Youth [MikhAiah] [Book #1]

30

—🦊—

The charity gala continues, the air thick with the hum of chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses. The grand hall, adorned with opulent decorations, feels suffocating as Mikha forces herself to play the part. Her mind, still reeling from the explosive argument with her father, races faster than the swirling dancers in front of her. She stands with her cousins at the edge of the ballroom, trying to steady her nerves.

Gwen tugs at her arm, her voice low and cautious. "Mikha, you should change for the rest of the evening. You can't stay like this. People are already talking. We need to control this before it gets out of hand."

Mikha sighs heavily, her heart weighed down by everything that had transpired. She knows Gwen is right, even though the last thing she wants to do is participate in this charade. She follows her cousins to a private dressing room. Inside, Colet immediately begins flipping through the racks of gowns, her eyes narrowing as she selects a bold, crimson dress.

"This one," Colet declares, holding up the gown. It's a deep, rich red that matches Mikha's freshly dyed hair perfectly.

Mikha stares at the dress for a moment, her mind swirling with thoughts of defiance, rebellion. The red felt right. It felt powerful, symbolic even. A declaration that she wasn't the same daughter her father had always controlled.

"Yeah," she mutters, reaching out to take the dress from Colet. "I'll wear it."

Jhoanna smiles knowingly as she hands Mikha matching red gloves. "If you're going to wear red, you may as well make it a statement."

With quick, practiced movements, Mikha changes into the gown, each layer of fabric draping over her like a protective shield. When she stands in front of the mirror, the transformation is startling. Gone is the prince in casual clothes, hiding from the world. In her place is a figure cloaked in fire, red hair blazing against the dress, gloves accentuating the sharp lines of her figure.

"You wear it like you own it," Gwen says, her voice carrying a note of pride. "You're going to turn heads out there."

Mikha nods, her lips pressing into a firm line. She steps out of the dressing room, her cousins trailing behind her, and as soon as she enters the ballroom once again, the reaction is immediate. The media, stationed strategically throughout the event, snaps to attention, cameras flashing relentlessly. Murmurs ripple through the crowd.

"Prince Mikha has changed her appearance—what does this mean?"

Reporters frantically jot down notes, their whispers carrying through the room like wildfire. Mikha can feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on her, but she walks forward, unbothered. Let them stare. Let them talk. For the first time in a long time, she feels in control of herself.

As Mikha moves through the sea of guests, the whispers follow her like shadows.

"Have you ever seen someone from the royal family dye their hair?"

"This is unprecedented—what's happening with the prince?"

The photos of her red hair and striking gown spread across social media like wildfire. "#RedPrince" begins trending, the internet flooded with comments about the bold transformation.

But amid the noise, one gaze feels heavier than the rest. Across the room, the King stands with the Queen, their expressions a study in contrast. The King's face hardens with disapproval, his jaw clenched as he takes in the sight of his daughter. But the Queen... she looks different. Her eyes are full of something more complicated—concern, understanding, perhaps even recognition.