Chapter 1: Not Our Biological Son

"Absolutely not," Basil snapped.

A richly embroidered coat flew across the room and struck a maid’s shoulder before collapsing onto the carpet in a heap of silk and gold thread. He did not even glance at her, already tearing another garment off the rolling rack as though the metal frame itself had offended him. "Not this one, not this one either. What the fuck is all this garbage?" he demanded, shaking a beaded coat in the air, his face twisted.

"How do you all expect me to wear these outdated fashions?"

It hit the floor with the others.

The room had already become a battlefield of discarded luxury. Velvet jackets, ceremonial robes, stiff embroidered coats, boots with polished buckles, and belts glinting with jewels were scattered across the floor, the evidence of a failed attempt to satisfy him. A dressing screen lay tilted against the wall, drawers hung open, and hangers were bent out of shape. Maids crouched low, hurrying to gather items, only for Basil to make more of a mess without hesitation.

When he found nothing pleasing left on the rack, Basil threw out his arms in frustration, scanning the half-dozen maids pressing themselves against the walls. Their eyes were pinned to the floor, hands clasped tightly over their white aprons, waiting and ready to pick up after him.

"Tomorrow is my twenty-first birthday," Basil said, his voice rising, sharp and jagged with disbelief. "Celebrating twenty-one years is not an ordinary event. The entire kingdom’s eyes will be on me tomorrow, and somehow the royal tailors have failed to provide a single outfit worthy of the occasion." His voice cracked sharper this time, the words snapping through the room like a whip, and the maids flinched at the sound.

"Rags, outdated rags, all of them."

He kicked a discarded silk sash out of his path, his chest heaving under his linen shirt.

"Your Highness," one brave maid began carefully, her voice tight with restraint, "perhaps if we asked the royal tailors to make adjustmen—"

"They’ve had months." Basil turned on her so fast she stepped back instinctively. "Months," he repeated, almost disbelieving. "The party is tomorrow, and not a single acceptable garment is ready." His hand waved across the wreckage as if the failure itself was physically offensive. The maid lowered her gaze immediately.

"You think it is every day someone turns twenty-one?" he asked sharply. No one answered. The silence only irritated him further. "Well?"

Still nothing.

"That’s what I thought."

He exhaled through his nose, irritated. "Where the hell is Linda?" he demanded.

The maids exchanged uneasy glances.

"When I ask a question I demand an answer. I said, where is my nanny?"

"She has not reported to work yet, Your Highness," one maid whispered, her voice trembling.

Basil sneered, throwing his hands up. "The only one in this miserable palace with a shred of fashion taste is not yet here? On the eve of my birthday? Could this day get any worse? I need her right now. Someone get me my phone."

The order broke the paralysis. Two maids moved at once, nearly colliding in their urgency to retrieve it. One turned toward the side table where it lay, but before her fingers could reach it, a sharp, hurried knock echoed repeatedly through the room.

Basil glared at the wood, clicking his tongue in irritation. "Who the fuck is knocking like that? Come in already."

The door swung open, and a footman stepped inside, bowing immediately, his posture stiff.

"What do you want, and why the hell are you knocking on my door like a manic peasant?" Basil demanded, crossing his arms.

"I am sorry, Your Highness," the footman apologized, bowing low. "Their Majesties require your presence downstairs."

Basil’s brow drew together, his gaze drifting across his disheveled space. What could his parents possibly want with him at this critical moment? Every second wasted was a second he was not securing the perfect attire for the birthday gala. He should not be leaving his room for anything less than absolute perfection. Unless. His thoughts trailed off.

Perhaps this was not an interruption, but a solution. A smile tugged at his mouth.

Of course, it had to be. They must have heard him and understood his frustration. Maybe they were going to take him for an emergency shopping trip to get the perfect outfit. His temper instantly cooled into amused condescension.

That made sense. That was what parents did when their son’s standards were not met, they appeased him. He smoothed down the front of his shirt, his arrogance returning in full force. "Lead the way," he told the footman.

"Yes, Your Highness." The footman bowed again and turned, stepping out into the wide hallway. Basil followed, already dismissing the mess behind him. At the doorway he stopped and looked back at the frozen maids.

"Clean up this mess," he ordered flatly, his voice dropping to a cool, commanding drawl. "I do not want to see a single thing out of place when I return."

"Yes, Your Highness," they answered in an uneven chorus. They immediately dropped to their knees, gathering everything in a flurry of silent, frantic movement. Basil scoffed at the sight, stepped out, and the door closed behind him.

xxx

Basil brushed past the footman at the top of the grand staircase, bounding down the steps with quick, impatient strides. His boots clicked sharply against the marble. Already planning what fabrics to demand when he reached the ground floor.

At the last step, he froze.

The warmth left his face. Linda, the nanny he had been shouting for only minutes ago, was kneeling on the hard tile. Her shoulders shook violently, her head bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the floor. Flanking her were two palace guards, standing in a menacing, unyielding stance, their hands resting near the grips of their holstered guns. His parents stood a few paces away, their faces carved from stone.

"What is going on here?" Basil asked, his voice tight, edged with rising alarm. He looked from Linda’s trembling form to his parents’ rigid postures.

"Mom? Dad? What’s going on?"

He stepped off the final riser, his expression faltering, replaced by a sudden, sharp confusion. He moved toward them, his eyes darting back to Linda. "Why is my nanny kneeling? Is it because she was late to work today? I don’t mind at all, she’s just—"

"Come here, son," the Queen said softly. Her voice lacked its usual commanding edge, sounding fragile instead. She beckoned him with a slow wave of her hand.

Basil hesitated, then walked the remaining distance. His mother reached out, grasping his hands in hers. Her fingers were cold. Basil looked down at their joined hands, then up into her face, swallowing hard against a sudden lump in his throat. What was going on? Why was his mother looking at him like that, like she was already grieving him?

He glanced at his father, but the King refused to meet his eyes, staring intently at the far wall, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumped.

"Mom, what is happening?" Basil asked, his voice dropping, the demanding tone completely gone.

The Queen squeezed his hands, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "What I am about to tell you might break your heart, son," she whispered, her voice trembling. "But you must know that the love we have for you will never change. We will never fault you for any of this."

Basil pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing deep. None of what his mother was saying made sense. Were they not going shopping like he thought? Is this what this is? But why does it feel like something is collapsing under his feet?

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Who is faulting me for what?"

The Queen closed her eyes for a brief second, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. When she looked back at him, her gaze was devastatingly heavy.

"I am so sorry, son," she said, her voice barely audible. "But you are not our biological child."