallest curve of a smile touches his lips – not the kind offered to cameras, but something quieter, more deliberate as he kisses your knuckles. „Charles Leclerc.“
The name hits like an echo – familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten. You’ve heard it before, of course, everyone has. The prodigy, the racer, Monaco’s golden son and Ferrari’s Chosen One. But standing here, so close you can see the shadow of stubble on his jaw and the way his gaze lingers, it feels like more than recognition. Like remembering.
Matteo shifts beside you, slipping seamlessly into the exchange. His hand leaves the small of your back as he offers his own. „Of course. I’ve seen you race. Really impressive.“
Charles shakes Matteo’s hand firmly, politely. „Thank you.“ But even as he releases it, his eyes return to you – as if tethered, as if nothing else in the room matters.
Matteo’s hand doesn’t return to your back.
„This is my girlfriend“, Matteo says, his voice smooth, proud, the words sliding out with the ease of ownership. Something that’s never sat right with you.
Charles inclines his head slightly, the faintest smile touching his lips. „A pleasure“, he says, voice calm, controlled, though his gaze lingers on you just a fraction too long.
You force a smile, nodding, the flutter in your chest betraying your otherwise composed exterior. „Likewise“, you murmur, voice steadier than you feel.
„So“, Matteo continues, filling the silence with practiced ease. „How’s the season been so far? I hear it’s been intense.“ He turns to you for a second. „You attended the race, right? The one here in Monaco?“, he asks you and you nod slowly.
Charles gaze softens for a second as he looks at you, before it turns professional once Matteo’s eyes land back on him. He shrugs, casual but precise, like every moment is calculated yet effortless. „It’s a lot. But I thrive under pressure. Tracks, races, media – it all blends together. Keeps life interesting.“
„Sounds exhausting“, you interject lightly, trying to pull some focus back to yourself for the first time tonight, if only to distract from the pull of those green eyes.
Charles chuckles softly, a sound that’s low and easy, brushing against your nerves in a way that makes your pulse quicken. „I suppose it’s a different kind of endurance“, he replies, eyes flickering briefly to Matteo before returning to you. „But it has its own rewards.“
Matteo nods, his posture relaxed but firm, a subtle reminder of his presence. „That’s true. But I’d argue galas have a far simpler set of rules.“
„You say that“, Charles murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightl. „Yet the strategy is just as complex.“ His gaze flickers to yours again, brief and electric, before he leans back subtly, giving space but not truly letting go of the connection.
You swallow, aware oft he way your fingers twitch against the folds of your dress, the scratch of satin against skin suddenly more noticeable. „I imagine everything in your world has to be calculated“, you say, teasing slightly. „Even charm.“
He smiles then, something real and unguarded for a fraction of a second, and it makes your chest tighten in a good way. There’s a softness to him that moment, almost boyish, that doesn’t match the sharp suit or the polished reputation you’ve seen in magazines.
„It depends“, Charles says after a beat. „Charm can be strategy“, his gaze flickers to Matteo, „but it can also be instinct.“ His eyes land back on yours. Like the flicker had meaning.
For a beat, you can’t find words. His gaze holds yours as if daring to decipher the weight behind what he’s said. The edges oft he room blur, voices and music dulling to a hum, until Matteo’s laugh slices through, practiced and warm.
„Well“, Matteo says, slipping an arm loosely back around your waist. „Instinct doesn’t get you very far without strategy.“
Charles inclines his head, gracious but unreadable. You don’t miss the way his gazes darts down to where Matteo touches you. „True. But sometimes instincts is what makes the difference.“ His words are light, polite even, but you feel the pulse of something beneath them – something meant only for you.
Before you can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the air. A pair of actors approach, faces glowing under the chandelier light, their smiles wide and bubbly. One takes your hand warmly, the other greets Matteo like an old friend. The circle shifts, expands, chatter swelling until you and Charles are no longer at ist center.
You manage a laugh at the right moment, respond with easy grace, even compliment a gown you barely register. The machine of socializing runs smoothly – smiles traded, names recalled, promises of lunch and drinks made in passing.
Still, out oft he corner of your eye, you catch the last flicker of green before Charles steps back, absorbed by another cluster of admirers. The thread between you things but doesn’t break. Not really.
Even as you nod along to stories you’ve heard before, as glasses of champagne are pressed into your hand, you can feel it – that pull humming low in your chest. The sense that no matter how many people crowd around you tonight, no matter how many coversations you wade through, you’ll find his eyes again. Or he’ll find yours.
The laughter in your circle rises again, louder this time, but it feels strangely distant – like it’s happening on the other side of glass. Your smile stays fixed, your words automatic, a hollow ache blooms.
You glance over one shoulder, then the other, scanning the room under the pretense of searching for someone else. He’s not there. No trace of sharp green eyes cutting through the haze, no quiet steadiness drawing you in. The golden chandeliers blur, voices blending into a shapeless hum.
For the first time all evening, you feel empty.
You turn, ready to excuse yourself, when a sharp movement collides with you. A tray tilts, glasses slip and in an instand a splash of deep red arcs through the air – and lands squarely across the bodice of your ivory gown.
The gasp you hear doesn’t come from your lips but from the waitress, young and wide-eyed, her hand clamped over her mouth in horror. Around you, the circle of guests shifts, a ripple of shock and sympathetic murmurs spreading like a current.
The stain blossoms across the delicate fabric like a wound, vivid against the pale material. You can feel it, seeping through, warm against your ribs, scratching against your already irritated skin.
Lotties voice is the first to break through the noise, sharp but controlled. „Napkins – quickly. Don’t rub it, dab it.“ She’s at your side in a flash, her hands moving with the precision of someone trained to manage disasters.
Lucy is there, too. Her phone already out, shielding the scene with her body as if she can blick the cameras she knows are always watching. „We need to get you out of here. Now“, she mutters under her breath, already scanning the crowd fort he nearest exit.
Then Matteo steps forward, calm in that polished, controlled way of his. Like this isn’t a surprise for him. He slips a hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a slim black card, pressing it into Lotties palm. „There’s a suite reserved upstairs“, he says smoothly, like he anticipated this. Like he always anticipates. „Fresh dress, everything ready. Take her up, get her changed.“
Lottie blinks, a flicker of surprise breaking through her professional focus. „You had a backup?“
„Of course“, Matteo replies simply, his hand brushing against your arm as if to reassure you. „I know exactly how these nights go.“ He looks at you. „And I know exactly what you need.“
The implication makes something twist in your stomach – that he expected disaster, and planned for it, not out of care, but out of stragety. Another piece on the chessboard.
Lottie tucks the card away, already shifting gears. „Come on“, she says, looping her arm around you, guiding you gently but firmly toward the door at the edge of the hall.
Lucy falls into step behind you, blocking curious eyes with the force of her presence, while Matteo lingers back, smoothing things over with the circle of guests you’d been trapped in seconds earlier. Always on display. Always calculated.
And you – wine-stained, skin burning, heart hollow – you let yourself be swept toward the escape.
The hallway falls away behind you, the muffled hum of music and voices dimming with every step until it’s only the soft click of your heels and the rush of your own pulse in your ears. Lottie slides the card into the lock, the green light blinking, and pushes the door open with a quiet efficiency that betrays none of the urgency in her movements.
„Here“, she murmurs, almost gentle now, her hand still steadying your elbow as if you might collapse without it.
The suite is dimly lit, elegant in that impersonal hotel way – too pristine, too staged. A dress form stands near the window, draped in fresh fabric: the backup gown, perfectly untouched in a color that reminds you of something.
You step inside, the ruined ivory gown brushing across the carpet, and for a moment no one speaks. The weight of their eyes lingers in the threshold.
„Take a minute“, Lottie says finally, her voice softer than you’re used to. She and Lucy exchange a wordless glance, then Lucy pulls the door shut behind them with a decisive click.
Silence. You’re alone.
The quiet rushes in, deafening compared tot he chaos downstairs. You catch the sight of yourself in the full-length miror across the room. Wine blooming like violence acorss the bodice, hair still perfectly pinned, eyes shining too bright. The contradiction of it makes your chest ache.
For the first time tonight, you let your shoulders sag. The air feels too heavy, your skin still raw beneath the ruined fabric. And in the hollow of your chest, where panic and humiliation churn, another feeling lingers stubbornly - the absence of green eyes that had found you in the crowd.
You press your fingertips slightly against the stain, then pull them away as if burned. The silence seems to hold its breath wih you.
The silence cracks.
From the corner of the suite, the soft sound of a door opening – the en-suite bathroom. Ist light spills out into the dim room. You freeze, breath caught in your throat as a figure steps through the doorway.
Charles.
He steps out of the bathroom like he belongs here, like he’s been waiting for you all along. The sight of him – real and so, so close – knocks the ground from under you. He hasn’t changed, not in the ways that matter. The green eyes, the way they cut through everything. The calm mask he wears, stretched thin enough that you can see the storm underneath.
It shouldn’t be possible. He shouldn’t be here. You both know the rules.
For a moment, neither of you dares to move. The silence between you feels heavier than the music and chatter leaking faintly through the door, heavier than the timespan that has stretched between this moment and the last time you were so close.
Then he says your name. Soft. Reverent. Like it’s a prayer and a curse at once.
The sound splits you open. All the nights you’ve spent pretending, burying what you had, rush back so violently you almost double over.
Your throat tightens, words clawing their way out past the ache in your chest. „I told you not to come.“ It comes out sharper than you mean it to, but the tremor in your voice betrays you.
Charles doesn’t flinch. He never does. But his jaw sets, a muscle ticking there, and his eyes burn brighter beneath the low light. „I didn’t have a choice.“
„Yes, you did“, you whisper, though your body betrays you, pulling ever so slightly forward, closer to him. „You always do.“
He shakes his head, a humorless breth slipping past his lips. „Not when it comes to you.“
Your pulse trips, your hands curling into the folds of your ruined dress as if the fabric could anchor you. The falls feel too close, the silence too loaded. You should send him away. You need to send him away.
But he takes a step towards you, slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too quickly. „I had to see you“, he says, voice low and raw. „Even it it’s the last time. Even if it destroys me.“
He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat that feels both impossibly fast and unbearably slow. Every step he takes carries the weight of years, of restraint, of longing. By the time he reaches you, the walls and the faint sounds of the gala fade into nothing.
