The Prodigal Prince - vanish into fiction

Enze took a deep breath and wiggled her toes.

Her heart fluttered wildly, like a wooden puppet rattling inside a tin can. Judging by how much she was trembling, it seemed that her feelings for Louis were driven more by clumsy romanticism than any calculated purpose.

The infamous prince of the rumors—Louis.

When she mustered the courage to approach him, what entered her view was the figure of a man asleep in pure innocence. His legs were neatly straight beneath the covers, as if he had nothing to do with all the sleazy scandals the media clamored about.

Enze lifted the canopy and studied him closely. His thick lashes, like dense reeds, brushed down to the chiseled curve of his cheekbones, and even without an expression, his lips curled naturally upward, full and inviting. She felt like a pervert for sneaking a look—but then again, with a face that beautiful, wasn’t admiration just natural?

She should’ve climbed onto the bed, yet found herself staring blankly instead. She’d been bold like a lion while sneaking in, but the sight of the soft bed instantly deflated her confidence. A prince who had surely encountered all the most beautiful women—would he even find her pretty? Above all, Enze was clueless when it came to seduction.

‘I just need a moment to compose myself.’

Withdrawing the hand she had rested on the canopy, she stumbled back and sat in a single armchair. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst from her chest, so she leaned against the back and breathed deeply.

She needed a plan—how to boldly “pounce” on the sleeping prince.

To avoid getting caught at the moment she got on the bed, she’d have to lift the blanket gently. Should she undress first? But if he woke up instantly, she’d be thrown out—better to start clothed. Then, she’d place her hand on that broad chest. By the time her hand slipped beneath his clothes, surely Louis wouldn’t remain asleep.

From this point—the stage that required deeper contact—she had to rely heavily on imagination. She pictured scenes from the cheap novels she’d read and mentally replaced the male lead with Louis. Her confidence gone, she kept her eyes tightly shut.

Before she knew it, her breathing slowed. She hadn’t realized sleep was overtaking her—her head tilted to the side and dropped.

Rain continued to stream down the windows in vertical lines. Across the intersection, the gas-powered street lamp flickered, its fuel nearly spent.

In that moment, when it seemed like all life in the bedroom had fallen under slumber’s spell—

A shadow, like misty poetry, crossed the room in the darkness. It was Louis.

He placed his hands on either armrest of the sofa where Enze had curled up and leaned in, bringing his face close. He examined the dainty face in front of him—the gentle curve of her nose, her petal-colored lips.

‘A timid little hatchling, huh.’

If she had climbed into bed, he had planned to reject her without hesitation. He’d had enough of fending off women who threw themselves at him for his body or title—it was tiresome and off-putting.

Still, Enze didn’t seem like someone chasing wealth or status. That alone earned her a little leeway. The bed was his last line. If she had touched him, he would have dealt with her accordingly.

But instead, she just wandered nervously and never came close. He strained to hear her soft steps buried in the carpet, but her faint, timid presence never ventured beyond the edge of the bed.

He had no idea what she was trying to do.

If she had made a move, he could have opened his eyes and reprimanded her—but that moment never came. It would be ridiculous now to suddenly sit up and announce that he’d been awake the entire time.

Eventually, his patience began to run out. Like water slowly pooling in a rain puddle, his self-restraint swelled to the brim. The night deepened awkwardly, and before he realized it, he had become the one waiting for her.

When Enze finally retreated, he felt a strange sense of emptiness.

Watching her sleep soundly, his hand twitched. He felt the urge to touch her. Perhaps it was her face—so youthful, she could have passed for a young cadet—that evoked the prankish impulse. Despite having perfect features like a porcelain doll, she gave off more of a cute impression than a beautiful one.