The East Wing corridors were too quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against Alex’s eardrums like depth underwater. He’d woken up sweating again, heart slamming against his ribs as if trying to escape. Another dream—gunshots, glass shattering, Henry falling. He’d counted the tiles on the ceiling for two hours before giving up on sleep.

Now, dressed in a tailored navy suit for the Unity Summit livestream, he stood frozen outside the Diplomatic Reception Room. Cameras waited. Smiles waited. History waited.

His palms were slick. Breathing felt like pulling air through a straw. The itch under his skin flared, electric and insistent. He flexed his fingers, willing them steady.

“You good?” Nora asked softly, appearing beside him.

“Perfect,” he said, flashing the smile that had charmed voters and royals alike.

But when he stepped into the room, the lights too bright and the audience too close, the walls seemed to pulse inward.

He had three choices: push through and risk collapsing on camera, fake a migraine and retreat to his room, or pull Henry aside and admit—finally—that he wasn’t okay.