From Runway to Royal Destiny

The Golf de Morfontaine was a ghost town. It was 6:04 AM. The morning mist had not yet lifted from the 300-acre course. This was the oldest, most exclusive golf course in France - where membership cost more than a Ferrari and the waiting list was 10 years. At this hour, it should have been filled with old billionaires and politicians, and men whose names carried more weight than their bank accounts But today, a black flag flew at the gate. CLOSED FOR A PRIVATE EVENT. Because he was here. On the 18th green, stood CASSIAN DEVEREUX!! Heir to the Throne of France. The man they called "The Ice Prince" Because he never smiled at the cameras He was 29, 6'2, with a body carved from years of fencing and golf. He wore a simple, jet-black Loro Piana polo, perfectly tailored trousers, and custom white leather golf gloves. No logos. No show-off. But if you knew, you knew - the Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Skeleton on his left wrist alone was worth more than most people earned in several years. His dark hair was slightly messy from the wind, his jaw sharp, his blue eyes - the famous Bourbon blue eyes - were cold and focused. He didn't look like a man playing golf. He looked like a king who owned the land he was standing on. And he did. Around him, the silence was fake. In the thick oak trees, 20 meters away, a man in a dark wool coat stood motionless, hand on his earpiece. On the roof of the 19th-century clubhouse, two snipers lay flat, thermal scopes scanning the forest. Two blacked-out SUVs idled behind the bushes, engines running. A drone hummed silently above the clouds. No one was allowed within 500 meters of the future King of France while he played. The whole of France's DGSE was his personal security detail. Cassian placed the ball. He inhaled once. The world went quiet. Thwack.!!!!!! It wasn't a sound. It was a crack of thunder. The ball flew - high, impossibly high - a perfect white arc against the grey Parisian sky. 280 yards. It didn't bounce. It didn't roll. It fell straight, like it was obeying him, directly into the hole. A hole-in-one. From 280 yards. Any other man would have shouted. Celebrated. Cassian just stared at it, his face expressionless. For him, being excellent was not a surprise. It was the bare minimum expected of a Devereux. "Sire." The voice was older, gravelly, respected. Henri Beaumont, 61 years old. His father’s PA before him, now his. Silver hair perfectly combed, charcoal three-piece suit even on a golf course, holding a tablet and an espresso like a weapon. He was the only person in France allowed to approach Cassian without permission. And the only man who could call Cassian "Mon Petit Prince" when no one was listening. "Your mother called," Henri said. Cassian took the espresso, not drinking it, just warming his hands. "She said that you've to be at Versailles for dinner tonight." Said Henri. Cassian nodded his head in approval. "What about the birthday gift for her ??" "I found something sire." Henri swiped the tablet. On screen was a necklace - a blood-red ruby the size of a pigeon's egg, surrounded by perfectly cut diamonds, on an antique gold chain. It looked like it had seen empires rise and fall. "The Celestine. The necklace was commissioned in 16th century for a princess of the House of Al-Masri, one of Egypt’s most powerful royal families. It was lost for 400 years. The Musée Guimet acquired it last week.Its documented history is rather complicated but they are putting it up for auction next month. Starting price - 10 million euros." Henri looked up. "Sire, if you want, one phone call. I will tell Guimet to cancel the auction. They will bring it to the Palace on a velvet pillow as a gesture to the crown. No museum director in France would dare to say no to the future King. It's... your right." The mist around them suddenly felt colder. Cassian slowly took off his right glove, finger by finger. His voice was soft, but it cut like ice. "Henri, How much money is in the Royal Treasury?" "Nearly 40 billion euros, Sire." "And how much of that did I earn?" Henri bowed his head. "None, Sire." "Exactly." Cassian placed the glove on the nearby golf cart. "The treasury belongs to the people, Henri. Not to me. Not to my family." Cassian placed a new ball on the tee. He looked at the distant French flag fluttering over the clubhouse. "My ancestor, Louis XIV, built Versailles with the people's money. And the people cut off his grandson's head for it. I have not forgotten." He looked straight at Henri. "I will not loot France to buy my mother a birthday present. And I will not use my crown to bully a museum. That is not power. That is theft." He swung. Another impossible shot. Another hole-in-one. " I'll not buy it as the Future King of France. I'll buy it as Cassian Devereux, the bussinessman, The best bussinessman in Europe. And we will bid. Not a single euro from the royal treasury. From my on personal fortune." Antonio smiled. This is why they all would die for this man. He placed another ball. "So this is what we will do. I will not go to the auction. Too many cameras, too many eyes. And I've no interest in turning a personal purchase into a private spectacle. Henri nodded. He already knew what his prince was thinking. "You will go, Henri. You will sit in the front row. But you will not bid." "I will not, Sire?" "No. Julian will." Henri smiled. Julian Croft. 32 year old , Cassian's best friend from Oxford, his lawyer, an American with a charming smile, an impeccable reputation, and absolutely no resemblance to the man who secretly controlled his business empire.Everyone in Paris thought he was the billionaire playboy. To Cassian, he was something far more valuable. Trustworthy. The perfect binami. The perfect shadow. "My instructions will reach you through a secure line," Cassian continued. "You'll sit behind Julian. I'll monitor the auction remotely. When I give you a figure, you'll pass it to him." "And Julian will raise the placard." "Correct." Henri tilted his head. "A proxy inside a proxy." Cassian's expression didn't change. "Privacy, Henri. Not deception for its own sake." Henri gave a quiet chuckle. No one would know the future King of France was buying a 400-year-old Indian ruby with his own private money. "And the limit, Sire?" Cassian finally started walking back to the clubhouse, his guards emerging from the trees like ghosts. He said over his shoulder, his voice carried by the wind: "There is no limit, Henri. If I have to buy the entire museum, buy it. But get me that ruby. At any cost." Henri Beaumont stood alone on the green, watching his king walk away, and pressed his earpiece. "Prepare Julian. And get me the black card." Henri followed, smiling. This was why the old generals, the billionaires, the entire country feared and worshipped this 29-year-old. This was why he would be a great King..