Without another word, he cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, and leans in. He kisses you like a man starved – hungry, desperate, claiming every ounce of you he’s been denied for too long.
Your body responds before your mind can protest, arching into him, into the heat and the hunger, into the memory of a thousand stolen moments you can never speak of. It’s fire and silk all at once, and the world beyond this room ceases to exist.
He presses closer, every inch of him seeking you, and the air between you crackles with the weight of everything you’ve denied yourself for so long. Your hands tangle in his hair, in the line of his collar, pulling him impossibly near.
The room seems to shrink to nothing but the two of you – the taste of his lips, the heat of his hands, the brush of his chest against yours. Every moment is hurried, urgent, as though the world outside could reclaim you at any second.
Breathless, you press your forehead to his, eyes searching, hearts pounding in sync. Every second stretches, filled with the ache of longing and the sweetness of finally being together. You cling to him, to the moment, knowing it’s forbidden, knowing it’s fleeting, but not caring. At all.
He trembles against you, every movement filled with need, as if holding back would shatter him. His hands trace over your shoulders, down your arms, lingering on the places that he knows make your breath hitch. Every touch is electric, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
Slowly, impossibly, he starts to peel the layers of your dress away, undoes the strings oft he corset on your back. Each inch of fabric that falls reveals more than just skin – it’s a surrender neither of you can resist. Your fingers fumble at his buttons, tugging at the fabric of his crisp white shirt, desperate to feel the heat of him against your palms.
The tension is unbearable. Every heartbeat is a drum of desire, every brush of his fingertips against your bare skin a spark that threatens to consume you both. You arch into him instinctively, the urgency of your closeness, the forbidden thrill of being caught, making the air between you electric.
Even as clothes are discarded in haste, it’s not just the flesh you’re claiming – it’s the stolen years, the quiet ache of longing, the impossible love you’ve both denied for far too long. Every glance, every touch, every desperate whisper is a confession that cannot be undone.
Charles tilts your chin up gently, capturing your lips once again, slower this time, savoring the feeling of you. The kiss deepens, soft and urgent all at once, lips parting, breaths mingling.
His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leans closer, pressing into you with a weight that’s both protective and desperate. You respond instinctively, tilting into him, letting the heat of the moment consume every rational thought.
Every press of his lips, every gentle nibble at your lower lip, every brush of his tongue against yours sends a thrill up your spine, making your heart stammer against your ribs. You pull him closer, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, needing more, wanting more, craving the initimacy that’s finally yours to claim.
His mouth moves with yours, hungry and reverent, as though he’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment to return. When your hands slip back to his shirt, he doesn’t resist as you open every single one of his buttons. You pull it off his shoulders, lips never leaving his.
Your dress, heavy and ruined, slips beneath his fingers as though it was never meant to stay on you. The fabric pools between you and his hands skim over the warmth of your skin with a reverance that makes you shiver.
The kisses deepen – slower here, frantic there – until you’re dizzy with the weight of them, with the memory of all you’ve lost and the ache of finally having it again. His palms press against your sides, guiding you gently, insistently, until your knees meet the edge of the bed.
You fall back onto it, breathless, pulling him down with you. The mattress dips beneath your joined weight, his body covering yours like he belongs there, like he’s never left. His lips leave yours, only to trail along your jaw, your throat, his breath hot against your skin as his fingers find yours, threading them together as though he can’t bear to let you go.
His lips seal around your nipple and he gently sucks, making you arch into him.
„Please“, you beg, voice nothing more than a whisper. Your fingers reach down to undo the button on his pants and he shugs them off in a swift motion, along with his briefs.
„I’m here, my love“, he breaths and kisses you again, his hand trailing down your sides to the seam of your panties. „I’m not going anywhere.“
Your gaze locks with his, heart hammering as he leans closer, hands tracing the curves of your legs with careful reverence. Every movement is deliberate, as if he’s memorizing you, discovering every inch with gentle attention, like he’s doing this for the first and last time. You shiver under his touch, the sensation both familiar and electric, a rush of longing that leaves your chest tight and your breath caught.
He presses closer, lips brushing along your skin in a trail of teasing warmth, every kiss igniting a new fire in your veins. There’s an intensity in the way he looks at you – like you’re the only person in the world – and it sets you ablaze.
He peels your panties off, letting them fall to the ground next to the bed, before kissing you once more. You feel him against your thigh as he rolls on top of you.
„I waited so god damn long to have you back in my arms“, he whispers as he reaches down, fingers gently parting your pussy and collecting your juices. You moan into his mouth, fingers digging into the muscles of his back. He carefully slips two fingers inside you, making you mewl and arch even more into him.
„Charles“, you cry out as his thumb slowly spells Leclerc on your clit like you belong to him. Like he would give you his last name if he could.
Without wasting another second he pulls his fingers from you and pumps his cock a few times, covering him with your slick. He gazes down at you with a look so tender, so full of love that it breaks your heart. He doesn’t need to say anything, his touches and kisses say it all as he pushes into you slowly, afraid to hurt you after all this time where you weren’t his.
Every inch of him presses into you, and you feel the weight of all the months – no, years – of longing between you. His hands are everywhere, tracing your curves, holding you as if he could never let you go. Every brush of his lips, every whispered word against your skin, carries the ache of everything you’ve been denied.
You arch into him instinctively, letting the heat of the moment carry you, but it’s not just desire. It’s grief, it’s relief, it’s the silent confession of love neither of you can ever fully voice. Your hands clutch at his back, memorizing him, holding on like the world outside the room doesn’t exist.
He pauses for a heartbeat, forehead pressed against yours, green eyes glistening in the low light, and you know he would giv everything for this moment if he could. Everything he’s held back, every boundary, every rule – it all melts away in teh fire of being this close. Of being together. Of being one.
He whispers your name like a prayer, like saying it out loud might somehow make the impossible real. Your chest rises and falls against his, each heartbeat echoing the same desperate rhythm – yours, only yours, always yours.
His lips find yours again, softer this time, lingering, savoring the closeness, the taste, the intimacy that no one else could ever share with him. It’s slow, deliberate, a dance of lips and sighs and moans that speak louder than any words ever could. Every brush of his tongue against yours is a promise and a confession, a reminder that no matter the rules, the world, the distance between you – this moment is yours.
Hands threading through hair, fingers curling into the curve of his neck, you pull him even closer, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. The air is thick with longing, heavy with the ache of all the stolen time you’re reclaiming now. Nothing seems to exist but the two of you – entwined, reckless and utterly consumed.
He holds you as close as possible as he pushes you over the edge, cradling you like you’re fragile and precious, like he’s afraid the world might take you away again if he lets you out of his sight for a second. The moment stretches, intimate and sacred, each one a silent vow of devotion, a promise that this night only belongs to you.
When he finally comes inside you, it’s not with a rush but with a slow, trembling surrender. Hearts still pounding, lips pressed toegther in lingering kisses, you cling to each other in the quiet aftermath, skin sweaty and hot. Every shared breath is a quiet celebration of the love that finally found its moment.
You lie there, bodies tangled, the warmth of him pressed against you like a shield from the rest of the world. Fingers trace familiar lines along each others skin, memorizing curves and edges, as though every touch could anchor the years you’ve spent apart.
„I can’t believe we’re here“, you murmur, voice hushed, almost afraid to break the fragile silence. „After everything. After all this time.“
He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, eyes half-lidded. „I never stopped thinking about you. Not once. Not a day went by that I didn’t wish…“ His voice trails off, swallow by the quiet of the room.
You shake your head slightly. „Don’t. Just – stay here with me. That’s enough.“
He chuckles softly, a sound thick with emotion, and wraps an arm around you, pulling you into hi schest. „Since we were kids“, he whispers. „I always knew it would come back to this. Somehow, some way, we’d find each other.“
You sigh, letting yourself sink into him, feeling the weight of every memory, every laugh, every secret you shared long before the world told you to stay apart. „I’ve missed you“, you admit, almost inaudible.
„I’ve missed you, too“, he says, lips brushing your temple. „More than I can ever say.“
You shift slightly in his arms, letting your head rest against hi schest. „Do you – remember Monaco?“, you ask.
His hand stills on your bare back, thumb tracing idle circles. „How could I forget?“, he murmurs. „I saw you there. In the crowd. You were glowing, as always. But I couldn’t –„ He swallows, jaw tightening. „I couldn’t come to you. Not then. Not with everyone watching.“
„I saw you, too“, you admit softly. „How could I not? Your face was plastered everywhere. But I saw you from across the paddock. I wanted to run to you, to scream your name, but I didn’t. I wasn’t –"
„I know“, he replies softly, pulling you closer. „I watched you laugh and talk to the others and I wanted – God, I wanted to be there with you.“
You smile softly at the thought of always having him close to you. Close like this. A thought flickers through your mind and you pull back slightly. „Wait – how did you even get in here?“
Charles chuckles softly, that low, knowing sound that makes your chest tighten. He leans in, lips brushing against your temple. „Matteo. He gave me the keycard. Said it was the only way I’d get to see you without the whole world noticing.“
You blink, caught between disbelief and a swell of emotion. „Matteo … helped you?“
Charles shrugs, a small lopsided smile tugging at his lips. „He knew I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Knew you – well, you’re worth bending the rules for.“
A stunned laugh escaped you, half incredulous, half relieved. „So this was planned?“
He presses his forehead to yours, eyes soft but intense. „Every second. Every detail. I had to see you. I couldn’t wait any longer. Not when you –"
You shake your head. „Don’t say it. Please.“
He swallows, lets out a low hum of agreement, and simply holds you tighter, wrapping his arms around you as if to physically keep you from leaving, from slipping away again. You melt into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, the warmth of him that has been a memory for far too long.
Minutes stretch like hours, and neither of you moves, content to exist in this fragile, stolen peace. Eventually though, the reality tugs at the edges oft he room. The soft buzz of distant voices, the dress in the corner oft he room – it’s all a reminder that time hasn’t stopped. No matter how much you wish it had.
Charles sighs, reluctantly pulling back just enough to look at you, hands lingering on your arms. „I don’t want to leave this room.“
You nod slowly, pressing a soft kiss to his chest before sitting up. „I know. But the world can be a cruel place“, you smile sadly. The air feels charged, still thick with teh remnants of your closeness, but necessity guides you both. You reluctantly rise, fingers entwined, clinging to the connection as you move toward the world waiting outside the room.
