We Meet Again

Julien Perrie nearly stumbled out of his office the moment he heard the soft rustle of murmured greetings echoing from the front reception. His sharp gaze lifted instinctively—and there they were.

Six impeccably dressed figures stepped into the atelier's entrance like a living portrait of diplomacy and lineage. A ripple of stillness spread through the workspace—seamstresses paused, interns instinctively straightened, as if the very air had adjusted its posture.

The entrance of the princes had already sent a current through the studio, particularly among the younger staff.

A collective gasp had rippled through the assistants, a few of whom practically dove behind fabric racks to sneak a glance. One even dropped her pin cushion with a sharp squeak, while another held her hand over her heart like she might faint.

"Oh my stars," someone whispered in a half-squeal. "That's Prince Edward. And that's—oh, that's Prince Keith—"

"They're even more unreal in person," someone else breathed.

"Are they seriously all here at once? This is... this is a national moment."

Perrie gave them a sharp look, eyebrows raised in half-mock scolding. "Ladies—breathe. And back to work. Royalty doesn't need stitches done with trembling hands."

There were a few muffled laughs, but the girls scattered, cheeks flushed, trying to refocus while still sneaking occasional glances.

"Your Highnesses," Perrie greeted warmly, dramatically placing a hand over his chest as he approached with practiced ease and genuine surprise.

"Now this is… unexpected."

Prince Edward stepped forward with a calm, easy smile. "I hope we're not intruding."

"Not at all," Perrie replied, accepting the offered handshake with both hands.

"Though if I'd known, I would've had the atelier prepped to receive you properly."

"We're not here for spectacle," said Prince Wysten, his quiet tone as composed as always. "Just stopping by."

"Prince Robert insisted," added Prince Nicholas, amusement flickering in his voice.

Robert made no attempt to deny it. "Guilty. I thought we could use a break from schedule. A little inspiration never hurts. And no one refreshes a royal look like Julien Perrie."

Perrie chuckled under his breath. "Still the same. You haven't changed."

He stepped aside, motioning them through. "Come. Let's sit."

The group followed him through the studio into his private chamber. The room was tastefully arranged—fashion sketches framed in clean brass, fabric samples lined in seamless gradients, tall windows casting soft light onto marble and dark wood. Everything in the space whispered elegance without raising its voice.

Perrie motioned to the low table where drinks had been set out—light, chilled, and quietly expensive. He remained standing, adjusting his waistcoat as he regarded them all.

"I must admit, it's rare to have all six of you together under this roof," he said, eyes twinkling. "To what do I owe the honour?"

Robert leaned back in his seat, fingers interlaced. "Just passing through. Taking a moment to breathe. Hillgovia's pace is relentless."

Keith gave a faint shrug, arms folded, clearly unconvinced. "We were cornered."

Perrie grinned. "Then I'll do my best to make it less painful."

Jacen sat quietly, observing rather than speaking, while Nicholas turned a crystal tumbler slowly in his fingers, gaze drifting across the room.

Edward spoke with a mild nod. "You always keep this place sharp. Still as refined as I remember."

"I try," Perrie said. Then, with a slight shift in tone, "Actually, I'm expecting someone shortly. A rather significant contributor to this collection, in fact."

"Contributor?" Edward inquired, a brow arching with quiet interest.

Perrie smiled faintly, the kind that carried memory behind it. "Yes. She's become invaluable to my work."

He folded his arms, glancing briefly toward the door as if the thought of her arrival centered him.

"We met months ago. Complete accident. I was on the brink of losing a major showcase. It was a disaster waiting to unravel in front of half the continent."

"And she fixed it?" Nicholas asked, intrigued.

"Walked in as if the fire didn't exist. Made a suggestion I hadn't thought of. A style adjustment so precise it tied the entire line together." Perrie exhaled softly.

"One conversation, and I knew I couldn't let her walk away without asking her to stay involved."

Prince Wysten tilted his head slightly. "So she's been working with you ever since?"

"In her own quiet way," Perrie nodded.

"Doesn't demand credit, doesn't seek applause—but I trust her eye more than most trained designers I've worked with."

Robert leaned back in his seat, brows raised. "She sounds like a mystery."

"She prefers it that way," Perrie said, voice softening just a little.

"She's not exactly fond of introductions," Perrie said. "But I've come to respect the way she carries a room without demanding it."

"That sounds rare," Jacen murmured, tone even.

"She doesn't like attention, but it follows her anyway," Perrie added. "She's… one of a kind."

And right on cue, the studio's entrance chimed again—subtle, crisp.

Perrie straightened. "That would be her."

The sound of heels echoed—firm but

unhurried. A rhythm that didn't demand attention, yet bent the air around it. Like someone who wasn't trying to be noticed… but couldn't help it anyway.

