𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐫-𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐢 is always the royal outcast, never the Princess.
𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬 is always the "next big thing," never the Champion.
Their only common ground? A dynasty that neither truly belongs to.
{lando no...
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Céleste sat in the back of the black SUV, eyes trained on the passing scenery as they neared Windsor Castle. The streets were quieter than usual—no paparazzi, no crowds. Just the cold, stone walls of the estate, looming larger as they approached the entrance.
She wasn't sure if the lack of attention was a blessing or just another reminder that tonight's event was one she couldn't escape.
Other cars pulled up alongside hers, some luxurious vehicles gliding to a stop as finely dressed guests stepped out, greeted by staff and security. She watched from afar the grand entrance with figures in designer gowns and tuxedos exchanging pleasantries before heading inside.
The car rolled to a stop at the front gates, and the driver quickly stepped out to open her door. Céleste hesitated for a second, adjusting the hem of her dress and pushing back a loose curl before stepping out. The murmur of conversation around the entrance seemed to lower the moment she stepped out of the car.
The guests continued talking, but there was no mistaking the subtle shift in attention. Side glances, hushed comments, and lingering stares followed her as she moved. She was used to it—the way people observed her without being obvious, the way curiosity wrapped itself in polite indifference.
A butler appeared immediately, bowing slightly. "Miss Grimaldi, welcome. Please, follow me."
She gave him a brief nod, moving past the other guests and toward the castle. Windsor Castle, with its insanely tall walls and glowing windows, had always been familiar to her—yet there was always something about these family events, these gatherings where she was both included and set apart, that unnerved her.
As they moved through the entrance, Céleste could feel the subtle shift in energy. Heads turned ever so slightly in her direction, eyes flickering her way before quickly looking elsewhere. It was the same every time—curiosity and judgment, veiled behind polite expressions and small smiles. She forced a small smile herself, though it didn't reach her eyes.
The butler led her toward the grand foyer, where a familiar figure was already waiting for her.
"Céleste," Sylvie said, stepping forward. "You look stunning. But we need to move quickly—the ballroom is already filling up, and your mother's waiting for you."
