Chapter 22 

PŮ 

Tuesday morning starts with me alone, face-planted in my pillow, wondering if death by suffocation beats facing another Statistics lecture. 

Jake’s bed is empty-probably on a coffee run because apparently some people function before noon like actual adults. The room’s quiet except for my existential crisis and the distant sound of someone definitely having a breakdown in the communal bathroom. 

Normal Tuesday. Nothing special. Just me versus consciousness. 

Then Jake explodes through the door like he’s fleeing a crime scene, juggling two coffees and his phone. 

“Leo. LEO.” He’s practically vibrating, shoving his phone at my face. “Coffee can wait. You need to see this right fucking now.” 

“Unless someone died or free pizza’s involved, I don’t need to see anything before caffeine,” I mumble, but something in his face makes my stomach drop. “Jake?”. 

He shoves the phone at me, and time stops. 

It’s grainy, obviously taken from distance through foliage, but clear enough. Me, unmistakable in profile—every identifying feature on full display. And I’m kissing a man. 

The angle’s perfect for maximum scandal, minimum identification of my partner. Just dark hair, shadows, plausible deniability for him. 

None for me. 

“That’s… that’s from Naomi’s party,” I breathe, phone shaking in my hand. “How did they—” 

“It’s everywhere,” Jake says quietly. “Twitter, Instagram, every gossip site. The headlines are… intense.” 

I scroll with numb fingers. 

“BREAKING: Liechtenstein Prince in Secret Gay Romance!” 

“Royal Scandal: Crown Prince’s Midnight Kiss!” 

“Gay Future King? Harvard Royal Love Affair Exposed!” 

My personal favorite: “Prince Leonhard: Studying International Relations and Tonsil Hockey.” 

“Fuck.” It’s inadequate, but it’s all I’ve got. “Fuck fuck fuck.” 

My secure phone-the one that only rings for disasters-starts screaming. Klaus. Of course. “Your Highness,” his voice could freeze hell, “I assume you’ve seen the internet’s latest obsession with your personal life?” 

“No, Klaus, I’ve been living under a rock. Of course I’ve fucking seen it.” My hand won’t stop 

shaking. “How bad is it?” 

“On a scale of one to a constitutional crisis? We’re hovering around a seven.” Papers shuffle in the background. “The source was particularly thorough. This is the same group that leaked those party photos weeks ago-apparently they’ve been building a comprehensive case about your identity.” 

My blood turns to ice. “They’ve been watching me?” 

“Watching, documenting, waiting for the perfect moment.” Klaus sighs, and it’s the most human sound I’ve ever heard from him. “They gathered photos, overheard conversations, connected dots. Then they packaged it all with a helpful note to every major outlet: “The prince of Liechtenstein attends Harvard under a false name.” 

The room spins. Every moment I thought was private, every careful construction of Leo Brennan versus Prince Leonhard-worthless. 

“Your father has made arrangements,” Klaus continues, professional despite the chaos. “A jet will be ready Thursday morning. Pack light. Act normal until then.” 

“Act normal?” I laugh, and it sounds unhinged. “My face is on every gossip site kissing another dude and you want normal?” 

“I want you to not make this worse,” he says firmly. “Forty-eight hours, Your Highness. Try not to cause an international incident.’ 

The line dies. I’m still staring at my phone, at my face in pixels and scandal, when Gabriel speaks from the doorway. 

“Leo.” Just my name, but weighted with everything. He’s in full bodyguard mode-shoulders squared, expression carved from marble. “We need to discuss extraction protocols.” 

“Extraction protocols?” I whirl on him, anger easier than fear. “Is that what we’re calling it? Not ‘hey, sorry our private moment got weaponized’ or ‘this fucking sucks’? Just straight to extraction protocols?” 

Jake edges toward the door. “I’m gonna… give you guys some space. Maybe go see if the internet’s figured out which dining hall you prefer.” 

He leaves. Gabriel steps closer, and I can see the cracks in his professional facade-tight jaw, white knuckles, eyes that won’t quite meet mine. 

“We knew this was a possibility,” he says quietly. “Every moment we were together, we knew—” 

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp enough to cut. “Don’t you dare turn this into some inevitable tragedy you saw coming. We were careful. We were so fucking careful.” 

“Not careful enough, apparently.” His voice breaks slightly. “I should have checked the perimeter, should have known someone was-” 

“Stop.” I’m suddenly exhausted, bones made of lead. “Just… stop. It’s done. I’m exposed, you’re still a shadow-man, and in forty-eight hours I’ll be locked in a palace while they figure out how to spin their gay son into something palatable.” 

The next two days pass in a blur of avoiding eye contact with classmates, deleting social media apps, and pretending my world isn’t imploding. 

Every whisper feels targeted. Every glance holds recognition. My carefully constructed anonymity evaporating like morning mist. 

Gabriel hovers-close enough to intervene if someone gets aggressive, far enough to maintain that professional distance that makes me want to scream. 

We don’t talk about the photo. We don’t talk about what happens next. We don’t talk about how this changes everything. 

Thursday arrives like an execution date. 

The ride to the airport is silent. The jet squats on the tarmac like a metal coffin, ready to carry me back to a life I’ve spent years running from. 

My bags are pathetically light-what’s the point of packing when you’re never coming back? 

“Seat belts,” Gabriel says as we board, falling into routine. “The weather looks clear. Should be a smooth flight.” 

7 

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or grab him and shake him until he drops this professional bullshit and admits this is killing him too. 

Instead, I buckle up and stare out the window. 

We sit side by side-close enough that our shoulders brush when the plane shifts, distant enough that it feels like we’re on different continents. 

His hands stay folded in his lap. Mine grip the armrests. 

Neither of us reaches across that invisible divide. 

Hours pass. The Atlantic sprawls below us, vast and indifferent. Gabriel sits rigid beside me, the perfect soldier escorting damaged goods back to storage. 

Every mile takes us further from who we were, closer to who we have to be. 

I sneak glances at his profile-memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his hair falls across his forehead, every detail I might not get to see once we land. 

He stares straight ahead, giving nothing away. 

The prince and his bodyguard. Not lovers. Not even friends. Just professional obligation wrapped in expensive jet fuel. 

The distance between them had never felt wider.