The morning sun filtered through the grand windows of Valemere Palace, casting soft golden light across the marbled floors. The palace bustled quietly—guards patrolled the halls, nobles whispered over breakfast, and servants moved like a well-rehearsed symphony. Down in the laundry quarters, Y/N, a 17-year-old maid, was carefully folding pressed shirts when a sudden knock came at the door. She looked up, brushing a stray hair from her face. "Message from the prince," a pageboy said breathlessly. "He’s requested you. In his chambers." Y/N blinked “Me?" The pageboy only nodded and darted off.
Prince Elijah stood before a tall mirror, his expression unreadable as he examined the damage: a neatly torn rip down the seam of his right sleeve. It was just enough to require repair, but not enough to raise suspicion—assuming one didn’t know how deliberate the tear had been. He turned at the sound of a soft knock. "You asked for me, Your Highness?" Y/N said as she stepped inside, dipping into a polite curtsey. Elijah offered a sheepish smile, one that didn’t quite match the gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Yes. It seems I’ve had a rather unfortunate accident with this shirt. Tragic, really. Think you can fix it?" She walked closer, her eyes narrowing slightly at the clean tear. "This doesn’t look like an accident."?? "Are you accusing your prince of sabotage?" he asked, tilting his head.
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