Page 10 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

He snorted. “And so modest too.”

“Modesty is overrated. Besides,” I threw him a wink over my shoulder, “you haven’t seen me in action yet.”

As it turned out, charm wasn’t necessary.

The hall was open for a pre-concert setup, and a friendly elderly volunteer named Margaret was more than happy to show us around.

She reminded me a bit of my grandmother, if my grandmother wore sensible shoes instead of designer heels and carried a ring of keys instead of the weight of royal protocol.

“Now, the acoustics in here are so perfect,” Margaret explained as we entered the main hall, “that they say you can hear a pin drop from anywhere in the room.”

The space took my breath away. Soaring columns stretched toward an elaborately decorated ceiling, while afternoon light filtered through tall windows, casting warm patterns across rows of wooden seats.

The air held that particular stillness unique to concert halls, a waiting silence that seemed to vibrate with possibility.

But what really caught my attention was Orson’s face. He stood in the center aisle, head tilted back to study the architectural details, completely lost in the moment. His usual careful mask had slipped entirely, replaced by an expression of pure wonder that made my heart do complicated things.

“The ceiling was hand-painted,” Margaret continued, but I barely heard her. I was too busy watching how Orson’s eyes traced every detail, how his fingers twitched like he wanted to touch the ornate woodwork, how his whole body seemed to lean toward the history surrounding us.

This wasn’t academic interest. This was passion; raw and real and riveting to witness.

“The restoration work must have been incredible,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Look at how they preserved the original plasterwork while incorporating modern safety features…”

“Oh, you know about restoration?” Margaret perked up. “We have some fascinating documentation about the process. Would you like to see?”

Before I could blink, we were being led to a small office filled with architectural drawings and historical photographs.

Orson looked like he’d discovered a buried treasure, carefully examining each document while Margaret detailed the painstaking work that had gone into preserving the hall’s original features.

I hung back, content to watch. He was in his element here, asking intelligent questions about techniques I’d never heard of, his eyes bright with genuine enthusiasm.

“The way they balanced historical accuracy with modern requirements is fascinating,” he was saying, gesturing to a particularly detailed drawing. “How they integrated the new support structure while preserving the original aesthetic.”

“You should’ve seen the debates about that,” Margaret chuckled. “Some wanted to completely modernize, others wouldn’t hear of changing a single detail. In the end, we found a middle ground.”

“That’s what makes great restoration work,” Orson said, his voice warm with conviction. “Finding that perfect balance between preserving history and ensuring safety and functionality for the future.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Sounds like you’ve found your calling.”

His head snapped up, that familiar tension returning to his shoulders. “It’s interesting from an engineering perspective.”

“Is it?” I kept my voice gentle. “Because you look happier talking about restoration than I’ve ever seen you discussing modern engineering projects.”

Margaret looked between us, then tactfully excused herself to “check on something,” leaving us alone among the blueprints and photographs.

“It doesn’t matter,” Orson said quietly, carefully replacing the drawing he’d been studying. “Civil engineering is what I need to do.”

“Need to do, or want to do?”

His jaw tightened. “They’re the same thing.”

“Are they?” I stepped closer, close enough to see the tension in his face. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re forcing yourself onto a path that doesn’t make you happy.”

“You don’t understand.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I have to… I need to make it mean something.”

“Make what mean something?”

But he was already shutting down, that wall sliding back into place. “We should go. You probably have other places you want to see.”

I wanted to push, to make him talk to me, but I recognized that look. I’d worn it myself often enough, that careful mask that said some topics were off limits, some wounds too raw to probe.

“Alright,” I said instead. “But Orson? For what it’s worth, I think you’d make an amazing architectural restoration specialist. The way you light up when you talk about it… That’s not nothing.”

He didn’t respond, but something flickered across his face—longing, maybe, or regret. Then he was moving past me toward the door, his shoulders set in that familiar rigid line.

I followed him out, nodding goodbye to Margaret as we passed. The late-afternoon sun hit us like a physical thing after the dim interior, and I blinked against the sudden brightness.

“That was interesting, right?” I asked, desperate to get back in Orson’s good graces. I’d pushed too hard, too fast. Not the first time I’d made that mistake, but somehow, this one mattered.

He hesitated, and for a moment, I thought he’d refuse and instead, retreat back to the safety of our dorm and his textbooks. But then his shoulders relaxed slightly. “It was very interesting.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. A crack in the wall, maybe, or at least a window to peek through. I’d take it.

But maybe when it came to Orson, I’d take whatever he was willing to give.