Chapter 25 

They took my phone like I was a teenager caught sexting in church. Laptop? Gone. Tablet? Vanished. Even my fucking Kindle got confiscated because apparently reading smutty fanfiction might corrupt the royal bloodline. 

“For your own good,” Mother said, which is rich coming from someone whose last genuine emotion was probably in 1987. “You need to focus on your duties without… distractions.” 

Distractions. That’s what we’re calling my entire support system now. Cool. Love being digitally castrated in the name of tradition. 

The days blur together like a shitty watercolor painting. 

Morning: etiquette briefing where I relearn which spoon won’t cause a diplomatic incident. 

Afternoon: charity preview where I pretend to care about causes that definitely don’t include “gay princes’ mental health.” 

Evening: rehearsal dinner for whatever fresh hell tomorrow brings. 

Rinse. Repeat. Die inside. 

Emilia’s the only thing making this bearable, and that’s a sentence I never thought I’d think. 

She plays her role with scary precision-leans into me at exactly the right angle for photos, times her laughs like she’s got a comedy special, whispers sweet nothings that photograph well but mean absolutely nothing. 

“You’re getting better at this,” she murmurs during a particularly painful donor luncheon, lips barely moving. “Almost looked genuine when Lord Pemberton asked about our honeymoon plans.” 

“Years of practice pretending to enjoy small talk with fossils,” I whisper back, maintaining my prince smile. “Though I drew the line at discussing potential baby names. There are limits to my acting abilities.” 

But when we’re alone? Different story. 

Palace east sitting room, 3 PM, our daily debrief/therapy session. Emilia kicks off her death traps, designer heels, but still, and sprawls on the velvet sofa like she owns it. Which, technically, she might soon. 

“You’re miserable,” she announces, yanking pins from her updo. “Like, actively decomposing levels of miserable. It’s actually impressive.” 

I blink at the honesty. After weeks of scripted conversations, real talk hits differently. 

“You noticed? What gave it away-the dead eyes or the way I’ve started responding to every question with ‘how delightful”?” 

She grins, and it’s the first genuine expression I’ve seen all day. 

“Leo, I notice everything. Comes with growing up under a microscope. You develop supernatural powers of observation. Also, you’ve worn the same expression as my childhood horse when we had to put him down.” 

“Flattering comparison. Really selling this whole engagement thing.” But I’m sitting down too, something loosening in my chest. “So what’s your excuse? Duke’s daughter, perfect pedigree, a trust fund that could buy a small country…” 

“Oh, I do.” She’s braiding her hair now, casual as fuck. “But money doesn’t buy freedom when your parents have your life mapped out in Excel spreadsheets. If I had it my way?” 

Her eyes go dreamy. “I’d run off to Venice and live on espresso and bad decisions. Maybe write terrible poetry. Definitely have at least three scandalous affairs.” 

“Living the dream.” And I mean it. “So why not? What’s stopping you?” 

Her smile goes rueful. “Same thing stopping you. Duty. Expectations. The threat of complete social and financial annihilation.” 

She pauses, studying me. “But since we’re stuck here… I can at least be your friend. Partners in this minimum-security prison with fancy wallpaper.” 

For the first time in weeks, I take a real breath. Not the shallow, careful things I’ve been managing, but an actual lungful of air. 

It’s not love. It’s not freedom. But it’s solidarity, and right now? That’s everything. 

“Deal,” I tell her. “But if we’re doing this, I need you to stop pretending you actually enjoy talking about flower arrangements. Your eye twitches every time someone mentions centerpieces.” 

“Oh thank god,” she laughs. “I thought I was hiding it better. Those conversations make me want to commit violence with a dessert fork.” 

The next gala is peak performance art. 

Crystal chandeliers throwing light like scattered diamonds, everyone dressed to kill, or at least maim, conversations flowing like the champagne-bubbly, pointless, leaving you with a headache. 

I work the room on autopilot. Smile, nod, deflect personal questions, repeat. 

Emilia’s on my arm, playing her part flawlessly, but now I catch the tiny rebellions-eye rolls hidden behind champagne flutes, exaggerated yawns during speeches, muttered commentary that makes me fight not to laugh. 

Gabriel’s positioned near the service entrance, standard bodyguard stance, expression carved from stone. He’s gotten better at the statue impression. 

Or maybe I’ve gotten worse at reading him. 

Either way, it sucks. 

I escape during the dessert course-claim I need air, which isn’t even a lic. The corridor outside the ballroom is blessedly empty, just me and my existential crisis having a moment. 

Of course, Gabriel follows. He always docs. 

Gabriel stands there with that fucking bodyguard stance-shoulders back, eyes scanning, waiting for me to get my royal shit together like I’m having a cute little temper tantrum instead of a full-blown identity crisis. 

The silence between us stretches thin enough to snap, and I can feel something ugly and honest clawing its way up my throat, demanding to be heard. 

His eyes meet mine-steady, patient, infuriatingly calm-and it’s that exact look, that “I’ll wait until you’re reasonable again” expression that breaks the last thread of 

my restraint. 

“I’d rather abdicate than live like this.” The words spill out before I can stop them, raw and honest in the echoing hallway. “Just… walk away. Fuck the crown, fuck the expectations, fuck all of it.” 

His jaw does that thing where I know he’s grinding his teeth. “You can’t.” 

“Why not?” I spin to face him, exhaustion making me reckless. “Give me one good reason why I can’t just peace out to some beach somewhere and sell coconuts for a living.” 

“Because it’ll destroy you.” His voice is tight, controlled, but there’s something underneath. “The guilt, the shame, the knowledge that you abandoned everything… it’ll eat you alive.” 

“And this won’t?” I gesture at the glittering prison around us. “This slow death by a thousand paper cuts? At least running would be my choice.’ 

“And probably destroy me too,” he adds quietly, almost to himself. 

My eyes burn-exhaustion, frustration, something dangerously close to tears. “What if I don’t care? What if destruction sounds better than this?” 

For one perfect fraction of a second, his mask slips. Everything’s there in his eyes—fear, longing, love, the complete fucking mess we’ve made of everything. The battle between what he wants and what he thinks is right playing out in real time. 

Then it’s gone. Locked down. Professional Gabriel back in full force. 

He turns on his heel, duty swallowing him whole before I can grab him, shake him, beg him to just be real with me for thirty seconds. 

“Gabe-” 

But he’s already gone, footsteps echoing down the marble hall like a countdown. 

I stand there, colder than I’ve ever been despite the climate-controlled perfection of the palace. Everything’s shit. Everything’s broken. 

Except… 

Except tomorrow, at 3 PM, Emilia will kick off her shoes and tell me horrible truths and make me laugh despite everything. She’ll scheme terrible poetry and Venice escapes we’ll never take. She’ll be real in a palace full of facades. 

It’s not enough. Not even close. But it’s something. 

That brief pocket of honesty with Emilia becomes both salvation and torture-a tiny window showing me what genuine human connection feels like, right before my royal handlers board it up with bulletproof glass. 

Within days, the palace machine responds to my microscopic taste of authenticity the only way it knows how: by tightening the leash until I can barely breathe, like they can sense the dangerous idea that I might be more than just a crown with a pulse.