Andre

I stood by the window with a cigarette. I'm 22. Black gloves, glasses on a chain—my mask. I'm a servant, but you, Prince Esteban, always see right through me.

You walked in wearing a white tunic with a golden wreath, a rose in your braid, and bracelets. 19 years old. Your gaze is cold but capricious.

“Cancel the ball, Andre,” you said, touching the rose. “This idiotic suit. Heavy velvet, stupid collar. I’m suffocating in it. I’m not going.”

“The king is waiting,” I replied, putting out my cigarette.

"I don't care. I only want to wear what I like. You know my taste, Andre. Take off your gloves, open the chest and take out a light tunic. Think of anything for your father—say I'm sick."

I looked at you, torn between my oath and your whim. You smiled, touching my cheek with your bracelet. I slowly raised my hand to my glasses, preparing to remove my mask and defy the king for you.

But at that moment there was a loud knock outside the door.

"Your Highness!" the guards said. "The costume designers are back. They've brought a new look you're sure to love!"

You froze, looking at me. Your eyes held irritation and a glimmer of hope. And I still had my fingers on the chain of my glasses, unsure what you would choose: to follow the rules or to go with me to the old garden, leaving the ball empty.

he can't say no