Chapter 26 

PŮ 

The palace walls are developing separation anxiety. Every day they squeeze tighter, like they’re afraid I might slip through the cracks if they give me an inch. More security checkpoints. More scheduled appearances. More staged photo ops with Emilia where we pretend our engagement isn’t a beautifully decorated lie. 

Even Gabriel’s becoming a ghost. Where he used to hover-annoyingly present, professionally close-now he’s buried under mysterious “administrative duties” that smell suspiciously like 

ious “adr 

palace-mandated distance. Instead, I get a rotating cast of guards who look through me like I’m furniture with a pulse. 

“Your Highness, five minutes until rehearsal,” one of them drones. Guard Number Whatever. They all blur together-competent, forgettable, not Gabriel. 

Tonight’s torture session: engagement announcement rehearsal number infinity. Because apparently saying “we’re getting married” requires the same preparation as launching a space mission. 

The Blue Room’s set up like a theater-cameras off but positioned, lighting perfect but dormant, everything waiting to spring into action and broadcast our lies in 4K. Emilia’s already there, studying our script like it contains the meaning of life instead of carefully crafted bullshit. 

“Ready for another round of ‘loving couple theater’?” I drop into my designated chair. “I’ve been practicing my adoring gaze in the mirror. Pretty sure I just look constipated.” 

She snorts, abandoning royal decorum. “Better than my attempt at ‘blushing bride. I look like I’m having an allergic reaction.” 

The staff buzzes around us-adjusting angles, testing microphones, pretending we’re not having a conversation. White noise in expensive uniforms. 

We run through the script twice. By the third round, even the communications director looks bored. The staff starts drifting away, probably to find coffee or the will to live. 

That’s when Emilia leans in, voice dropping below the ambient murmur. “You know I see everything, don’t you?” 

My spine goes rigid. Every alarm bell in my head starts screaming. “See what?” 

But her eyes-they’re soft. Not the predatory softness of someone collecting blackmail, but genuine understanding. The kind that comes from recognition. 

“You. Him. The way you look at each other.” She keeps her voice barely above a whisper. “Like you’re drowning and he’s oxygen. Like every second apart is physically painful. The way he watches you when he thinks no one’s looking—it’s beautiful and heartbreaking and completely obvious to anyone who’s felt it themselves.” 

The words sit in my throat like broken glass. Denial would be smart. Plaving dumb, even 

smarter. But I can’t. Can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but stare at her while my carefully constructed walls threaten to crumble. 

Her hand finds mine under the table-warm, steady, achingly kind. “My heart hurts for you both,” she whispers, and fuck, there’s no mockery in it. Just raw sincerity that makes my chest tight. “For what they’re forcing you to become. For what you have to hide.” 

“Emilia-” I start, but she’s not done. 

“You’re not the only one trapped in their perfect picture, Leo.” She squeezes my hand, and her smile is sad and knowing. “You think you’re alone in this? Playing straight for the cameras while your heart belongs somewhere else entirely?” 

My brow furrows, confusion cutting through the emotional overload. She reads it instantly. 

“There’s someone… for me, too.” Her voice drops even lower, barely audible. “A woman. Has been for months. She makes me laugh until I can’t breathe, argues with me about poetry, holds me like I’m precious instead of just useful.” 

The revelation hits like a physical blow. Emilia-perfect, poised Emilia-carrying the same secret weight. 

“Her name’s Sophia,” she continues, thumb brushing over my wrist. “She teaches at the university. Philosophy. We met at some terrible academic fundraiser where I was supposed to charm donors. Instead, I spent three hours in the garden debating Sartre with the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.” 

“Holy shit.” It’s inadequate, but it’s all I’ve got. “Does anyone—” 

“Know? Of course not.” Her laugh is bitter. “We’re very careful. Separate phones, coded messages, meetings that look like coincidence. The same dance you and Gabriel have been doing, just with different steps.” 

The parallel lives we’ve been living-both of us lying, hiding, dying slowly in our gilded cages. It should make me feel less alone. Instead, it just emphasizes how fucked we all are. 

“We’re all playing roles,” she says, straightening as footsteps approach. “But I can help-if you and Gabriel ever need me to. Alibis, distractions, whatever you need. Just say the word.” 

“Why?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “Why risk it?” 

Her smile turns fierce. “Because someone should get to be happy. And if it can’t be me, maybe it can be you. Plus,” she adds with forced lightness as the communications director returns, “what’s the point of being a duchess if you can’t enable a little romantic subterfuge?” 

The words splinter something inside me. This armor I’ve spent months building, brick by bitter brick-it cracks. Not enough to break, but enough to let something dangerous in. 

Hope. 

Later that night, after another dinner where I pretended to care about wedding venues, I find myself wandering. The palace at night is a different creature-shadows longer, silence heavier, secrets louder. 

The conservatory glows like a greenhouse Eden. Through the glass walls, I spot him. Gabriel, pacing like a caged predator, all that controlled energy with nowhere to go. 

I could go in. Could tell him about Emilia, about allies in unexpected places, about how we’re not as alone as we thought. Could offer him the same hope that’s currently eating me alive. 

But then I see his reflection in the glass-the exhaustion carved into every line, the way his hands clench and unclench like he’s fighting himself. The fear and restraint written in a language I’ve learned to read fluently. 

My hand hovers over the door handle. 

“I can help,” Emilia had said. “Just say the word.” 

But Gabriel’s not ready for hope. Maybe he never will be. Maybe duty runs too deep in his veins, trained into his bones by generations of service. Maybe loving me isn’t enough to overcome everything else. 

The words dissolve on my tongue. I turn away, leaving him to his pacing, his perfect posture, his private torture. 

Back in my room, I sit at the window, watching palace guards make their rounds. The secrets I carry feel like glass shards beneath my skin-Emilia’s trust, Gabriel’s pain, my own desperate love. 

All of us playing roles. All of us bleeding privately. 

And me, too much of a coward to speak the truths that might save us all.