Lucius Thorne of Palatine. The second prince.
Not Lucas. A pity. She had endured enough from Misty to get her anger off of him. It would have been nice.
Ophelia stepped fully into the room, letting the door click shut behind her. Her gaze didn't linger. She'd been taught never to gawk at royalty. Admire, yes. Assess, always. But gawk? That was for new money and journalists.
Lucius didn't stand. His rank exempted him from this chore unless someone higher in rank than him entered the room. His posture had the stillness of someone who didn't have to move to own the room. His coat, perfectly cut, rested over the chair beside him. His gloves were off. That meant he planned to stay.
Which also meant she wouldn't be going back to class.
Good.
"Your Highness," she greeted, dropping a shallow curtsy with exactly the right degree of insincerity. "I wasn't aware I had such distinguished fans."
Lucius didn't blink. "Sit."
She did, her smile never faltering as she folded herself neatly into the seat opposite his. She tilted her head, letting her hair catch the light. A little naïve. A little delicate. Just enough to make older men underestimate her.
He didn't.
"I'll be brief," Lucius said, and opened the folder on his lap. "You've had regular contact with Adelia Caston."
Ophelia let her expression flicker with innocent confusion, the kind carefully calibrated to be plausible. "My old etiquette coach?"
Lucius didn't nod. He didn't need her confirmation.
"She was dismissed two years ago," he said. "Severance package, NDA, the usual. But she kept contact with you. Quietly."
Ophelia tilted her head. "She sent me a birthday message. Hardly a scandal."
"She sent you five," Lucius corrected. "Over two years. One after every public appearance involving your brother."
Ophelia stilled, just for a breath. Then blinked, lashes lowered. "Is that illegal now? Birthday messages?"
Lucius ignored the sarcasm.
"Ophelia… I'm here to talk about your brother. Lucas."
She let the name settle between them for half a second. Then:
"I didn't know my brother was so popular among royals," she said lightly. "I heard he would be engaged to the Grand Duke Fitzgeralt."
"Mm." Lucius didn't blink. "So Misty never told you?"
Her smile thinned. "Told me what?"
"I thought you had a close relationship."
There it was.
Ophelia let out a soft breath. A short, practiced laugh that didn't reach her eyes.
"I thought so too."
Lucius tilted his head slightly, observing her the way one might study a lock they were still deciding whether to pick or smash open.
"She used to talk to me about everything," Ophelia continued, her voice airier now. "What I should wear. Who I should befriend. What Lucas should be worth by the time he turns twenty-one."
She paused, and for a moment it wasn't a performance.
"She hasn't said a word to me since the morning after the Gala."
Lucius didn't offer sympathy. That wasn't what he was here for.
"And you don't know who Lucas's father is?" he asked.
"No," Ophelia replied. "Do you?"
Lucius's blue eyes shimmered in the morning light.
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, the kind of posture that looked casual until you realized how precisely it was meant to unnerve.
"Maybe," he said. "What can you give me to tell you?"
Ophelia blinked slowly. Tilted her head, as if considering an art piece she couldn't decide was brilliant or obscene.
"I thought this was a royal inquiry, not a trade."
"Everything's a trade," Lucius said, voice even. "Especially when it comes to Misty's children."
The words landed quietly.
Ophelia's mouth curved, just enough to look amused. Just enough to hide the way her pulse spiked.
She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, poised as ever.
"I don't deal in classified information, Your Highness," she said lightly. "Just gossip and party tricks. Unless you want to know what kind of tea Lucas used to cry over—I'm afraid I'm out of useful currency."
Lucius didn't answer.
He studied her for a moment. Then, without a word, he straightened and opened the folder resting on his lap. The sound of the page turning was deliberate.
"March 2nd. You locked a scholarship student in the east wing broom closet because she borrowed your eyeliner without asking."
Ophelia's smile didn't falter, but the gloss on her lips suddenly felt too sweet.
Lucius kept reading.
"March 4th. You replaced a classmate's medication with sugar pills. That one caused an internal report."
"That was never proven—"
Lucius raised an eyebrow. She shut her mouth.
"March 10th," he continued. "You had lit the hair of a girl on fire because she had the same hairstyle as you. Misty settled with money…"
Lucius looked up then, the page still between his fingers.
"Is this the part," he asked, tone flat, "where you tell me you were just going through a difficult phase?"
Ophelia didn't flinch.
She tilted her head, lips glossy and perfectly parted. "It was March," she said, lightly. "Everyone was unraveling."
Lucius didn't react.
She shifted in her seat, posture impeccable, the very image of innocent indulgence. "Besides," she added, "it's not like anyone important got hurt."
Lucius said nothing.
She hated that.
He turned another page but didn't read from it. Instead, he let it rest in his lap as he spoke.
"You're not stupid," he said. "So, tell me—what was Misty planning with Lucas?"
Ophelia shrugged. She had no reason to lie. Other than being petty and she liked being petty.
"She was going to sell him," she said breezily. "Well. Not sell, sell. But you know how it is—arranged contracts, long dinners, and flattery packaged as investment. The usual."
Lucius didn't react.
That was irritating.
"She prepped him for years," she continued, checking her nails for a chip that wasn't there. "Different tutors, etiquette, medicine to keep him... manageable. The plan was to get him into someone's estate by twenty-one. Noble, if possible. Rich if not."
"And you helped."
"I'm sixteen," Ophelia said flatly. "It's not like I have a choice. Lucas was Mother's project before she even planned me."
She said it like a fact. Not bitter. Not sad. Just a line in the ledger.
Lucius didn't respond immediately. He watched her instead, as if measuring the distance between what she was saying and what she actually understood.
Ophelia crossed her arms.
"She was already building him when I was still in ballet shoes," she added. "She had tutors lined up before his voice changed. If anything, I just… kept him presentable."
Lucius tilted his head slightly. "Presentable."
"Yes." She gestured vaguely. "Smiled when he was supposed to. Sat straight. Didn't cry when they tested him. Wore what she picked. Bit his tongue when it mattered."
"And you made sure he remembered that."
"I reminded him," she said. "It's not my fault he started thinking for himself."
Lucius didn't blink.
Ophelia rolled her eyes. "What? You think I should have dragged him back when he ran off to play duchess's heir? Please. He made his move. Let him own it."
She smiled, proud now. "Besides, it's not like he was that impressive to begin with. I helped make him tolerable."
Lucius's voice was calm when it came. Too calm.
"And now he outranks you."