Chapter 24 

Ро 

The palace feels like it’s shrinking. Same marble halls, same priceless art, same suffocating air of centuries-old expectations, but somehow smaller. 

Like the walls are slowly closing in, and I’m the idiot who didn’t notice until it was too late to 

run. 

Every surface gleams with obsessive perfection. Every staff member has mastered the art of selective blindness-eyes down, ears closed, pretending the third prince isn’t dying inside. 

They’re so good at it I wonder if there’s a training manual. “Chapter 3: How to Ignore Royal Emotional Breakdowns While Dusting Priceless Antiques.” 

The engagement announcement goes out with all the warmth of a tax notice. 

Clinical. Efficient. Soulless. 

“His Royal Highness Prince Leonhard of Liechtenstein is pleased to announce his engagement to Lady Emilia von Falkenrath, daughter of Duke Maximilian…” 

Pleased. That’s rich. I’m about as pleased as someone getting a colonoscopy from an angry porcupine. 

The circus begins immediately. 

State dinners where I smile until my face cramps. Press appearances where every question is a landmine. Photo calls that feel like elaborate torture sessions—stand here, look there, pretend you’re not screaming internally. 

Always with Emilia on my arm. Always performing happiness like trained seals. 

She’s flawless at it, I’ll give her that. 

Poised like she was born with a balance beam for a spine. Polite to the point of sainthood. The devastating composure of someone who’s never had an authentic emotion in public. 

Liechtenstein’s conservative elite must be creaming themselves-finally, a proper future princess who won’t embarrass them by, god forbid, having a personality. 

Beside her, I’m just another palace decoration. Polished, positioned, purposeless. A museum exhibit with a pulse. “Here we see the Lesser Spotted Gay Prince in his unnatural habitat, forced to mate in captivity for the good of the species.” 

But then, miracle of miracles, they leave us alone. 

One of the palace’s seventeen thousand reception rooms-this one all burgundy and gold, like the inside of an expensive coffin. The doors close, and Emilia’s entire demeanor shifts like someone flipped a switch. 

The practiced smile melts off her face, replaced by something that might actually be human. 

“You know it’s just for show, right?” She kicks off her heels and curls into the antique sofa like a cat. “This whole engaged bliss performance? Oscar-worthy, but complete bullshit.” 

I raise an eyebrow, wary of this new development. 

“Thanks for clarifying. I was really convinced by your passionate declaration of love during the photo op. Really felt the chemistry when you held my hand like it was radioactive.” 

She laughs-actually laughs, not the tinkling crystal nonsense from dinner. “God, you’re bitchier than I expected. I like it. Makes this marginally less awful.” 

“Glad my misery entertains you.” But I sit down too, curiosity winning over hostility. “So what’s your deal? Duke’s daughter gone rogue? Secretly planning to overthrow the patriarchy?” 

“If it were entirely up to me?” She stretches, all casual elegance even in rebellion. “I’d do whatever the hell I wanted. Travel, write, maybe actually fall in love with someone who doesn’t have a Wikipedia page. Show this country what living looks like instead of just existing.” 

“Revolutionary. You should start a podcast.” But there’s less venom in it now. “So why the performance?” 

Her smile turns rueful. “Because sometimes survival looks like smiling at cameras and pretending to care about which fork goes where. My parents need this alliance. Your parents need the distraction. We need to not end up disowned and penniless.” 

She pauses, studying me. “Plus, the alternative they had lined up for me was Count Bernhard. He collects taxidermy and thinks women’s suffrage was a mistake. So really, you’re doing me a favor.” 

For a moment-just a moment-I almost like her. 

This sharp, pragmatic girl playing a game she never asked to join. We’re both prisoners here, just in different cells. 

“This is deeply fucked,” I tell her, and she nods like I’ve said something profound. 

“The fuckest of deep,” she agrees solemnly. “But hey, at least the catering’s good.” 

The appearance schedule continues. 

Breakfast with minor nobility. Lunch with major donors. Dinner with whoever needs their ego stroked today. Smile, wave, deflect, repeat. A Groundhog Day of privileged suffering. 

Gabriel’s always there. 

Professional shadow in an expensive suit. Standing exactly where he should, seeing everything, giving nothing away. 

His face might as well be carved from the same marble as the statues-beautiful, cold, utterly fucking useless for reading emotions. 

But I catch things. 

The 

way his jaw tightens when I laugh at Emilia’s jokes. How his hands clench when she touches my arm for the cameras. The storm brewing behind those controlled eyes when he thinks no one’s watching. 

One night, after another soul-crushing formal dinner where I pretended to give a shit about trade agreements, I snapped. 

The west hall is empty except for dead ancestors judging me from oil paintings. Perfect place for a breakdown. 

Gabriel’s footsteps echo behind me-always following and watching, never touching. 

“Do you hate me now?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, cracking like my voice. “Because if you do, just fucking say it. I can handle honesty better than this… this nothing you’re giving me.” 

He stops walking. For ten seconds, we just stare at each other across marble and centuries of protocol. 

“I don’t hate you,” he says finally, frustration bleeding through every word. “How could I hate you for this?” 

“Then what?” I step closer, desperate for something, anything real. “You can barely look at me. You stand there like furniture while they parade me around with her. What am I supposed to 

think?” 

“I hate this.” The words explode from him, sharp and raw. “I hate every second of watching you with her. Hate pretending it doesn’t kill me. Hate that I can’t-” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. 

My heart hammers against my ribs. “Do you want me?” 

The question hangs between us like a lit fuse. For one perfect heartbeat, everything drops-the mask, the control, the professional distance. His eyes go soft, hungry, human. His whole body leans toward me like gravity shifted. 

Then he pulls it all back, locks it down, becomes stone again. 

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he says, voice flat as a funeral. “What I want has never mattered. You’re engaged. You have duties. I have mine.” 

He turns to leave, and I’m frozen, watching him walk away. Each step echoes like a countdown to something ending. 

“Gabe-” 

“Goodnight, Your Highness.” 

And then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the ancestors and the arctic emptiness spreading through my chest. The marble floor beneath my feet has more warmth than what’s left between 

I stand there until my legs go numb, wishing I could feel as cold as the stone.