The next morning he received a text message on his phone, he was asked to come to the palace home immediately. For him, it was not a home but rather a government cage.
He slowly dressed up and took the most time to have his breakfast before leaving.
After a 30 minutes drive he reached the palace. The last time he visited there was seven months ago because he was all over the media to hang around with women publicly.
The gilded halls of the Palais de l'Elysée felt more like a cage than ever. Zain walked through the long gallery, his footsteps echoing on the marble. He was headed to a meeting he had been avoiding for weeks a formal audience with Léonard, the Chief of the Royal Household and the man who effectively ran the family's public image.
Léonard was waiting in the small library, a room filled with leather-bound books and the oppressive scent of beeswax. He was a man of sixty, with sharp, vulpine features and a penchant for knowing everyone's business before they did.
"Your Highness," Léonard said, bowing with a precision that felt more like a threat than a gesture of respect. "It is a pleasure to see you within these walls for once. I was beginning to think you had moved to the outer districts permanently." He let out an intent laugh.
Zain took a seat in a velvet armchair, crossing his legs with affected nonchalance. "The outer districts have better coffee, Léonard. And fewer people asking me about my marriage prospects."
Léonard's eyes thinned. "Speaking of prospects, your recent activities have been... colorful. Reports from your security detail suggest you are spending a significant amount of time at a certain dance academy. And not as a patron."
Zain felt a cold shiver go down his spine. He had tried to be careful, but he knew the crown's reach was long. "I'm taking dance lessons, It's a hobby, Léonard, Surely the last prince of France is allowed a hobby."
"A hobby with a woman whose family is currently in the midst of a very public bankruptcy?" Léonard pulled a file from the desk and slid it toward Zain. "Musa Dexter. A talented girl, certainly. But her father's legal troubles are extensive. If the press were to link you to her, it wouldn't be seen as a 'hobby' it would be seen as a liability."
Zain didn't look at the file. "She has nothing to do with her father's business. She's a teacher. A professional."
"She was also seen at the Underground on the night you 'rescued her,'" Léonard said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous voice, "Do you have any idea what a headline like 'Prince Zain and the Club Dancer' would do to the monarchy's remaining standing? We are a symbol, Zain. Symbols do not roll in the mud."
Zain stood up, his anger finally breaking through the mask. "I didn't 'roll in the mud.' I saved a woman from being exploited by people who are probably on your Christmas card list, Léonard. If the monarchy can't stand for that, then what is it even for?"
"It is for stability," Léonard snapped. "And you are the most unstable element we have. Stay away from her, Zain. Or I will be forced to take measures to protect the family name. Measures that neither you nor Mademoiselle Dexter will enjoy."
Zain stormed out of the library, the blood rushing in his ears. He needed to see her. He needed the quiet of the studio, the honesty of the barre. He drove himself, pushing the car through the Parisian traffic with a reckless intensity.
When he arrived at the academy, he found Musa in the small office, sorting through music scores. She looked up and smiled. but the smile faltered when she saw his face.
"Zain? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost....."
"Just a bad day at the office", he said, trying to steady his breathing. He walked over to her and, without thinking, pulled her into his arms. He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in.
Musa froze for a second, then melted against him, her arms wrapping around his waist. "Zain, you're shaking."
"I'm fine", he lied. "I just... I needed to see you."
He pulled back, his hands framing her face. He wanted to tell her everything right then. He wanted to say, I'm a prince, and there are men in suits trying to tear us apart. But he looked at her at the peace she had finally found in this place and he couldn't do it.
"Let's go to dinner," he said instead. "Somewhere nice. Somewhere we can just talk."
He took her to a small, incredibly expensive bistro tucked away in a courtyard in Le Marais. It was the kind of place that didn't have a sign, only a heavy oak door. The staff greeted Zain by name, bowing low, and led them to a secluded table in the back.
Musa looked around, her eyes wide. "Zain, this place... it must cost a fortune. Are you sure? I mean, I know you said you have money, but..."
"Don't worry about the cost, Musa", he said, pouring her a glass of wine. "Tonight is about us. Not the money, not the past."
They talked for hours, Musa told him about her childhood, about the long days of training and the dreams she had of dancing in London or New York. Zain told her stories about his 'travels-carefully edited versions of royal tours, focusing on the landscapes and the people rather than the diplomatic functions.'
But as the night went on, the weight of the secret grew heavier. Musa reached across the table and touched the heavy gold ring on his pinky finger-a signet ring with a crest she didn't recognize.
"You have so much power, don't you?" she asked softly. "I can feel it. When you walk into a room, the air changes. Who are you really, Zain? Because 'old money' doesn't explain the way the waiter's hand shook when he served you."
Zain looked at the ring, the symbol of a thousand years of history. He looked at Musa, the woman who had become his only tether to the real world.
"I'm someone who's tired of being a symbol, Musa," he said. "I'm just a man who wants to be free, be at peace....be with you."
Musa was taken aback by his words but she just smiled at him thinking it was wine speaking...like drunk talking.
He assumed Musa understood or might have taken a hint that he likes her, so he smiled back at her looking directly in her eyes.