You both move quietly toward the bathroom, still holding hands, the silence between you comfortable now, heavy with the weight of what just happened. The soft clatter of water, the hum of the heater, and the faint scent of soap fill the space as you begin to clean up. Charles leans over the sink with you, carefully wiping your soft skin and brushing your hair carefully, his fingers gentle and reverent as he pulls the pins from your hair. He lets your hair tumble loose and a smile widens on his face that makes your chest ache.
„I’ve always liked you better this way“, he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair with a careful tenderness. „Loose, relaxed, away from everyone’s eyes. Just for me to see.“
You lean into his touch, letting him brush your hair as though he could somehow smooth away all the months of distance, all the times you couldn’t be together. The intimacy is simple but profound – an echo of years spent knowing each other, exploring each other, and of finally having a moment that belongs entirely to you both.
For the first time in a long while, you feel completely seen, completely safe, and completely loved.
You step back into the room, still wrapped in the quiet warmth of each other, and your eyes fall on the dress thats waiting for you in the corner. Your breath catches.
Charles follows your gaze, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. „I picked it out for you“, he says softly, brushing a finger over the fabric without touching it too much. „I remembered. Your favorite style. And I had it made in your favorite color. The green -"
„- of your eyes“, you whisper and feel a lump in your throat, and your vision blurs just a little. „It’ll be on every magazine cover tomorrow. I hope you know that.“
„I do“, he says and smiles sadly. „It’ll be proof of how much you mean to me. Every detail about you matters to me. Every smile, every glance, everything that makes you you. And the whole world will see it, even if only us know the meaning behind it.“
You swallow hard, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill, overwhelmed by how deeply, thoughtfully he knows you, how much he’s cared even when you weren’t together. The dress isn’t just fabric in the corner of the room – it’s a quiet testament to the love he’s carried for you all these years.
You reach up, cupping his face and press your lips to his in a gentle, trembling kiss, letting the gratitude and relief and love spill between you both. „Help me put it on?“
He nods. „Of course, my love.“
He carefully helps you slip on the dress, the fabric on your skin soft and warm. It feels like home. Charles steps behind you, hands gentle as he smooths the fabric over your shoulders, adjusting the folds just so. His touch lingers at your waist, and you shiver slightly, caught between comfort and the ache of knowing how fleeting this moment is.
He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. „You’re wearing the parfume I bought you“, he whispers and kisses your warm skin, before pulling back and drinking in the sight of you. „Absolutely perfect“, he murmurs. The green brings out the warmth in your eyes, the curve of your smile. „You look – devastating. Like you belong in every dream I’ve ever had.“
You laugh softly, brushing your fingers over his hands, letting him finish fixing the dress. „It’s because you picked it“, you reply. „You make me feel seen. Like I’m a real person and not just –" Your words die in your throat.
„I know“, he smiles. „I’ll always see you for the person that you are. I promise.“ He presses a lingering kiss to your temple.
The room grows heavy with the inevitable, the knowledge that soon you’ll have to part. You take a shaky breath, stepping back to face him. „Charles – I need you to leave“, you say softly, trying to steady your voice. „I can’t – I can’t do this when I know you’re still here. Still at the gala.“
His smile falters, just for a second. „No, my love. I won’t leave you when you –"
Your hands clutch at his arms, desperate, trembling. „Charles, please“, you whisper, voice breaking. „I need you to leave the gala. I can’t – I can’t do it when I know you’re still there, somewhere in the back. I –" You try to control yourself, keep the tears from gathering in your eyes. „Please.“
His brows furrow and he shakes his head, stepping closer despite your hands pressing him back. „I can’t just walk away. Not when you –"
„Please!“, you cut him off, tears stinging in your eyes. „I need you to. I need you out of my sight. I can’t pretend, I can’t smile, I can’t –„ You clench your teeth. „I don’t want you to see it. I don’t want to hurt you.“
His breath hitches, like your words physically wound him, and for a moment he just stares at you, jaw tight, eyes shimmering. „You think it won’t hurt me to leave you here? To walk away when every part of me is screaming to stay?“ His voice his rough, almost breaking.
You shake your head, stepping back another inch, though it feels like tearing yourself apart. „It’ll hurt either way. But this way – at least you won’t see it. At least I can protect you from that much.“
Charles runs a hand through his hair, pacing a step before freezing again in front of you. He looks like he wants to fight, to refuse, to hold on until the last possible second. But then his eyes meet yours, and whatever battled raged inside him quiets. He swallows hard. „You’re trying to protect me when I should be the one protecting you.“
Your lips tremble as you whisper. „Then protect me by leaving. Please. If you love me, Charles – let me do this without you watching.“
For a long, unbearable moment, the silence stretches. And then – finally – he exhales shakily, nodding once. He cups yoru face, kisses your forehead like it might be the last time he ever gets to. „I’ll go“, he whispers. „But know that I’ll never stop waiting for the moment I can stay.“
His hand lingers against your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear that falls before you can stop it. The tenderness of it – the way he looks at you like you’re his whole world – only make the ache sharper.
„Charles“, you breathe, your voice breaking. „I love you. More than anything. More than I should. And maybe that’s the cruelest part – because it doesn’t matter how much I love you, it doesn’t change who we are. It doesn’t change who we can’t be.“
His jaw tightens, eyes glassy as he shakes his head. „Don’t say that. Don’t talk like our love isn’t enough. Because to me, it’s everything. It’s the only thing that ever mattered.“ His voice falters, raw and desperate. „I don’t care about the rest oft he world. I don’t care about what they expect. All I care about is you.“
You press your forehead to his, clutching the lapels of his jacket he put on when he got dressed with you. You cling to him like if you hold tight enough, maybe you won’t have to let him go. „But I do. I care. I have to care. And I – if I see you broken because of me, I wouldn’t survive it.“
He shakes his head again, tears threatening to spill. „You don’t break me. You’ve never broken me. You’re the only thing that’s ever put me back together.“ His lips brush yours, a trembling kiss that tastes of salt and longing. „I love you. Always. Even if I never get to say it again. Even if I have to watch you from a distance fort he rest of my life – I’ll still love you. No future, no promises, not the same last name in the same house. Just you. That’s enough for me.“
Your chest caves in at his words, sobs threateninh to rip through you, but you whisper fiercly against his lips. „I’ll never stop loving you, Charles. Not in this life, not in the next. My heart will forever wear your name.“
The kiss you share one last time is tender, heartbreakingly soft and over way too quick. You know if you kept kissing, kept tasing him, that you'd never leave this room. Never leave him.
The silence that follows is unbearable, the kind that screams with everything you both can’t say. His arms crush you to him, as if trying to fuse you together, as if he could hide you away from the world. But then he lets out a broken sound, forcing himself to step back, hand still holding onto yours before eventually letting go.
His voice is a whisper. „Goodbye, my love.“
You can’t bring yourself to watch him walk away.
So instead, with your hand still trembling from the way his fingers slipped out of yours, you turn first. You take a single step toward the door, and then another, because if you hesitate, you know you’ll collapse back into his arms and beg him to stay – beg him to destroy you all over again.
The sound of your heels against the floor feels like knives. You don’t dare look back, because you know if you see his face — his eyes wet, his chest heaving with all the words he’ll never say — you’ll never make it through that door.
Your hand grips the handle, knuckles pale. For the smallest moment, you stop, your body screaming to turn around. To tell him you’ll throw it all away, that you’ll choose him and damn the consequences. But the memory of what waits beyond the door — the expectations, the duties, the stage you’re meant to walk onto — crashes over you, and you force yourself forward.
The door clicks shut behind you, severing the world in two.
Lucy and Lottie are right there in the hallway. They don’t ask, they don’t press. Their faces say enough — they know. Lucy reaches forward instantly, straightening your hair with careful hands, wiping the smudge of his kiss from your lips. Lottie smoothes your skirt where it wrinkled, his movements brisk but tender.
„You look radiant“, Lottie whispers, though her eyes glisten like she might cry for you.
You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs, and nod. „Let’s go.“
The three of you move together, your stylist and agent flanking you like sentinels, ushering you back toward the glitter and noise. The swell of music grows louder the closer you come, laughter and applause spilling into the corridor.
When you step into the ballroom, it feels like stepping onto another stage in another life. No one here will ever know what you left behind.
And then, across the glittering crowd, you see Matteo waiting. His gaze catches yours, sharp and unwavering. He doesn’t need to ask what happened in that room - his expression tells you he already knows.
When you reach him, he offers his hand, steady and sure, his other hand resting against the small of your back to guide you forward. His voice is low, meant for you alone:
„It’s time.“
The lights hit you like a tidal wave when you step onto the stage. The chandeliers glitter overhead, cameras flash, the sea of expectant faces blur together into one overwhelming mass. Matteo’s hand is firm around yours, grounding, though you feel weightless — like you’ve left your body back in that room with Charles.
He steps forward to the microphone, his voice smooth and strong, filling the grand hall. Words spill from him — gracious, practiced, perfect— but they barely register. Applause rises, laughter follows his pauses, the crowd leans in, enthralled by every syllable.
And you? You’re drowning.
Your heart hammers in your chest, but not for the man speaking into the microphone. Your gaze keeps flickering toward the shadows of the ballroom, half-expecting to see green eyes hidden there, watching, refusing to leave. Every clap of the audience echoes like the slam of the door you shut behind you. You hope he kept his word and left.
You nod when Matteo turns toward you briefly, a smile tugging at his lips as he gestures in your direction, inviting the crowd to look. The spotlight finds you and you force a smile — soft, demure, everything they expect. But it’s hollow, your cheeks aching from the strain of it. Inside, you’re breaking, shards of yourself still scattered across the floor of that hotel room.
You zone out further, his words melting into static. Instead, memories fill the silence: his hands brushing through your hair, the weight of his body over yours, the way he whispered goodbye like it was a death sentence.
You blink quickly, fighting back the sting of tears, knowing every pair of eyes is on you. You stand taller, shoulders straight, smile unwavering, as if the weight of the world isn’t crushing your lungs.
