Viktor moved.
I didn't even see him leave his position. One second he was by the wall. The next, his hand was fisted in my jacket, yanking me backward out of my chair so hard I felt my teeth click together.
We hit the marble floor as the chandelier crashed into the table where I'd been sitting. The impact was deafening. Glass exploded outward. Someone screamed. Wood splintered under iron weight.
Viktor's body covered mine, one arm braced beside my head, the other pressed against my chest. His heart hammered against my shoulder. His breath was hot against my temple.
For a heartbeat, the world was just him. His weight. His heat. The fact that he'd moved without thinking, without hesitation, had thrown himself between me and death like it was reflex.
Then chaos erupted.
Screams. Shouts. People scrambling away from the wreckage. Guards rushing forward. My father's voice cutting through the panic, commanding and afraid in equal measure.
“Sebastian! Sebastian, are you hurt?”
Viktor pulled back, scanning me with clinical intensity. His hands moved over my arms, my ribs, checking for injuries with impersonal efficiency. “Are you injured?”
“No. No, I'm fine.” My voice came out rough. Shaky. “You?”
“I am unharmed.”
He stood smoothly, offered me his hand. I took it, let him pull me to my feet. His grip was solid. Steady. Everything the rest of the world wasn't.
My father reached us, hands grabbing my shoulders, eyes wild. “Are you hurt? Tell me you're not hurt.”
“I'm fine, Papa. Viktor got me out in time.”
My father's gaze snapped to Viktor. “You saved him.”
Viktor inclined his head. “I did my job, Your Majesty.”
“You saved my son.” My father's voice cracked. Just slightly. “Thank you.”
Marcel appeared beside us, face painted with perfect shock and concern. “My god. Is everyone alright? Someone check for injuries!”
He took charge immediately, voice calm and commanding, organizing guards and staff. Making sure photographers got their shots of the aftermath. Controlling the narrative before it could spin out of control.
“A structural fault,” he said, loud enough for the press to hear. “Nothing more. I'll order a full inspection of every chandelier in the palace. This cannot happen again.”
But I watched Viktor. Watched the way his eyes tracked back to the ceiling. To the broken bolt still hanging from its mounting.
His expression was unreadable. But I knew.
This wasn't an accident.
They moved us to the courtyard balcony while staff cleaned up the wreckage.
Photographers swarmed below, cameras clicking like hungry insects. I stood with my father's arm around my shoulders, Viktor a silent shadow at my back, and smiled for the cameras because that's what princes did.
We survived. We smiled. We pretended everything was fine.
“You're certain you're not hurt?” my father asked quietly, voice meant only for me.
“I'm certain.”
“You could've died.”
“But I didn't.” I looked back at Viktor. “Thanks to him.”
