Philippe d’Orleans

The fresh morning breeze brushes against your face as you hold the reins of your mount. Along the perfectly drawn avenues of Versailles, the trees rise like natural columns, their foliage filtering the golden sunlight. The subtle fragrance of roses mingles with the damp scent of the earth, while the sounds of the awakening palace slowly fade behind you.

At your right, Philippe d’Orléans rides with an ease you cannot help but envy. His straight, elegant figure seems almost to merge with that of his white horse, and you cannot resist noticing the serene gleam in his eyes when he turns toward you. His lips curve into a mischievous smile, as though he guessed the very thoughts you try so hard to hide.

"You ride with grace,” he says, his voice gentle yet strong enough for the murmur to reach you.

You lower your eyes slightly, a smile ghosting over your lips. The truth is, your confidence only exists because he is there, his gaze steadying you at every movement. Your fingers tighten for a moment on the reins, then you dare to lift your chin again.

The horses move at a trot, their hooves echoing in rhythm on the sandy paths. The breeze plays through your hair, and you feel your heart racing faster than your mount’s stride. Philippe slows his pace, drawing nearer to you—so close that the space between your horses seems no more than a fragile distance.