The room falls into a heavy silence as Matteo steps forward, every gesture deliberate, every motion exact. You can feel the weight of the moment pressing down, but he moves with the calm precision of a man who knows exactly the role he must play. He knows your heart isn’t here, that it belongs elsewhere, yet he performs his duty flawlessly, giving nothing away, asking nothing but what is expected of you.
Matteo pauses, eyes locking onto yours with a softness that almost makes your chest ache. Every movement, every gesture, is measured, perfect – yet underneath it lies a raw, practiced tenderness. He lowers to one knee, the ring catching the light, glinting like a tiny promise.
„Your Highness“, Matteo begins, voice smooth and measured, every word landing exactly as it was meant to. You feel the familiar twist in your chest — the ache of knowing exactly what’s coming. You know this isn’t love. You can feel the carefully practiced cadence, the rehearsed inflection, the precision of a man performing a duty he can’t escape.
„From the very first moment I saw you…“ His words reach your ears, but your mind drifts. You can’t feel the heat of true affection behind them; you only feel the cold polish of obligation. You force yourself to smile, throat tight, because the audience expects a reaction. Your heart, though, remembers another, and that memory burns hotter than anything he could offer.
He opens the small velvet box, letting the ring catch the light. You notice the way he wants you to gasp, to be moved – but you only see the mechanics of the act. „I love your strength, your grace, your heart…“, he says, and you bite back a shiver of sadness. You know he doesn’t mean it, not the way love should.
He sinks to one knee, eyes lifting to yours with a careful, reverent look. „So, Princess of Monaco", he says, his voice soft and precise, „will you marry me?“
You meet his gaze and see the truth beneath the perfection: devotion born from duty, not desire. Your chest aches with unspoken truths, and you swallow hard, because the love you carry for someone else makes this polished proposal feel like a beautifully cruel lie.
Your breath catches, a sudden, sharp reminder of everything you’ve tried to bury. You glance around the glittering room — the chandeliers casting warm light over faces blurred by protocol and expectation — and hope that Charles isn’t here. You know, with every fiber of your being, that you can‘t say yes if he’s watching, if he’s there to see the life you’re about to pretend to choose.
A life that’s not with him.
You take a deep breath, lips opening to give an answer you don’t want to give – and then your eyes meet green ones.
Summary: Everything should be perfect. The dress flows like it was made for you, the jewels catch the light just right, the shoes fit flawlessly. And yet - why do those green eyes keep pulling you under, stealing your breath, making all this perfection feel hollow?
Warnings: 18+ (smut, unprotected sex, fingering), angst in all shades, tiny bit of fluff somewhere
Word Count: 10.5k
A/N: my first one-shot since forever! I hope you like it! feedback is appreciated!
As Lottie laces up your dress at the back, it feels as if she is cutting off your air supply. The eggshell-white dress weighs heavily on your body, the corset feels like your ribcage is being pressed against a cage with every breath you take, and the fabric scratches your skin as if it were made of sandpaper.
Your eyes are downcast, fixed on the shoes that match the dress perfectly, standing next to the mirror you don't want to look at. You know what the dress looks like, but no matter how beautiful it is, it doesn't change the discomfort that intensifies with every loop around your back.
You want to rip it off and scratch your skin with your nails until it bleeds, but all you can do is gently stroke the exposed parts of your body with your fingertips. It's a soothing movement, as if you're signaling to your body that everything is okay.
“Are you excited yet?”, Lottie asks as she ties the strings on your back into a bow and then slips two fingers between your shoulder blades and the corset to smooth your back. “I heard that one of the British royals is supposed to be there.”
You sigh softly. “You can't always believe everything you read on the internet.”
“But how cool would that be?” She tugs at the hem of the dress.
“Why would any of them go to a gala?” you ask your stylist with a raised eyebrow. “I think they have enough to do without making small talk with random people.”
“You're being so pessimistic again“, she scolds you affectionately and lifts your dress a little so she can put your feet into your shoes. “If you don't flash that stunning smile I know you have on the red carpet, I'm quitting.”
That actually makes you smile. Lottie may be your stylist, but she's also your closest confidante. That's how it is when you're in the spotlight. Either your friends are the people who work for you, or they're other people who are also in the spotlight.
The door opens and you don't even need to look to know who's rushing into the room.
“You're still not ready.” Lucy's eyes dart from her phone to Lottie at your feet and back to the screen. “We should have left fifteen minutes ago to be only half an hour late.”
Lottie rolls her eyes and braces herself with her hands on the floor before straightening up with a swish and adjusting the puffy sleeves of your dress. “Hold your horses, Lucy. Otherwise you’ll get stress marks on your neck and then you’ll get upset later that they can be seen in the photos.”
“That's not true. Last time it was just –", she begins, but when she looks at you in the dress, her breath catches. “Wow.” She walks around you, examining you from every angle. “You look breathtakingly beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Lottie winks at you. The fact that you look like this is all her doing. She pulls a perfume bottle out of her makeup case and sprays you in all the right places. “Your favorite scent“, she smiles gently. She knows how much it means to you.
Your heels click against the polished floors as Lucy ushers Lottie and you out of the dressing room, her voice brisk, already calculating how late you’ll be. The hallway lights cast a soft glow over the eggshell fabric, and for a fleeting second you imagine yourself as some fragile statue being escorted out of a museum.
With Lotties gentle hold on your arm, it definitely feels like it. She maneuvers you through the corridors of your home, the weight oft he gown dragging at your every step. Each swish of fabric against the floor sounds louder than it should, like the dress itself resents being moved.
„You’re going to crease the skirt if you keep walking like that“, Lucy mutters without looking from her phone.
„I’d like to see you try walking in this thing“, you reply under your breath, though the right corset makes your words come out thing, almost airy.
By the time you reach the front door, the car is waiting, sleek and imposing at the curb. The driver stands at attention, opening the rear door with practiced precision. You don’t miss the way his eyes drift over the dress. That’s when the real challenge begins.
Lottie crouches, lifting the voluminous layers of fabric into her arms, while you attempt to bend in a way that doesn't snap the corset in half or suffocate you. The doorframe oft he car suddenly feels cruelly small.
„Angle sideways – no, sideways“, Lottie hisses, fighting with the folds of the skirt as though they have a will of their own.
You grit your teeth, trying tot wist your body the way Lottie demands, but every angle feels wrong. The corset cuts into your ribs, the neckline digs against your collarbone and the skirt balloons outward like it’s actively mocking you.
„Lottie, I can’t“, you mutter, half-choked as you wedge yourself into the narrow opening. Your hands grip the car frame like it’s your last lifeline. „I don’t want to wear this stupid dress. I can’t even breathe in it.“ You hate this dress. You hate the style, you hate the color, you hate what it stands for.
You hate yourself in it.
Lottie doesn’t stop maneuvering the fabric, her face set with determination. „Breathe later. Look stunning now. That’s the job.“
„That’s your job“, you snap, voice sharper than you meant it to be. The frustration has been bubbling under your skin all night, and now, bent and twisted like a damn doll being forced into a box, it spills over.
Lucy, still standing on the curb, groans and finally looks up from her phone. „Don’t start. We agreed on this dress weeks ago. It’s Valentino. Every magazine will have your picture on the front page tomorrow if you just wear it.“
You shake your head, a bitter laugh escaping. „Every magazine will also have the picture of me fainting because I couldn’t get enough air.“
Lottie shoves one last rebellious fold of fabric into the car and gives you a look – half tender, half stern. „You’ve been through worse. One night. That’s all. Then we’ll burn the damn thing if you want.“
You catch her gaze and the look on her face says it all. Nothing is worse than this. And burning the dress after tonight won’t help at all.
Lucy steps closer, lowering her voice as if coaxing a child. „This gala isn’t optional. You skip, or you show up in somethigng simple, and they’ll say you’ve lost it. They’ll call you washed up. You don’t want that headline.“
Your hands tighten on the edge oft he seat. The truth of her words weighs heavier than the dress, pressing down on your chest until your shallow breaths sound shaky in your own ears.
„I hate it“, you whisper, more to yourself than tot hem.
„I know“, Lottie says softly, smoothing the sleeve over your arm as if her touch could make the fabric kinder. „But they’ll love it. And that’s what matters tonight.“ She grabs your hand and gives you a reassuring squeeze, holding onto you to give you the support you need.
Lucy taps her watch, impatient. „Inside. Now. We don’t have time for theatrics. Save that for the cameras.“
The words sting, but you let go of the frame, finally sliding fully into the car. The layers engulf you completely, satin and tulle suffocating like smoke. Lottie squeezes in beside you, adjusting every fold so that it falls just right, while Lucy follows, shutting the door behind her.
The world outside disappears, leaving only the tree of you and the faint hum of the engine. The dress scratches against your skin with every breath, with every though, but there’s no escape now.
Only the drive ahead – and the obligation at the end of it.
The ride feels both endless and too short. The city passes in blurred streaks of neon and headlights outside the tinted windows, but you barely notice. Every bumb in the road shifts the dress against your skin, every turn forces the corset to dig deeper into your ribs. Lottie murmurs last-minute reminders – „chin up, shoulders back, don’t forget to smile with your eyes“ – while Lucy scrolls furiously on her phone, already networking for you before you’ve even stepped onto the carpet.
Then the car slows. Your stomach knots instantly.
The muffled roar oft he crowd filters in first – cheers, screams, the chaotic pitch of people chanting your name. Then comes the staccato crack of cameras, hundreds of shutters firing in anticipation. The hum of the engine fades, and suddenly there’s nothing left to buffer you from what waits outside.
The driver gets out and circles the car. Lucy snaps her clutch shut, her eyes sharp with warning. „This is it. Whatever you’re feeling – bury it. The only thing they should see is perfection. Like always.“
The door opens, and the world erupts.
Flashes blind you immediately, white light slicing through the darkness in relentless bursts. The crowd screams louder, a wall of sound that rattles your bones. The paparazzi lean over barricades, cameras thrust forward like weapons. Fans shriek your name, their voices breaking with excitement, their phones raised high to capture even the smallest glimpse of you.
Lotties hand is firm at your back, steadying you as you unfold yourself from the car. The gown spills onto the red carpet like liquid ivory, heavy and magnificent, catching the light with every ripple. The moment your heels touch the ground, the shouting crescendos.
