Classes finished, I hurried to pack my things. In my haste, I almost forgot to call Prince. I dialed his number, and as soon as he picked up, his voice was hoarse, as if he had been yelling all night at a concert.
— Hello, Prince?
— Hello Babe.
— Where have you been? You haven't come to the university for days, is everything alright?
— You're finally worried about me, my dearest friend. Watch out, you're starting to hold me in your heart already.
— Tss! Nonsense... I just wanted to see you to tell you off.
— Well, it's 5 p.m., you can come see me after all. I'm unwell, you know.
— You, sick?
— Of course... do you think I'm made of iron?
— You are an alien to me. Send me your location, and I'll give it to the Uber driver.
— Perfect.
He sent me his location. Before leaving, I made a quick detour to a supermarket and chose some chocolate-filled cakes, my favorites. After all, there's nothing wrong with looking like a caring friend... and then, let's admit it, it was mostly an excuse for me to indulge.
The driver finally dropped me off in front of the house. I looked up and remained frozen for a moment: if I had to compare it to my parents' villa, this one looked more like a princely manor. The walls seemed built to defy time, the gigantic windows reflected the evening light, and the massive gate gave the impression that only an army could enter.
I had heard that his parents had made a fortune in real estate... after real estate, I thought with a corner smile, they could very well be laundering money or owning a small secret empire, who knows? My mind couldn't help but add a touch of mystery to this monumental setting.
The garden, too, was almost absurd: hedges sculpted with an almost obsessive precision, fountains with elegant jets, and turf so perfect it looked like natural carpeting. Even the paved walkways seemed to whisper: "here, nothing is left to chance."
I couldn't help but think that Prince was right to talk about a "domain." This was no longer just a house: it was a miniature kingdom, a place where every detail reflected wealth, power, and... probably a hint of family caprice.
I shook my head, amused, and crossed the gate. Despite everything, I kept my sarcastic smile: between the gigantic walls and the majestic fountains, I just hope there are no dragons lurking in the hallways... or worse, a butler ready to judge me.
At the entrance, I noticed a man who seemed to be waiting for me, ready to greet me. He addressed me in a formal tone:
— Good day, Miss Dang. Sir has announced your arrival. Sir is in his drawing-room.
— His drawing-room? I muttered to myself, eyes wide. "Sir"? What world are we in?
— Please follow me.
I followed him through an immense hall, where every detail seemed to scream wealth and eccentricity. The floor shone like a mirror, the paintings were so imposing they could have crushed any visitor, and a subtle scent of old wood paneling floated in the air.
Finally, we arrived in front of the drawing-room door. I entered the room and, at first glance, saw Prince shirtless, perfectly at ease in his universe, wearing wide shorts, looking absolutely sick. His hair, long but unstyled, and the absence of traced contours on his face gave him a casual, almost wild look, but I still perceived his willingness to receive me properly. His eyes, slightly dark-ringed, suggested he hadn't slept well, but there was that familiar spark in his gaze, as if he had been waiting for me. My eyes slid to the coffee table: a half-empty IV drip stood next to medications arranged somewhat anarchically, and the dinner, barely touched, seemed worthy of a royal feast.
Without warning, he approached and snatched the cakes from my hands, completely surprising me.
— Ah! But please, help yourself, I launched, an amused smile on my lips.
He nodded and, in a soft but slightly hoarse voice, murmured:
— These cakes come at the perfect time... I was just craving sugar.
At the same moment, the man who had led me there appeared from nowhere, bowing slightly:
— Sir, we are sorry if the dishes did not entirely satisfy you. We will hasten to prepare cookies to your convenience.
— Don't worry, Greffy. Just bring something to keep Miss entertained.
Greffy bowed deeply, but this time, a slight embarrassment crossed his face. His cheeks subtly heated up, betraying an awkwardness he tried to hide behind his impeccable seriousness.
— May I ask... is this kind of attire... appropriate, Sir? he dared with a hint of subtlety, throwing a discreet glance my way.
Prince raised an eyebrow, a small amused smile on his lips, and replied calmly:
— Greffy, you know perfectly well that I don't care about rules. But for a guest, one sometimes has to know how to maintain decorum, don't we?
Greffy nodded, redder than before, acknowledging both his master's usual irreverence and his capacity to adapt subtly when the situation required it.
I had never witnessed such a surreal scene. I held back a full-blown laugh: all of this looked like one of those prince and princess movies where every detail is exaggeratedly theatrical.
My gaze settled on the elegant fifty-year-old, visibly concerned about his master's comfort. Ah, so this is him, the famous butler... I don't believe it... and if there's a butler, there must inevitably be a dragon lurking somewhere in this house.
He was absolutely right. I knew absolutely nothing about him, and I had just put my foot in it.
— So, your first name also reflects your social status, my dear Arith Prince, I launched mockingly.
