The Summons

Morning filtered gently through the sheer curtains of the apartment, washing the room in pale light. The kettle whistled softly in the kitchen, steam curling up like a sigh. A half-filled cup of tea sat forgotten on the table, and beside it, Kourtney sat—not sketching, not really.

Her pencil was still, resting between her fingers as her eyes lingered on a blank page. But her mind wasn't here. It was lingering in the night a few days ago.

It wasn't the palace, the ball or the princes that lingered in her thoughts—it was the meeting before the franticness at the ball. 

Now the memory sat heavier than it had then.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself against the current of thoughts. Outside, the city moved without pause. And soon—days, maybe less—they'd be leaving. They always were meant to.

She set the pencil down, eyes lingering on the half-sketched design before reaching for her tea—lukewarm by now, but she sipped it anyway.

Jenna walked in just then, phone to her ear, face a little tight.

"Yes, yes… she's right here." A pause. "We'll be there."

Kourtney raised an eyebrow as Jenna lowered the phone.

"Perrie," Jenna said. "He wants us at the studio. Said there's a—" she hesitated, clearly amused, "—a fashion alert."

Kourtney stared at her flatly. "What now?"

Jenna shrugged. "That's literally what he called it." 

"His words, not mine, sounded a bit rushed." Jenna laughed, dragging her fingers through her still-sleep-mussed hair. Kourtney sighed through her nose. "I swear, if this is about button spacing again—"

"Then he's losing his mind early," Jenna finished with a smile. "Come on. He probably needs your input. Something for the gala, maybe."

"I was supposed to be on off today," Kourtney muttered, rising reluctantly as she grabbed her coat. 

Jenna was already at the door. "You can glare at him when we get there."

"I plan to."

The two stepped out, locking the door behind them as the quiet street greeted them with soft footsteps and cool air.

—✦—

Elsewhere, at a luxury guest suite near the heart of Hillgovia's capital, Prince Keith stood near the wide window, arms crossed, his gaze flicking between the morning skyline and the sleek conference call screen glowing on his tablet. He wore a crisp midnight shirt rolled at the sleeves and ivory slacks tailored to sharp, clean lines. The angular shadows along his jaw mirrored the tone in his voice.

"This," he said slowly, "is absurd."

On the other end of the call, five familiar faces occupied the screen—each prince propped against the backdrop of his suite, looking varying degrees of unimpressed and groggy.

"Well, good morning to you too," Robert grinned, already dressed in a stone-blue double-breasted blazer, his hair artfully tousled, as though he'd woken up on the cover of a magazine.

"I'm serious," Keith continued. "A morning studio visit? To play mannequin while Perrie panics about hemlines?"

Robert looked thoroughly unbothered. "First of all, I resent the word 'play.' Second, we have a gala in less than a week, and frankly, some of us—" his gaze flicked theatrically to Jacen's dark T-shirt, "—could use the polish."

Jacen raised a brow, unfazed. Dressed in fitted charcoal, his sleeves pushed to the elbows, he leaned back in his chair with the easy composure of someone who measured everything twice. "Didn't realize we were dressing for the front page of royal history."

"That's the idea," Robert said smoothly. "And you can thank me when Perrie finds something that doesn't make you look like a bored statesman."

"Bold words from someone who once wore velvet loafers to a horse track," Edward said from his corner, his attire already impeccable—cream overcoat, pale shirt beneath, soft cashmere draped over one shoulder. His eyes sparkled faintly with mischief. "Still, I'm in. We haven't been out together since the summit."

Wysten said nothing at first, merely nodding once. He sat straight, dressed in mist-grey layers and a collarless coat, his expression unreadable but his presence unmistakable.

Nicholas, relaxed against a leather chair, sipped from a glass of something herbal, his slate-blue shirt perfectly pressed. He offered a slight shrug. "Could be a change of pace. I'd like to see what Perrie has lined up."

Robert clapped his hands once. "Excellent. See? Team spirit."

Nicholas chuckled. "Only you can make a wardrobe visit sound like a state affair."

Keith's jaw twitched. "Do you rehearse being this persistent?"

"Daily," Robert said brightly. "Keith, come on. You know the moment you don't show, Perrie will take it personally, and then we'll hear about it for days. Might as well get it over with."

Keith hesitated. His silence said more than his frown.

"Thirty minutes," Robert bargained. "And you can stand in the corner and judge everyone."

Keith muttered something indecipherable but nodded once.

"I'll take that as a yes," Robert declared. "Gentlemen—see you at the studio."

One by one, the call ended, leaving only Robert's satisfied grin reflected back at him.

—✦—

Outside the Perrie House of Design, the morning held a hush of anticipation. Town cars began to ease along the stone-paved lane, one by one, sleek and discreet but unmistakably official. Their engines purred in synchronized rhythm, doors opening with soft, practiced clicks. A cluster of onlookers straightened at the sight—the royals had arrived.

Inside the studio, chaos reigned with purpose.The space pulsed with controlled frenzy—seamstresses weaving between dress forms and pinboards, interns rushing past with fabric bolts stacked high, voices overlapping with last-minute confirmations for the gala.

At the center, Julien Perrie stood motionless amidst the storm, a tablet clutched in one hand, his brow furrowed in visible irritation."Where is she…" he muttered, almost to himself.

An assistant appeared at his side. "Jenna confirmed. She's en route—with Miss Kourtney."

Perrie exhaled, tapping his lips thoughtfully. "About time. We don't have minutes to waste today."

He barely turned before the studio door chimed softly—the sound barely audible over the hum of motion, but distinct enough that heads lifted.

The first royal steps arrived.They entered not with fanfare, but with the quiet command of presence.

And then came the ripple.

Gasps. A flutter of whispers. A barely-contained squeal from one of the assistants near the silk draping station.

"Oh stars, it's them," someone hissed—audibly enough for others to hush.One girl dropped her sketchbook. Another clutched the edge of her measuring tape like a lifeline.

Even the most seasoned interns stood a little straighter, smoothing their hair, adjusting collars, suddenly very aware of themselves.

Prince Edward led—graceful in ivory layers, polished yet effortless, the kind of elegance that made time seem slower.Wysten followed, draped in soft greys, coat over his shoulders like winter royalty, cool and unreadable.Nicholas's sleek blue ensemble caught the light with each step, his gaze sharp but thoughtful, like a painting come to life.Jacen moved in quiet control, steel-toned and poised, the kind of presence that made space without asking.Robert walked at the center—every inch the visionary prince—silver-trimmed cuffs peeking from under his blazer, his stride confident and charismatic. A collective sigh followed his entry.And then came Prince Keith, last—dark-shirted, sharp-eyed, every bit the brooding contradiction. He said nothing, but that was part of the effect. One stylist visibly blushed. Another fanned herself with a swatch card.

The room shifted at their presence. Not loudly—but absolutely.

With awe. With hunger. With the restrained squeals of women who'd seen their crushes step out of magazine pages into real life.And also with the unspoken understanding: royalty had entered the creative storm. And everything—sketches, breath, posture—recalibrated.

They didn't pause to be admired.

They were used to it.