You lift your chin, forcing your lips into the practiced smile Lottie drilled into you. The corset bites with every shallow breath, the fabric scratches with every step, but none oft hat matters now. You are no longer yourself – you are the image they’ve come for.
Lucy leans in just enough to whisper through her grin. „See? They already love you. Now give them what they came for.“
And so you do – turning just right, letting the lights catch the gown, giving the illusion of effortless grace even as your body and mind scream beneat the fabric. The cameras devour it all, every flick or your eyes, every tilt of your head.
You are dazzling. You are suffocating.
And you’re not allowed to stop.
The cameras follow your every step as you glide forward, the gown trailing like atidal wave of silk and tulle behind you. Each heel clicks against the carpet in time with the snapping shutters, a metronome for the chaos that surrounds you. Your cheeks ache from holding the practiced smile, but Lotties voice echoes in your head. Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile with your eyes.
The entrance looms ahead – grand double doors flanked by velvet ropes and stern-faced security. But before you can reach them, a ripple goes through the crowd, a shift in the air so sudden you feel it before you seet it.
Then he’s there. Matteo.
Tall, impossibly composed, wearing a midnight-black suit cut to perfection. His hair is slicked back, jaw set, the kind of presence that doesn’t just step into a scene but claims it. The crowd erupts the moment he appears, their screams doubling in volumes surging into something feral as they see Monaco's most loved bachelor.
The paparazzi frenzy intesifies, cameras flashing so furiously the night feels like daylight. Even fans who had been shouting your name now switch, chanting his, their voices raw with excitement.
He pays them no mind. Instead, he strides toward you, unhurried despite the chaos, his confidence radiating in a way you can’t help but envy. When he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate – his hand finds yours with ease of habit, warm and steady against your clammy palm. The world tilts just slightly as he leans in, brushing his lips across your cheek in a gesture so practiced it feels staged.
The crowd loses its mind.
The flashes, the screams, the endless voices chanting both of your names now, braided toegther into something deafening. You feel the force o fit vibrate through your chest, rattling against the cage of your corset.
Matteo smiles fort he cameras, dazzling and deliberate, then tilts his head toward you. His foice is low enough for only you to hear. „Beathe“, he murmurs. „It’s almost over.“
And just like that, the unbearable weight of the dress, the suffocating noise, the gnawing tension – none of it goes away, but it blurs with the light at the end of the tunnel. Because now, every lens, every eye, every screaming voice is not only focused on you, but on you and Matteo.
The perfect couple.
The perfect picture.
Together, hand in hand, you take the final steps toward the entrance, the roar oft he crowd following like a storm at your back.
The moment the double doors swing open, the cacophony of cameras is replaced by a different kind of noise – softer, but no less overwhelming. The chandeliers blaze overhead, scattering light across the marble floors like shards of glass, and everywhere you look, faces turn towards you. Famous faces, important faces. Faces that have built empires out of talent, beauty, money – and all oft hem, suddenly, are smiling at you.
Hands reach for yours, champagne flutes flash as they’re raised in your honor, and every step forward is slowed by another compliment, another demand for a moment of your time. They don’t just want to see you – they want to have you. A photo. A laugh. A memory they can later claim as theirs.
It feels like you don’t belong to yourself, but to them. Like you owe them something you’re not sure you can give them.
Matteo walks steady at your side, effortlessly charming, drawing people in with the gravity of his presence. He’s always been good at this, way better than you. Lottie hovers near, quietly adjusting a hem here, a strand of hair there, while Lucy prowls the perimeter, keeping mental notes of who’s who, who spoke to you, who didn’t.
And you – smiling, nodding, thanking – feel yourself moving on autopilot, giving pieces of yourself away like business cars. It isn’t new. You’ve been handling this kind of attention for years, since before you were ready. Since before you knew what it really meant.
But as the compliments pile on, a thought needles at the back of your mind.
I don’t deserve this. Not the dress. Not the stage. Not they way they’re all looking like me like I’m something rare and untouchable. They don’t know me. They don’t care.
The crowd seems to swell, folding around you, pressing you forward like a atide. You let it carry you, your heels tapping against the marble as if hey belong here, as if you belong here.
The ceilings of the main room soars into shadows above, gold and crystal gleaming in every direction. A live band croons from a stage at the far end, velvet curtains framing their performance. The sound of strings and bass threads through the chatter, elegant and unrelenting, like a reminder to keep moving, keep smiling, keep playing your part.
You do. Because that’s what you’ve always done.
Matteo and you barely make it ten steps into the main hall before a couple intercepts you, their smiles bright, their words tumbling out like confetti.
„Darling, we simply had to stop you“, the woman gushes like she’s known you for years, her sequined gown glinting under the chandeliers. You don’t blame her – you’ve made it clear some time ago that you want to be treated like everyone else. Like you’re normal. Even if you’re not.
Her partner nods eagerly, already launching into a story about some mutual acquaintance, though you can hardly follow it. You nod, you smile, you laugh in the right places. Matteo picks up the thread with practiced charm, steering the conversation as effortlessly as ever.
But then your gaze drifts, just for a moment, over the womans shoulder. And that’s when you see him.
Across the room, half-shrouded in the golden haze of the chandeliers, stands a man whose presence seems to shift the air itself. Tall, poised, but not in the rehearsed way you’re used to seeing. His suit is tailored to perfection, yet it’s his eyes – sharp, vivid green – that snare you from across the distance.
The sound around you dulls. The laughter, the chatter, the band swelling behind the crowd. All of it blurs, until there’s only him. He isn’t smiling, not fully, but there’s something in the curve of his mouth, in the way his gaze holds yours, that feels like a secret being spoken without words.
You can’t look away. It’s as though the entire gala has dissolved into background noise, the glittering crowd reduced to silhouettes. The chandeliers, the music, even Matteo’s voice weaving effortlessly through conversation – it all fades until there’s only that steady, unshaken gaze across the room.
Heat creeps up your neck, hot beneath the suffocating cage of your dress. Your fingers curl lightly around the stem of the champagne flute in your hand, though you don’t remember taking it from a passing tray. Every instinct tells you to break eye contact, to retreat into the safe rhythm of small talk and polite laughter. But you don’t. You can’t.
The man tilts his head just slightly, as if acknoledging the invisible string between you. It isn’t bold, not enough for anyone else to notice – but to you, it feels earth-shattering.
„Are you alright?“ Matteo’s voice cuts through the haze, warm and familiar. His hand presses against your back in a gesture that is more protective than possessive.
You blink, forcing your eyes back tot he couple still talking animatedly in front of you . You nod, smiling automatically, offering a comment that sounds rehearsed even to your own ears. But your heart is still across the room, thundering in the rhythm with those green eyes you can feel on you even without looking.
The conversation drifts on, meaningless words exchanged like currency. You laugh where you should, sip when expected, play your part flawlessly. Yet every few seconds, against your will, your gaze flickers back.
He’s still watching.
And in that charged, impossible thread of silence stretched across the grand room, you know – without knowing how – that something has shifted inside you. Something that won’t be undone, no mater how the night unfolds.
Your eyes betray you again, drifting back across the room, searching fort hat flash of green that has burned itself into your mind. But this time it’s gone.
The spot where he stood is empty, swallowed by sequined gowns and black-tie suits, the tide of guests closing over him as if he was never there. Your heart stutters in your chest, the sudden absence sharp and disorienting.
You force yourself to exhale, the polite laughter of the couple in front of you sounding distant, tinny. Matteo says something smooth that earns a burst of chuckles, and they turn their attention back to him, leaving you to hide beneath another sip of champagne.
Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe you don’t need more ghosts haunting you tonight.
You turn, ready to slip into the safety of a new conversation, to lose yourself into someone else’s words –
- and freeze.
He’s there.
Standing less than a step away, as though he’s materialized out oft hin air. The crowd seems tob end around him, parting just enough for him to exist here, in your orbit. Up close, he’s more devastating. The green of his eyes is sharper, almost unreal beneath the golden light of the chandeliers, and there’s a quiet confidence in the way he holds himself – as if he knows the effect he has.
For a heartbeat, the noise oft he gala fades again. It’s just you, him, and the shiver that dances up your spine at his sudden nearness.
„Good evening.“ His voice is smooth, rich enough to cut straight through the blur of chatter around you. He extends a hand, and the smallest curve of a smile touches his lips – not the kind offered to cameras, but something quieter, more deliberate as he kisses your knuckles. „Charles Leclerc.“
The name hits like an echo – familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten. You’ve heard it before, of course, everyone has. The prodigy, the racer, Monaco’s golden son and Ferrari’s Chosen One. But standing here, so close you can see the shadow of stubble on his jaw and the way his gaze lingers, it feels like more than recognition. Like remembering.
Matteo shifts beside you, slipping seamlessly into the exchange. His hand leaves the small of your back as he offers his own. „Of course. I’ve seen you race. Really impressive.“
Charles shakes Matteo’s hand firmly, politely. „Thank you.“ But even as he releases it, his eyes return to you – as if tethered, as if nothing else in the room matters.
Matteo’s hand doesn’t return to your back.
„This is my girlfriend“, Matteo says, his voice smooth, proud, the words sliding out with the ease of ownership. Something that’s never sat right with you.
Charles inclines his head slightly, the faintest smile touching his lips. „A pleasure“, he says, voice calm, controlled, though his gaze lingers on you just a fraction too long.
You force a smile, nodding, the flutter in your chest betraying your otherwise composed exterior. „Likewise“, you murmur, voice steadier than you feel.
„So“, Matteo continues, filling the silence with practiced ease. „How’s the season been so far? I hear it’s been intense.“ He turns to you for a second. „You attended the race, right? The one here in Monaco?“, he asks you and you nod slowly.
Charles gaze softens for a second as he looks at you, before it turns professional once Matteo’s eyes land back on him. He shrugs, casual but precise, like every moment is calculated yet effortless. „It’s a lot. But I thrive under pressure. Tracks, races, media – it all blends together. Keeps life interesting.“
„Sounds exhausting“, you interject lightly, trying to pull some focus back to yourself for the first time tonight, if only to distract from the pull of those green eyes.