— Very funny, Babe! he replied, mouth full, fingers covered in cake crumbs.
I stared at him, amused.
— Tell me, why all this ceremony, these "Sirs," these butlers, these ways of speaking like in an old English novel? It feels like we're right in the 18th century.
He smiled slightly, lowered his gaze to the table where his medication papers still lay, then replied with an almost unexpected sincerity:
— My parents say our century moves too fast. That everything wears out, even words. They feel that nothing has flavor anymore, that everyone talks loudly, loves quickly, and forgets even faster... So they decided to slow down time. Here, everything stays in its place. No noise, no disorder, no unnecessary modernity. Just an illusion of peace.
He paused before adding, a little embarrassed:
— It's their way of surviving, I suppose.
I remained silent for a moment, touched in spite of myself.
Then, to lighten the atmosphere, I launched:
— And your father, the Duke of Real Estate, does he live well in this century?
He burst out laughing.
— Oh, believe me, he truly believes he does! I'm waiting for the day he forces me to wear a powdered wig for dinner.
I advanced awkwardly:
— At this rate, all that's missing is a dragon lurking in the cellar to defend the family treasure.
— And there's worse. He signs his emails "His Excellency."
— Oh no... are you kidding me?
— Alas, no. Me, I just grew up in all of this. I got used to their "appellations," their rules, their distinguished airs. Sometimes, I feel like they wear invisible uniforms, sewn with pride and nostalgia.
I remained silent for a moment, observing his face marked by a form of gentle weariness. A thought crossed my mind: had I even asked if he had any brothers or sisters?
— Are you an only child? I asked softly.
— Unfortunately, yes. The throne is mine alone, he said with a false tragic air.
— Well, at least you won't have to fight for the inheritance.
— Oh, believe me, even without a rival, there are already enough wars at home, he retorted quick as a flash.
I laughed heartily.
— Don't laugh too loud, he said, feigning seriousness. If you run into him, he'll surely ask you to bow before crossing the hallway.
— Please, not that! I feigned, my voice sad.
He let out a genuine, unforced laugh in turn, the kind of laugh that erases everything—the decorum, the butlers, the distinguished airs, the awkwardness. And, for a moment, I completely forgot that I had come to scold him.
Then, in silence, I watched him for a moment. Perhaps his parents weren't wrong, after all. In this world where everything is replaceable—objects, promises, loves—wanting to slow down the passage of time is perhaps just another way of loving.
People of their generation dream of eternity; we, we settle for moments. Little crushes that burn out in a weekend, feelings we file away in a deleted conversation.
And while he was still laughing, his mouth full of chocolate crumbs, I told myself there was something strangely beautiful in this contradiction: living in a rushed century, but wanting a single moment to last forever.
I adopted my serious demeanor again and launched:
— Actually, I also came to talk to you about Yannish, somewhat exasperated.
He frowned, immediately attentive.
— Oh really? Yannish... I played Cupid between you two. So, is it going well?
— Not at all! I exclaimed, indignant. — He behaved badly toward me. How could you introduce me to a guy like that?
Prince's eyes widened, completely surprised.
— What are you talking about, Babe? Tell me.
I described the phone conversation to him in detail: his condescending tone, his sexist comments, his ridiculous little phrases, and the pretentious air he had adopted.
Prince listened, his eyes progressively widening, and I saw his surprise turn into sincere indignation.
— Seriously... that imbecile! he blurted out, incredulous. — How dare he?
— I'm asking you again... I replied, annoyed. — How could you introduce me to a guy like that?
He shook his head, jaw tight, visibly upset on my behalf.
— Listen... we went to high school together, but we were never close. I didn't think he would behave that way with a girl. And believe me, he's going to learn never to act like that again. I'm going to tell him off, I promise.
— Fine... but anyway, it wouldn't do any good, I sighed, half-annoyed, half-amused.
— Yes, I will, and I want to apologize, he said seriously, but his mischievous smile already betrayed his good humor.
He gave me a look that was both contrite and teasing:
—Ah... the role of the failed Cupid, huh? he murmured softly. — But this time, Babe, I'm going to fix it for good.
I rolled my eyes, unable to hold back a little laugh:
— You talk... I feel like you're going to end up teaching that guy to walk straight.
He laughed genuinely, a rare laugh that resonated in the drawing-room:
— Exactly! And believe me, I won't forget anything. No detail will pass through my hands.
I shook my head, amused and slightly touched.
— Well... if you succeed, I promise I'll let you keep your title as Master of the Failed Cupid.
— Deal, he said, leaning slightly towards me, a complicit smile on his lips. — But watch out... I take my role very seriously.
At that moment, the drawing-room door opened delicately. His mother entered, a smile that was overly sweet and attentive on her lips, holding a small teacup in her hands. His father, more reserved and half-invisible, stood behind her, hands clasped behind his back, displaying that blend of authority and solemnity typical of their universe.