Outside the office, the studio buzz shifted. Assistants straightened. Conversations softened. The hum of fabric and motion stilled by something unseen—yet undeniably approaching.

"Miss Kourtney, should we confirm the alterations on the back hem?"

"Miss Kourtney, the mock-ups for the gala are ready."

"Do you want the palette samples moved to the east wing?"

Unfazed, Kourtney Bethaway moved through them with a calm steadiness, answering each with a tilt of the head or a softly murmured directive.

She looked like someone pulled from whispered folklore—too vivid to be made up, too polished to belong to the ordinary.

Today, she wasn't wrapped in monochrome black or hiding beneath any shadow of anonymity.

She wore a soft ivory sweater with delicate puffed sleeves, tucked neatly into high-waisted denim that hugged her form with tailored precision. A tan designer belt cinched the look, its gold clasp catching the light subtly. Over-the-knee suede boots in rich camel gave her stride a certain graceful edge.

A matching nude leather tote bag swung effortlessly from one arm. Hair flowed in polished waves down her back—cascading red-auburn with ash-blonde ends catching the light like strands dipped in sunlight. She was understated and unforgettable all at once.

Her face bore that rare, symmetrical softness that held attention without effort. Full lips painted in a velvet blood-red—quiet, not flashy, but almost haunting. High cheekbones gave her a chiseled allure, but the warm undertone of her skin softened it all. She walked like grace had rules only she understood.

But it was her eyes—those iridescent, reflective eyes—that held them. Like mirrors to a world only she had walked through. A soft prism of storm-grey, green-gold, and light hazel—unsettling in the most beautiful way.

Memorable, entirely.

Three assistants kept at her heels, tossing questions—fabric delays, lining confirmations, trim approvals. She answered while walking, not missing a beat.

Until a voice called out—

"Kourtney!"

Perrie's.

Without slowing, she answered over her shoulder, dry and clear: "This better be serious, Perrie—if you've summoned me again just to choose between brass and silver buttons, I'm walking back out."

A few nearby staff chuckled, already used to her directness. She turned the corner, waving off one last assistant still holding a clipboard.

"Tell Sasha to use the curved seam from the draft last week. And someone remind Jules that I don't review sketches unless they come with the mood reference—"

She stepped through the office threshold.

And stopped.

The words fell from her tongue, half-formed. Her posture didn't falter—but the breath behind it did. Just briefly.

Inside the room, six men sat, not in formal thrones or regalia, but in quiet command of the space. Elegantly dressed—coats tailored to shape, sleeves pushed just so, accents rich but not loud. They sat not like visitors, but like they had never been anything but royal.

But their stillness now was different.

There was no disguising now. No cloak of mood lighting or passing glances in dim corridors. This was daylight. This was her.

Clear and present.

The shift was visible.

Prince Robert blinked once, as if unsure he was seeing correctly.

Prince Edward's hand lowered from the glass he held, the faintest frown of disbelief pressing between his brows.

Nicholas, always the first to hide what he felt, had paused mid-adjustment of his cufflink, gaze sharp and frozen.

Jacen's head lifted slowly from where it had tilted back. The look he gave her was unreadable—but not empty.

Wysten did not shift—but his hand stilled where it rested on his knee, eyes fixed without blinking.

And then there was Prince Keith.

Leaning back with arms still crossed—but his composure had cracked. Not visibly. Not loudly. But unmistakably. The stillness of his body was no longer casual—it was taut. Held. His jaw was locked, one muscle twitching just beneath the surface. His eyes didn't simply rest on her—they burned. Not with anger. Not quite.

There were no disguises now.

A silence stretched. Not hollow. Not stunned.

Awestruck.

But heavier for him than the others.

Because Prince Keith didn't just see her.

He remembered her sharply. Every breath. Every moment. Every word left unsaid.

And now… there she stood, undoing him, without even trying.

Prince Robert was the first to react—his grin came slowly this time, touched with both surprise and recognition, as though memory had met reality with more weight than he expected. Then he stood, slowly, lips parting faintly with a smile.

Then, without a word, he took a single step forward, reaching for her hand gently but without hesitation.

Kourtney blinked, surprised, completely off guard, as he lifted it and placed a soft kiss on the back of it.

"Forgive me," he said with a smile that was both reverent and mischievous, "but I couldn't resist."

Kourtney raised an eyebrow, lips pressing into a faint, amused line.

"You're bolder than I remember," she murmured.

"And you're far more unforgettable than I imagined," Robert replied smoothly, stepping back—but not looking away.

Edward inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment, composed as ever, though something subtle in his posture sharpened—as if he'd not anticipated seeing her like this.

Nicholas's brow lifted, amusement flickering behind his eyes, though he said nothing. The stillness of his expression only magnified the intrigue.