Charles chuckles softly, a sound that’s low and easy, brushing against your nerves in a way that makes your pulse quicken. „I suppose it’s a different kind of endurance“, he replies, eyes flickering briefly to Matteo before returning to you. „But it has its own rewards.“
Matteo nods, his posture relaxed but firm, a subtle reminder of his presence. „That’s true. But I’d argue galas have a far simpler set of rules.“
„You say that“, Charles murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightl. „Yet the strategy is just as complex.“ His gaze flickers to yours again, brief and electric, before he leans back subtly, giving space but not truly letting go of the connection.
You swallow, aware oft he way your fingers twitch against the folds of your dress, the scratch of satin against skin suddenly more noticeable. „I imagine everything in your world has to be calculated“, you say, teasing slightly. „Even charm.“
He smiles then, something real and unguarded for a fraction of a second, and it makes your chest tighten in a good way. There’s a softness to him that moment, almost boyish, that doesn’t match the sharp suit or the polished reputation you’ve seen in magazines.
„It depends“, Charles says after a beat. „Charm can be strategy“, his gaze flickers to Matteo, „but it can also be instinct.“ His eyes land back on yours. Like the flicker had meaning.
For a beat, you can’t find words. His gaze holds yours as if daring to decipher the weight behind what he’s said. The edges oft he room blur, voices and music dulling to a hum, until Matteo’s laugh slices through, practiced and warm.
„Well“, Matteo says, slipping an arm loosely back around your waist. „Instinct doesn’t get you very far without strategy.“
Charles inclines his head, gracious but unreadable. You don’t miss the way his gazes darts down to where Matteo touches you. „True. But sometimes instincts is what makes the difference.“ His words are light, polite even, but you feel the pulse of something beneath them – something meant only for you.
Before you can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the air. A pair of actors approach, faces glowing under the chandelier light, their smiles wide and bubbly. One takes your hand warmly, the other greets Matteo like an old friend. The circle shifts, expands, chatter swelling until you and Charles are no longer at ist center.
You manage a laugh at the right moment, respond with easy grace, even compliment a gown you barely register. The machine of socializing runs smoothly – smiles traded, names recalled, promises of lunch and drinks made in passing.
Still, out oft he corner of your eye, you catch the last flicker of green before Charles steps back, absorbed by another cluster of admirers. The thread between you things but doesn’t break. Not really.
Even as you nod along to stories you’ve heard before, as glasses of champagne are pressed into your hand, you can feel it – that pull humming low in your chest. The sense that no matter how many people crowd around you tonight, no matter how many coversations you wade through, you’ll find his eyes again. Or he’ll find yours.
The laughter in your circle rises again, louder this time, but it feels strangely distant – like it’s happening on the other side of glass. Your smile stays fixed, your words automatic, a hollow ache blooms.
You glance over one shoulder, then the other, scanning the room under the pretense of searching for someone else. He’s not there. No trace of sharp green eyes cutting through the haze, no quiet steadiness drawing you in. The golden chandeliers blur, voices blending into a shapeless hum.
For the first time all evening, you feel empty.
You turn, ready to excuse yourself, when a sharp movement collides with you. A tray tilts, glasses slip and in an instand a splash of deep red arcs through the air – and lands squarely across the bodice of your ivory gown.
The gasp you hear doesn’t come from your lips but from the waitress, young and wide-eyed, her hand clamped over her mouth in horror. Around you, the circle of guests shifts, a ripple of shock and sympathetic murmurs spreading like a current.
The stain blossoms across the delicate fabric like a wound, vivid against the pale material. You can feel it, seeping through, warm against your ribs, scratching against your already irritated skin.
Lotties voice is the first to break through the noise, sharp but controlled. „Napkins – quickly. Don’t rub it, dab it.“ She’s at your side in a flash, her hands moving with the precision of someone trained to manage disasters.
Lucy is there, too. Her phone already out, shielding the scene with her body as if she can blick the cameras she knows are always watching. „We need to get you out of here. Now“, she mutters under her breath, already scanning the crowd fort he nearest exit.
Then Matteo steps forward, calm in that polished, controlled way of his. Like this isn’t a surprise for him. He slips a hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a slim black card, pressing it into Lotties palm. „There’s a suite reserved upstairs“, he says smoothly, like he anticipated this. Like he always anticipates. „Fresh dress, everything ready. Take her up, get her changed.“
Lottie blinks, a flicker of surprise breaking through her professional focus. „You had a backup?“
„Of course“, Matteo replies simply, his hand brushing against your arm as if to reassure you. „I know exactly how these nights go.“ He looks at you. „And I know exactly what you need.“
The implication makes something twist in your stomach – that he expected disaster, and planned for it, not out of care, but out of stragety. Another piece on the chessboard.
Lottie tucks the card away, already shifting gears. „Come on“, she says, looping her arm around you, guiding you gently but firmly toward the door at the edge of the hall.
Lucy falls into step behind you, blocking curious eyes with the force of her presence, while Matteo lingers back, smoothing things over with the circle of guests you’d been trapped in seconds earlier. Always on display. Always calculated.
And you – wine-stained, skin burning, heart hollow – you let yourself be swept toward the escape.
The hallway falls away behind you, the muffled hum of music and voices dimming with every step until it’s only the soft click of your heels and the rush of your own pulse in your ears. Lottie slides the card into the lock, the green light blinking, and pushes the door open with a quiet efficiency that betrays none of the urgency in her movements.
„Here“, she murmurs, almost gentle now, her hand still steadying your elbow as if you might collapse without it.
The suite is dimly lit, elegant in that impersonal hotel way – too pristine, too staged. A dress form stands near the window, draped in fresh fabric: the backup gown, perfectly untouched in a color that reminds you of something.
You step inside, the ruined ivory gown brushing across the carpet, and for a moment no one speaks. The weight of their eyes lingers in the threshold.
„Take a minute“, Lottie says finally, her voice softer than you’re used to. She and Lucy exchange a wordless glance, then Lucy pulls the door shut behind them with a decisive click.
Silence. You’re alone.
The quiet rushes in, deafening compared tot he chaos downstairs. You catch the sight of yourself in the full-length miror across the room. Wine blooming like violence acorss the bodice, hair still perfectly pinned, eyes shining too bright. The contradiction of it makes your chest ache.
For the first time tonight, you let your shoulders sag. The air feels too heavy, your skin still raw beneath the ruined fabric. And in the hollow of your chest, where panic and humiliation churn, another feeling lingers stubbornly - the absence of green eyes that had found you in the crowd.
You press your fingertips slightly against the stain, then pull them away as if burned. The silence seems to hold its breath wih you.
The silence cracks.
From the corner of the suite, the soft sound of a door opening – the en-suite bathroom. Ist light spills out into the dim room. You freeze, breath caught in your throat as a figure steps through the doorway.
Charles.
He steps out of the bathroom like he belongs here, like he’s been waiting for you all along. The sight of him – real and so, so close – knocks the ground from under you. He hasn’t changed, not in the ways that matter. The green eyes, the way they cut through everything. The calm mask he wears, stretched thin enough that you can see the storm underneath.
It shouldn’t be possible. He shouldn’t be here. You both know the rules.
For a moment, neither of you dares to move. The silence between you feels heavier than the music and chatter leaking faintly through the door, heavier than the timespan that has stretched between this moment and the last time you were so close.
Then he says your name. Soft. Reverent. Like it’s a prayer and a curse at once.
The sound splits you open. All the nights you’ve spent pretending, burying what you had, rush back so violently you almost double over.
Your throat tightens, words clawing their way out past the ache in your chest. „I told you not to come.“ It comes out sharper than you mean it to, but the tremor in your voice betrays you.
Charles doesn’t flinch. He never does. But his jaw sets, a muscle ticking there, and his eyes burn brighter beneath the low light. „I didn’t have a choice.“
„Yes, you did“, you whisper, though your body betrays you, pulling ever so slightly forward, closer to him. „You always do.“
He shakes his head, a humorless breth slipping past his lips. „Not when it comes to you.“
Your pulse trips, your hands curling into the folds of your ruined dress as if the fabric could anchor you. The falls feel too close, the silence too loaded. You should send him away. You need to send him away.
But he takes a step towards you, slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too quickly. „I had to see you“, he says, voice low and raw. „Even it it’s the last time. Even if it destroys me.“
He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat that feels both impossibly fast and unbearably slow. Every step he takes carries the weight of years, of restraint, of longing. By the time he reaches you, the walls and the faint sounds of the gala fade into nothing.
Without another word, he cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, and leans in. He kisses you like a man starved – hungry, desperate, claiming every ounce of you he’s been denied for too long.
Your body responds before your mind can protest, arching into him, into the heat and the hunger, into the memory of a thousand stolen moments you can never speak of. It’s fire and silk all at once, and the world beyond this room ceases to exist.
He presses closer, every inch of him seeking you, and the air between you crackles with the weight of everything you’ve denied yourself for so long. Your hands tangle in his hair, in the line of his collar, pulling him impossibly near.
The room seems to shrink to nothing but the two of you – the taste of his lips, the heat of his hands, the brush of his chest against yours. Every moment is hurried, urgent, as though the world outside could reclaim you at any second.
Breathless, you press your forehead to his, eyes searching, hearts pounding in sync. Every second stretches, filled with the ache of longing and the sweetness of finally being together. You cling to him, to the moment, knowing it’s forbidden, knowing it’s fleeting, but not caring. At all.
He trembles against you, every movement filled with need, as if holding back would shatter him. His hands trace over your shoulders, down your arms, lingering on the places that he knows make your breath hitch. Every touch is electric, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
Slowly, impossibly, he starts to peel the layers of your dress away, undoes the strings oft he corset on your back. Each inch of fabric that falls reveals more than just skin – it’s a surrender neither of you can resist. Your fingers fumble at his buttons, tugging at the fabric of his crisp white shirt, desperate to feel the heat of him against your palms.
The tension is unbearable. Every heartbeat is a drum of desire, every brush of his fingertips against your bare skin a spark that threatens to consume you both. You arch into him instinctively, the urgency of your closeness, the forbidden thrill of being caught, making the air between you electric.
Even as clothes are discarded in haste, it’s not just the flesh you’re claiming – it’s the stolen years, the quiet ache of longing, the impossible love you’ve both denied for far too long. Every glance, every touch, every desperate whisper is a confession that cannot be undone.
Charles tilts your chin up gently, capturing your lips once again, slower this time, savoring the feeling of you. The kiss deepens, soft and urgent all at once, lips parting, breaths mingling.
