Chapter 23 

7 d 

The palace gates close behind me with a sound that’s basically my freedom’s death rattle. 

Home sweet home, if your definition of home includes bulletproof windows, ancestral portraits judging your life choices, and enough marble to rebuild ancient Rome. 

Mother’s waiting in the entrance hall like a beautifully preserved ice sculpture. 

Princess Astrid von Liechtenstein-a woman who could make liquid nitrogen feel warm and fuzzy. 

“Leonhard, sweetheart.” She air-kisses my cheek with the enthusiasm of someone handling toxic waste. “You look… tired. The flight must have been exhausting.” 

“Yeah, nothing says exhausting like fleeing a media scandal in a private jet.” I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Very commercial airline energy. Practically economy class.” 

Her expression doesn’t crack. Twenty years of watching her work a room and I’ve never seen genuine emotion leak through. 

It’s honestly impressive, like watching a masterclass in emotional constipation. 

“Your father is waiting in his study,” she says, already turning away. “Try not to antagonize him further. The situation is delicate enough without your particular brand of… commentary.” 

I follow her through hallways I could navigate blindfolded-past the portrait of Great-Great-Uncle Wilhelm who allegedly fucked his way through half of Europe; past the vase I nearly sent to porcelain heaven when I was seven. 

Past approximately seventeen staff members who perfected the art of seeing nothing while seeing everything. 

Father’s study reeks of leather and disappointment. Regent Friedrich sits behind his massive desk like he’s holding court instead of having a family meeting. 

No “welcome home,” no “are you okay,” just that stare that could make glaciers feel inadequate. 

“You’ve had your fun,” he says, voice so flat you could use it as a level. “Your American experiment, your… rebellion. Now we repair the damage.” 

“Repair the damage…” I repeat, testing the words like spoiled milk. “That’s what we’re calling my life now? Damage that needs a contractor?” 

“What would you prefer we call it?” Mother settles into her chair with practiced grace. “Your very public display of poor judgment? Your complete disregard for centuries of tradition? The fact that you’ve turned our family into tabloid fodder?” 

“I prefer ‘being a human being,’ but I guess that’s not in the royal vocabulary.” The words come out sharper than intended, but fuck it. “Sorry I forgot to check the ‘heterosexual heir’ box on my 

birth certificate.” 

Father’s jaw tightens-the only sign I’ve hit a nerve. 

“Your preferences are irrelevant. You have obligations. Duties that supersede personal desires.” “Right. Duties.” I slump in my chair, suddenly exhausted. “Let me guess-you’ve already got a solution. Some duke’s daughter with good breeding and selective blindness?” 

Mother and Father exchange a look. Of course they do. 

“Lady Emilia von Falkenrath will be joining us for dinner tomorrow,” Mother announces like she’s revealing a state secret. “You remember her-Duke Maximilian’s daughter. You met at the Silver Jubilee.” 

I vaguely recall a girl with perfect posture and the conversational skills of wallpaper. 

“The one who collected antique tea sets? Thrilling. Can barely contain my excitement.” 

“She’s discreet. Well-educated. Comes from a respected lineage.” Mother lists qualities like she’s describing a show horse. “Her family understands the importance of… discretion in marital arrangements.” 

Discretion in marital arrangements. 

Translation: find a royal broodmare who won’t mind that her husband sometimes fucks men, as long as she gets the title and I keep the bisexual stuff behind palace doors. 

My entire life reduced to a PR strategy with a breeding program attached-another move on their royal chessboard where I’m just the piece they sacrifice for political advantage. 

“She’s not what I want,” I snap before my brain can stop my mouth, the words coming out raw and honest-two things that have no place in this room. 

Mother’s smile doesn’t even flicker. Botox or emotional death? The eternal question. 

“She’s exactly what the country needs,” she replies with subzero coolness. “A stable future. Traditional values. Someone who understands that personal happiness is a luxury we cannot 

afford.” 

The rest of our “discussion” is just variations on the theme: shut up, smile pretty, marry the duke’s daughter, produce heirs, die inside. 

The greatest hits of royal obligation. 

By the time I escape to my wing of the palace, I’m vibrating with rage and something that tastes dangerously like defeat. 

Gabriel’s waiting in my private sitting room—the one place in this marble mausoleum where we might have privacy. 

He’s standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, looking every inch the professional bodyguard instead of the man who had his tongue down my throat four days ago. 

“So,” I try for light, casual, anything but the scream building in my chest. “Guess we’re back where we started. You lurking professionally, me slowly dying of boredom and sexual frustration. Just like old times.” 

He turns, and his expression is carefully blank. The mask we both perfected but I thought we’d moved past. 

“You’re not back where you started,” he says quietly, something apologetic bleeding through the professional tone. “You’re the heir again. The crown prince with a fiancée and a future mapped out in centuries-old tradition.” 

“And you?” I step closer, desperate to crack that facade. “What are you in this beautiful dystopia we’re building?” 

His voice drops to barely a whisper. “I’m just part of the furniture.” 

I walk away without another word, the “furniture” comment embedding itself like a splinter I can’t dig out. 

Of course that’s how he sees himself-just another gilded antique in this museum where I’m the main exhibit, both of us decorative pieces arranged for maximum effect, neither of us actually living. 

By morning, that splinter has festered into something worse: the horrifying realization that he might be right.