And then there was Keith.

"Well," he muttered, not bothering to hide the edge in his tone, crossing one ankle over his knee with leisurely defiance, "someone clearly missed the notice about royal company… or didn't care enough to read it."

Kourtney paused. There was no tension in her shoulders, no flash in her eyes—just a stillness. A single blink. Then a slow exhale through her nose, the kind that said she could've replied—but chose not to. Her brow arched slightly. That was all.

Perrie, meanwhile, glanced between them, his confusion mounting like a man who'd walked into the end of a play he didn't realize had started.

"Wait... am I missing something here?"

Nicholas leaned forward, ever the observer enjoying the simmer beneath the surface. "We had the pleasure of meeting Miss Kourtney a few days ago. At the palace."

Perrie turned to him, scandalized. "You what?"

"She made quite the impression," Edward said mildly.

"Commanding," Wysten added, almost as a compliment.

"Bossy," Robert chimed in brightly.

"Unapologetic," Jacen noted, arms folded.

Kourtney shifted her weight with effortless poise. "Observant," she corrected, voice soft but clear.

Keith gave a half-smirk. "Still arrogant."

Perrie exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face. "Why is it I always miss the chaos and only show up for the cleanup?"

Kourtney's eyes flicked to him, faintly amused. She just shrugged.

Her heels tapped gently as she stepped fully into the room, every movement unhurried, deliberate. She didn't look at the princes again—just offered a polite nod, not warm, not dismissive. Just… poised.

"A pleasure to see you again… though the atmosphere is a little calmer this time around." Robert added as he took his seat.

Kourtney didn't break stride. "That's perhaps because no one's throwing tantrums."

A soft chuckle rose from Edward.

Keith muttered, "Shame. I was rather looking forward to part two."

She turned her head just slightly, eyes narrowing with mock sweetness. "Don't tempt me."

Before the exchange could sharpen, Perrie clapped his hands once. "Alright—everyone's caught up. Kourtney, a word?"

She followed him without protest into the back of the room—past the tall windows and racks of unfinished garments—to the cluttered workspace that served as Perrie's creative battlefield. Swatches, sketches, and notes were scattered in beautiful disarray.

"I assume you didn't call me in just so I could be blindsided by six princes," she said lightly, arms folding.

Perrie dropped his voice. "I had no idea they'd met you."

She didn't answer—just waited.

"And," he continued, more seriously now, "we need to finalize the layout for the gala showcase. It's only a week away."

"I'm aware." Her fingers tapped gently on the leather folder she'd brought. "Which is why I'm here. We need everything in place before we leave."

He blinked. "Leave?"

"In a week. The day after the gala."

The words were simple. No ceremony. No hesitation.

Perrie looked at her for a moment—longer than necessary. "You were supposed to give me notice."

"You knew this would happen," she replied.

"And I didn't want you finding out after I was gone."

He sighed, quieter now. "You're not just helping with this show, Kourt. You are this show."

She gave a faint nod. "Which is why I'm staying until the end."

There was a beat of silence between them.

"Alright," he said finally. "We'll go over the timeline after tea."

Her lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile. "I can already hear the panic in your voice."

"Oh please," he scoffed. "I'm saving the full collapse for the night before."

Across the studio, Robert and Wysten exchanged a glance. From the distance, the intensity of the quiet conversation was enough to raise eyebrows.

Robert leaned over and whispered, "Do they always talk like they're solving national policy?"

Wysten shrugged. "Designer language."

Back near the sketch table, Perrie exhaled and looked at Kourtney again.

 "At the very least, promise me five minutes to sit with us," he said, an intrigued glint in his eyes betraying the true motive behind the request.

Kourtney paused, then arched a brow. "So you can poke around for the gossip you clearly missed?"

Perrie placed a hand over his chest with mock offense. "I am deeply wounded by the accusation."

She gave a knowing look. "You'll survive.I have to finalize a few designs," she replied smoothly, "and review the ready ones before the tailors lose their minds."

He sighed, dramatic as ever. "You deny me five minutes of chaos and scandal."

"I deny you five minutes of distraction," she countered, already turning back toward the sketch table. "And I'll be stepping out early today."

Perrie raised a brow, amused. "Since when did you need my permission for that?"

Kourtney gave him a faint smirk. "I don't. I'm just letting you know—so you don't throw a fit when I vanish."

Perrie huffed, thoroughly annoyed in the most theatrical way possible.

Kourtney gave a genuine laugh, "Get your tea. I'll send over the revised mock-ups in ten." she said turning back towards the room. 

Perrie watched her go with a groan and a half-smile. "Cruel. Beautiful, but cruel."

Kourtney didn't even glance back. "And somehow you love me for it."

He muttered something unintelligible and theatrical as he followed, defeated but amused.