His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leans closer, pressing into you with a weight that’s both protective and desperate. You respond instinctively, tilting into him, letting the heat of the moment consume every rational thought.
Every press of his lips, every gentle nibble at your lower lip, every brush of his tongue against yours sends a thrill up your spine, making your heart stammer against your ribs. You pull him closer, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, needing more, wanting more, craving the initimacy that’s finally yours to claim.
His mouth moves with yours, hungry and reverent, as though he’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment to return. When your hands slip back to his shirt, he doesn’t resist as you open every single one of his buttons. You pull it off his shoulders, lips never leaving his.
Your dress, heavy and ruined, slips beneath his fingers as though it was never meant to stay on you. The fabric pools between you and his hands skim over the warmth of your skin with a reverance that makes you shiver.
The kisses deepen – slower here, frantic there – until you’re dizzy with the weight of them, with the memory of all you’ve lost and the ache of finally having it again. His palms press against your sides, guiding you gently, insistently, until your knees meet the edge of the bed.
You fall back onto it, breathless, pulling him down with you. The mattress dips beneath your joined weight, his body covering yours like he belongs there, like he’s never left. His lips leave yours, only to trail along your jaw, your throat, his breath hot against your skin as his fingers find yours, threading them together as though he can’t bear to let you go.
His lips seal around your nipple and he gently sucks, making you arch into him.
„Please“, you beg, voice nothing more than a whisper. Your fingers reach down to undo the button on his pants and he shugs them off in a swift motion, along with his briefs.
„I’m here, my love“, he breaths and kisses you again, his hand trailing down your sides to the seam of your panties. „I’m not going anywhere.“
Your gaze locks with his, heart hammering as he leans closer, hands tracing the curves of your legs with careful reverence. Every movement is deliberate, as if he’s memorizing you, discovering every inch with gentle attention, like he’s doing this for the first and last time. You shiver under his touch, the sensation both familiar and electric, a rush of longing that leaves your chest tight and your breath caught.
He presses closer, lips brushing along your skin in a trail of teasing warmth, every kiss igniting a new fire in your veins. There’s an intensity in the way he looks at you – like you’re the only person in the world – and it sets you ablaze.
He peels your panties off, letting them fall to the ground next to the bed, before kissing you once more. You feel him against your thigh as he rolls on top of you.
„I waited so god damn long to have you back in my arms“, he whispers as he reaches down, fingers gently parting your pussy and collecting your juices. You moan into his mouth, fingers digging into the muscles of his back. He carefully slips two fingers inside you, making you mewl and arch even more into him.
„Charles“, you cry out as his thumb slowly spells Leclerc on your clit like you belong to him. Like he would give you his last name if he could.
Without wasting another second he pulls his fingers from you and pumps his cock a few times, covering him with your slick. He gazes down at you with a look so tender, so full of love that it breaks your heart. He doesn’t need to say anything, his touches and kisses say it all as he pushes into you slowly, afraid to hurt you after all this time where you weren’t his.
Every inch of him presses into you, and you feel the weight of all the months – no, years – of longing between you. His hands are everywhere, tracing your curves, holding you as if he could never let you go. Every brush of his lips, every whispered word against your skin, carries the ache of everything you’ve been denied.
You arch into him instinctively, letting the heat of the moment carry you, but it’s not just desire. It’s grief, it’s relief, it’s the silent confession of love neither of you can ever fully voice. Your hands clutch at his back, memorizing him, holding on like the world outside the room doesn’t exist.
He pauses for a heartbeat, forehead pressed against yours, green eyes glistening in the low light, and you know he would giv everything for this moment if he could. Everything he’s held back, every boundary, every rule – it all melts away in teh fire of being this close. Of being together. Of being one.
He whispers your name like a prayer, like saying it out loud might somehow make the impossible real. Your chest rises and falls against his, each heartbeat echoing the same desperate rhythm – yours, only yours, always yours.
His lips find yours again, softer this time, lingering, savoring the closeness, the taste, the intimacy that no one else could ever share with him. It’s slow, deliberate, a dance of lips and sighs and moans that speak louder than any words ever could. Every brush of his tongue against yours is a promise and a confession, a reminder that no matter the rules, the world, the distance between you – this moment is yours.
Hands threading through hair, fingers curling into the curve of his neck, you pull him even closer, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. The air is thick with longing, heavy with the ache of all the stolen time you’re reclaiming now. Nothing seems to exist but the two of you – entwined, reckless and utterly consumed.
He holds you as close as possible as he pushes you over the edge, cradling you like you’re fragile and precious, like he’s afraid the world might take you away again if he lets you out of his sight for a second. The moment stretches, intimate and sacred, each one a silent vow of devotion, a promise that this night only belongs to you.
When he finally comes inside you, it’s not with a rush but with a slow, trembling surrender. Hearts still pounding, lips pressed toegther in lingering kisses, you cling to each other in the quiet aftermath, skin sweaty and hot. Every shared breath is a quiet celebration of the love that finally found its moment.
You lie there, bodies tangled, the warmth of him pressed against you like a shield from the rest of the world. Fingers trace familiar lines along each others skin, memorizing curves and edges, as though every touch could anchor the years you’ve spent apart.
„I can’t believe we’re here“, you murmur, voice hushed, almost afraid to break the fragile silence. „After everything. After all this time.“
He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, eyes half-lidded. „I never stopped thinking about you. Not once. Not a day went by that I didn’t wish…“ His voice trails off, swallow by the quiet of the room.
You shake your head slightly. „Don’t. Just – stay here with me. That’s enough.“
He chuckles softly, a sound thick with emotion, and wraps an arm around you, pulling you into hi schest. „Since we were kids“, he whispers. „I always knew it would come back to this. Somehow, some way, we’d find each other.“
You sigh, letting yourself sink into him, feeling the weight of every memory, every laugh, every secret you shared long before the world told you to stay apart. „I’ve missed you“, you admit, almost inaudible.
„I’ve missed you, too“, he says, lips brushing your temple. „More than I can ever say.“
You shift slightly in his arms, letting your head rest against hi schest. „Do you – remember Monaco?“, you ask.
His hand stills on your bare back, thumb tracing idle circles. „How could I forget?“, he murmurs. „I saw you there. In the crowd. You were glowing, as always. But I couldn’t –„ He swallows, jaw tightening. „I couldn’t come to you. Not then. Not with everyone watching.“
„I saw you, too“, you admit softly. „How could I not? Your face was plastered everywhere. But I saw you from across the paddock. I wanted to run to you, to scream your name, but I didn’t. I wasn’t –"
„I know“, he replies softly, pulling you closer. „I watched you laugh and talk to the others and I wanted – God, I wanted to be there with you.“
You smile softly at the thought of always having him close to you. Close like this. A thought flickers through your mind and you pull back slightly. „Wait – how did you even get in here?“
Charles chuckles softly, that low, knowing sound that makes your chest tighten. He leans in, lips brushing against your temple. „Matteo. He gave me the keycard. Said it was the only way I’d get to see you without the whole world noticing.“
You blink, caught between disbelief and a swell of emotion. „Matteo … helped you?“
Charles shrugs, a small lopsided smile tugging at his lips. „He knew I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Knew you – well, you’re worth bending the rules for.“
A stunned laugh escaped you, half incredulous, half relieved. „So this was planned?“
He presses his forehead to yours, eyes soft but intense. „Every second. Every detail. I had to see you. I couldn’t wait any longer. Not when you –"
You shake your head. „Don’t say it. Please.“
He swallows, lets out a low hum of agreement, and simply holds you tighter, wrapping his arms around you as if to physically keep you from leaving, from slipping away again. You melt into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, the warmth of him that has been a memory for far too long.
Minutes stretch like hours, and neither of you moves, content to exist in this fragile, stolen peace. Eventually though, the reality tugs at the edges oft he room. The soft buzz of distant voices, the dress in the corner oft he room – it’s all a reminder that time hasn’t stopped. No matter how much you wish it had.
Charles sighs, reluctantly pulling back just enough to look at you, hands lingering on your arms. „I don’t want to leave this room.“
You nod slowly, pressing a soft kiss to his chest before sitting up. „I know. But the world can be a cruel place“, you smile sadly. The air feels charged, still thick with teh remnants of your closeness, but necessity guides you both. You reluctantly rise, fingers entwined, clinging to the connection as you move toward the world waiting outside the room.
You both move quietly toward the bathroom, still holding hands, the silence between you comfortable now, heavy with the weight of what just happened. The soft clatter of water, the hum of the heater, and the faint scent of soap fill the space as you begin to clean up. Charles leans over the sink with you, carefully wiping your soft skin and brushing your hair carefully, his fingers gentle and reverent as he pulls the pins from your hair. He lets your hair tumble loose and a smile widens on his face that makes your chest ache.
„I’ve always liked you better this way“, he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair with a careful tenderness. „Loose, relaxed, away from everyone’s eyes. Just for me to see.“
You lean into his touch, letting him brush your hair as though he could somehow smooth away all the months of distance, all the times you couldn’t be together. The intimacy is simple but profound – an echo of years spent knowing each other, exploring each other, and of finally having a moment that belongs entirely to you both.
For the first time in a long while, you feel completely seen, completely safe, and completely loved.
You step back into the room, still wrapped in the quiet warmth of each other, and your eyes fall on the dress thats waiting for you in the corner. Your breath catches.
Charles follows your gaze, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. „I picked it out for you“, he says softly, brushing a finger over the fabric without touching it too much. „I remembered. Your favorite style. And I had it made in your favorite color. The green -"
„- of your eyes“, you whisper and feel a lump in your throat, and your vision blurs just a little. „It’ll be on every magazine cover tomorrow. I hope you know that.“
„I do“, he says and smiles sadly. „It’ll be proof of how much you mean to me. Every detail about you matters to me. Every smile, every glance, everything that makes you you. And the whole world will see it, even if only us know the meaning behind it.“
You swallow hard, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill, overwhelmed by how deeply, thoughtfully he knows you, how much he’s cared even when you weren’t together. The dress isn’t just fabric in the corner of the room – it’s a quiet testament to the love he’s carried for you all these years.
