It was ironic how a person commanded authority over the fate of millions of subjects yet had little to none when it came to his personal life. 

“Your highness?” The production staff was still holding the bouquet as the prince stepped to the right, reclaiming the momentarily lost view of his paramour. Behind him, the director had signaled the end of the live broadcast, eliciting a collective sigh from the tired staff and crew, just as the double doors closed behind Philip and Sofia. The harsh studio lighting was mercifully turned off. Suddenly, the room felt dark and he had the irrational craving for the brightness of the spotlights. 

This was part of his job, the sole purpose of his existence. Reluctantly, the crown prince forced a smile and thanked the staff. He relieved her of the burden of holding the bouquet of fresh roses. The young woman thanked him back, bowed and joined the crew who had already started the post-broadcast work of dismantling the setup, pulling out plugs, and gathering cords into manageable circular coils. 

This was all work, he told Sofia, and he was not lying. The engagement, his looming marriage to a commoner, and her bearing his future heir – all of it was part of the occupation he did not choose for himself. Even the act of being in love with a stranger was work. It had to be, otherwise he wouldn’t be carrying a perfectly arranged bunch of flowers with a heavy heart and a mind that would rather be elsewhere. But being good at what he does was one of his strong points, and no matter how much he sometimes opposed his mother and queen, the crown prince did care for the future of the dynasty and the kingdom that he would someday rule. Callista would be living in it anyway.

Pushing the memory of what Sofia’s soft voice aside, he took a deep breath and turned his back to the door. The host and Rhiane had both left the set. It was not difficult to find his fiancée because of her height and coloring, and perhaps it was not difficult to find him as well. Before Luke could make his way to the farmer girl, who he found was holding a conversation with Luce Viscomi, the host walked up to him and bowed as a sign of respect. 

“Your highness,” the host greeted. Jonas Alken was a sought-after celebrity talk show host who had interviewed not only the royalty, but also international personalities. Obviously, it was not the first time he and Luke met, but their relationship ended at being the interviewer and interviewee, no matter how chummy they seemed to be on screen. 

Luke extended his hand to the man, which the other shook firmly in a businesslike manner. “I would like to personally congratulate you on your engagement. Ms. Rhiane Black is both a lovely lady and an intelligent woman. If I hadn't known better, I would think that she's a well-educated noblewoman. I enjoyed talking to her tonight, but maybe next time you might consider joining us?”

“Thank you, Jonas. She is indeed something else,” Luke answered, smiling, to perpetuate the lie that Rhiane had started. “If our schedules permit, why not? But both Rhiane and I will be very busy between the wedding preparations and she already spoiled the kingdom about our plan to visit the outer regions. We will both be outside the capital for weeks. Perhaps when we get back?” In truth, he was not fond of celebrity interviews. Although his position required that he be visible to the public and an interview or guest appearances here and there could not be avoided, the prince much preferred an intellectual discussion like during economic forums, defense summits, or other official functions. This unconventional battle using popularity to fight against the momentum of the rebellion, however, would require that both he and his future bride become something like a celebrity love team. Love was a lie that the media was fond of exploiting. 

“If you would excuse me.” Luke didn’t finish the sentence, but instead pointed to the flowers. The other man understood, thankfully. It was part of work, he reminded himself as he sidestepped Jonas and walked up to where Rhiane was talking to the appointed image manager. 

“Yes, of course,” Ms. Viscomi was saying. 

“Could I now have time with my fiancée, Ms. Viscomi?” Luke was standing behind the princess elect, cradling the bouquet on one hand. 

Ms. Viscomi’s eyes lit up. For all he knew, the flowers could be her idea. The thought made him want to strangle the older woman, but what good would that do? “Ms. Black is all yours, your highness. I will have an appointment set for us to talk tomorrow, Ms. Black.”

“Rhiane,” Luke pronounced her name carefully as if it was the first time it rolled out his tongue. It was just work. A part of him wanted to start an argument with her about the consequences of her action, but doing so in public would do nothing except undo the image they both worked hard for the whole day. The discussion could wait, but petty revenge wouldn’t. 

He was one step away from her, not too close and not at all far. When she turned around to face him, she would find that he too could pretend to be in love. “You did well tonight,” the prince complemented the commoner. He was looking at her as if she was the only person he could see in the room, as if she was a princess and not a low-born farmer. “These are for you.” The flowers were presented to her and when she took it, though hesitantly, Luke also took the opportunity to close the distance between them. He used his freed hand to lift her face up to look at him by using a finger under her chin to tilt her head up. Without hesitation, he lowered his face to hers until their lips touched in a tender but hasty kiss, clearly disregarding her wishes to not engage in any public display of affection.

“But I think you are avoiding me for some reason,” he whispered against her lips before pulling away and placing an arm around her waist, leading her to the exit.