You reach up, cupping his face and press your lips to his in a gentle, trembling kiss, letting the gratitude and relief and love spill between you both. „Help me put it on?“
He nods. „Of course, my love.“
He carefully helps you slip on the dress, the fabric on your skin soft and warm. It feels like home. Charles steps behind you, hands gentle as he smooths the fabric over your shoulders, adjusting the folds just so. His touch lingers at your waist, and you shiver slightly, caught between comfort and the ache of knowing how fleeting this moment is.
He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. „You’re wearing the parfume I bought you“, he whispers and kisses your warm skin, before pulling back and drinking in the sight of you. „Absolutely perfect“, he murmurs. The green brings out the warmth in your eyes, the curve of your smile. „You look – devastating. Like you belong in every dream I’ve ever had.“
You laugh softly, brushing your fingers over his hands, letting him finish fixing the dress. „It’s because you picked it“, you reply. „You make me feel seen. Like I’m a real person and not just –" Your words die in your throat.
„I know“, he smiles. „I’ll always see you for the person that you are. I promise.“ He presses a lingering kiss to your temple.
The room grows heavy with the inevitable, the knowledge that soon you’ll have to part. You take a shaky breath, stepping back to face him. „Charles – I need you to leave“, you say softly, trying to steady your voice. „I can’t – I can’t do this when I know you’re still here. Still at the gala.“
His smile falters, just for a second. „No, my love. I won’t leave you when you –"
Your hands clutch at his arms, desperate, trembling. „Charles, please“, you whisper, voice breaking. „I need you to leave the gala. I can’t – I can’t do it when I know you’re still there, somewhere in the back. I –" You try to control yourself, keep the tears from gathering in your eyes. „Please.“
His brows furrow and he shakes his head, stepping closer despite your hands pressing him back. „I can’t just walk away. Not when you –"
„Please!“, you cut him off, tears stinging in your eyes. „I need you to. I need you out of my sight. I can’t pretend, I can’t smile, I can’t –„ You clench your teeth. „I don’t want you to see it. I don’t want to hurt you.“
His breath hitches, like your words physically wound him, and for a moment he just stares at you, jaw tight, eyes shimmering. „You think it won’t hurt me to leave you here? To walk away when every part of me is screaming to stay?“ His voice his rough, almost breaking.
You shake your head, stepping back another inch, though it feels like tearing yourself apart. „It’ll hurt either way. But this way – at least you won’t see it. At least I can protect you from that much.“
Charles runs a hand through his hair, pacing a step before freezing again in front of you. He looks like he wants to fight, to refuse, to hold on until the last possible second. But then his eyes meet yours, and whatever battled raged inside him quiets. He swallows hard. „You’re trying to protect me when I should be the one protecting you.“
Your lips tremble as you whisper. „Then protect me by leaving. Please. If you love me, Charles – let me do this without you watching.“
For a long, unbearable moment, the silence stretches. And then – finally – he exhales shakily, nodding once. He cups yoru face, kisses your forehead like it might be the last time he ever gets to. „I’ll go“, he whispers. „But know that I’ll never stop waiting for the moment I can stay.“
His hand lingers against your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear that falls before you can stop it. The tenderness of it – the way he looks at you like you’re his whole world – only make the ache sharper.
„Charles“, you breathe, your voice breaking. „I love you. More than anything. More than I should. And maybe that’s the cruelest part – because it doesn’t matter how much I love you, it doesn’t change who we are. It doesn’t change who we can’t be.“
His jaw tightens, eyes glassy as he shakes his head. „Don’t say that. Don’t talk like our love isn’t enough. Because to me, it’s everything. It’s the only thing that ever mattered.“ His voice falters, raw and desperate. „I don’t care about the rest oft he world. I don’t care about what they expect. All I care about is you.“
You press your forehead to his, clutching the lapels of his jacket he put on when he got dressed with you. You cling to him like if you hold tight enough, maybe you won’t have to let him go. „But I do. I care. I have to care. And I – if I see you broken because of me, I wouldn’t survive it.“
He shakes his head again, tears threatening to spill. „You don’t break me. You’ve never broken me. You’re the only thing that’s ever put me back together.“ His lips brush yours, a trembling kiss that tastes of salt and longing. „I love you. Always. Even if I never get to say it again. Even if I have to watch you from a distance fort he rest of my life – I’ll still love you. No future, no promises, not the same last name in the same house. Just you. That’s enough for me.“
Your chest caves in at his words, sobs threateninh to rip through you, but you whisper fiercly against his lips. „I’ll never stop loving you, Charles. Not in this life, not in the next. My heart will forever wear your name.“
The kiss you share one last time is tender, heartbreakingly soft and over way too quick. You know if you kept kissing, kept tasing him, that you'd never leave this room. Never leave him.
The silence that follows is unbearable, the kind that screams with everything you both can’t say. His arms crush you to him, as if trying to fuse you together, as if he could hide you away from the world. But then he lets out a broken sound, forcing himself to step back, hand still holding onto yours before eventually letting go.
His voice is a whisper. „Goodbye, my love.“
You can’t bring yourself to watch him walk away.
So instead, with your hand still trembling from the way his fingers slipped out of yours, you turn first. You take a single step toward the door, and then another, because if you hesitate, you know you’ll collapse back into his arms and beg him to stay – beg him to destroy you all over again.
The sound of your heels against the floor feels like knives. You don’t dare look back, because you know if you see his face — his eyes wet, his chest heaving with all the words he’ll never say — you’ll never make it through that door.
Your hand grips the handle, knuckles pale. For the smallest moment, you stop, your body screaming to turn around. To tell him you’ll throw it all away, that you’ll choose him and damn the consequences. But the memory of what waits beyond the door — the expectations, the duties, the stage you’re meant to walk onto — crashes over you, and you force yourself forward.
The door clicks shut behind you, severing the world in two.
Lucy and Lottie are right there in the hallway. They don’t ask, they don’t press. Their faces say enough — they know. Lucy reaches forward instantly, straightening your hair with careful hands, wiping the smudge of his kiss from your lips. Lottie smoothes your skirt where it wrinkled, his movements brisk but tender.
„You look radiant“, Lottie whispers, though her eyes glisten like she might cry for you.
You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs, and nod. „Let’s go.“
The three of you move together, your stylist and agent flanking you like sentinels, ushering you back toward the glitter and noise. The swell of music grows louder the closer you come, laughter and applause spilling into the corridor.
When you step into the ballroom, it feels like stepping onto another stage in another life. No one here will ever know what you left behind.
And then, across the glittering crowd, you see Matteo waiting. His gaze catches yours, sharp and unwavering. He doesn’t need to ask what happened in that room - his expression tells you he already knows.
When you reach him, he offers his hand, steady and sure, his other hand resting against the small of your back to guide you forward. His voice is low, meant for you alone:
„It’s time.“
The lights hit you like a tidal wave when you step onto the stage. The chandeliers glitter overhead, cameras flash, the sea of expectant faces blur together into one overwhelming mass. Matteo’s hand is firm around yours, grounding, though you feel weightless — like you’ve left your body back in that room with Charles.
He steps forward to the microphone, his voice smooth and strong, filling the grand hall. Words spill from him — gracious, practiced, perfect— but they barely register. Applause rises, laughter follows his pauses, the crowd leans in, enthralled by every syllable.
And you? You’re drowning.
Your heart hammers in your chest, but not for the man speaking into the microphone. Your gaze keeps flickering toward the shadows of the ballroom, half-expecting to see green eyes hidden there, watching, refusing to leave. Every clap of the audience echoes like the slam of the door you shut behind you. You hope he kept his word and left.
You nod when Matteo turns toward you briefly, a smile tugging at his lips as he gestures in your direction, inviting the crowd to look. The spotlight finds you and you force a smile — soft, demure, everything they expect. But it’s hollow, your cheeks aching from the strain of it. Inside, you’re breaking, shards of yourself still scattered across the floor of that hotel room.
You zone out further, his words melting into static. Instead, memories fill the silence: his hands brushing through your hair, the weight of his body over yours, the way he whispered goodbye like it was a death sentence.
You blink quickly, fighting back the sting of tears, knowing every pair of eyes is on you. You stand taller, shoulders straight, smile unwavering, as if the weight of the world isn’t crushing your lungs.
The room falls into a heavy silence as Matteo steps forward, every gesture deliberate, every motion exact. You can feel the weight of the moment pressing down, but he moves with the calm precision of a man who knows exactly the role he must play. He knows your heart isn’t here, that it belongs elsewhere, yet he performs his duty flawlessly, giving nothing away, asking nothing but what is expected of you.
Matteo pauses, eyes locking onto yours with a softness that almost makes your chest ache. Every movement, every gesture, is measured, perfect – yet underneath it lies a raw, practiced tenderness. He lowers to one knee, the ring catching the light, glinting like a tiny promise.
„Your Highness“, Matteo begins, voice smooth and measured, every word landing exactly as it was meant to. You feel the familiar twist in your chest — the ache of knowing exactly what’s coming. You know this isn’t love. You can feel the carefully practiced cadence, the rehearsed inflection, the precision of a man performing a duty he can’t escape.
„From the very first moment I saw you…“ His words reach your ears, but your mind drifts. You can’t feel the heat of true affection behind them; you only feel the cold polish of obligation. You force yourself to smile, throat tight, because the audience expects a reaction. Your heart, though, remembers another, and that memory burns hotter than anything he could offer.
He opens the small velvet box, letting the ring catch the light. You notice the way he wants you to gasp, to be moved – but you only see the mechanics of the act. „I love your strength, your grace, your heart…“, he says, and you bite back a shiver of sadness. You know he doesn’t mean it, not the way love should.
He sinks to one knee, eyes lifting to yours with a careful, reverent look. „So, Princess of Monaco", he says, his voice soft and precise, „will you marry me?“
You meet his gaze and see the truth beneath the perfection: devotion born from duty, not desire. Your chest aches with unspoken truths, and you swallow hard, because the love you carry for someone else makes this polished proposal feel like a beautifully cruel lie.
Your breath catches, a sudden, sharp reminder of everything you’ve tried to bury. You glance around the glittering room — the chandeliers casting warm light over faces blurred by protocol and expectation — and hope that Charles isn’t here. You know, with every fiber of your being, that you can‘t say yes if he’s watching, if he’s there to see the life you’re about to pretend to choose.
A life that’s not with him.
You take a deep breath, lips opening to give an answer you don’t want to give – and then your eyes meet green ones.
