Chapter 27 

PŮ 

The palace PR machine runs on bullshit and desperate damage control, cranking out fairy tales for public consumption. Third in line means I’m valuable enough to parade around but expendable enough to sacrifice if shit goes sideways. The sweet spot of royal irrelevance. 

They’ve got us booked solid-charity galas where I shake hands with people who definitely Googled “Liechtenstein succession” after the photo leak, political functions where everyone’s wondering if the spare’s spare is worth their time, staged interviews where every answer is focus-grouped to death. 

“Emphasize your commitment to youth initiatives,” the communications director reminds me for the fifteenth time. “And perhaps mention your cousins? Remind people there are other heirs.” 

Translation: You’re not that important, so stop acting like your gay scandal matters. 

“Sure, I’ll make sure everyone knows I’m basically a royal participation trophy.” My camera smile could strip paint. “Very reassuring. Much stability.” 

Emilia and I nail our performances with mechanical precision. We’re a two-person show called “Nothing To See Here, Folks”-hitting marks, delivering lines, pretending my viral kiss didn’t happen and her soul isn’t actively leaving her body during every appearance. 

But exhaustion’s a bitch that doesn’t care about concealer or expensive suits. 

My eye bags have eye bags. Food tastes like cardboard soaked in disappointment. Every public appearance feels like cosplaying as someone who gives a fuck. 

Emilia’s mastered the thousand-yard stare, probably mentally constructing elaborate escape plans involving Sophia and a villa somewhere warm. During yesterday’s hospital opening, I’m pretty sure she achieved actual astral projection. 

“You look like reheated death,” she mutters during a donor luncheon. “The ‘haunted Victorian child’ aesthetic isn’t great for our brand.” 

“Says the woman who just spent twenty minutes staring through the ambassador’s wife like she was translucent.” I adjust my tie that’s slowly strangling me. “Pretty sure you left your body entirely.” 

“I was contemplating whether authentic existence is possible within systematically enforced performativity,” she deadpans. “Also planning which books to pack for Venice.” 

Gabriel’s become a ghost story I tell myself. Sometimes I catch glimpses—a shadow in my peripheral vision, footsteps that might be his, the absence where he used to be. Other guards fill the space with professional competence and zero fucks about my wellbeing. 

Three nights ago, I heard the argument through Father’s study door. 

“He’s becoming a liability!” Mother’s voice could etch glass. “Third in line or not, those photos, 

the questions-he’s tainting the entire family.” 

“I’m aware.” Father sounds tired. Not angry, just… done. “The engagement will provide cover. The coronation will remind everyone where the real power lies.” 

“And if he self-destructs? You’ve seen him. He’s barely functional.” 

“Then we have two other heirs who aren’t disappointments.” 

Cool. Love being the expendable son. Really warms the heart. 

I catch fragments of Gabriel-Tuesday in the garden, getting orders through his earpiece looking like someone’s describing his execution. Wednesday disappearing into the security office like he’s been summoned to hell. Thursday just his silhouette against a window, probably contemplating whether any of this is worth it. 

Each sighting is a fresh wound. Same building, different universes. 

Then Friday decides subtlety is overrated. 

“By royal decree,” some poor herald reads at breakfast, pretending this parchment isn’t basically my death warrant, “the succession has been formally clarified. Crown Prince Johann will undergo coronation preparation. Princess Margarete’s position as second is confirmed. Prince Leonhard’s engagement to Lady Emilia von Falkenrath is recognized, with autumn nuptials…” 

The rest dissolves into white noise. They’re not just planning my future-they’re building me a very pretty cage with a convenient exit strategy if I become too problematic. Third in line means just important enough to control, not important enough to save. 

I’m moving before my brain catches up. Don’t remember leaving, don’t remember walking, just suddenly I’m in the west tower where nobody goes because it’s depressing as fuck and perfect for total meltdowns. 

The door slam echoes like a gunshot. 

Then I fucking lose it. 

My fist meets stone-once, twice, until pain explodes through my knuckles in beautiful, honest waves. Real sensation cutting through months of numbness. 

“FUCK!” The word bounces off walls that’ve probably heard worse from better princes. “Fuck this whole fucking game!” 

Blood smears across limestone as I hit it again. Knuckles split like fruit, painting abstract art on ancient stone. This pain is mine-not scheduled, not approved, not managed by committee. Just pure, authentic damage. 

Time becomes meaningless. I rage until my voice cracks, throw things that definitely have historical significance, redecorate with my blood until exhaustion wins. 

That’s how Gabriel finds me. Collapsed against the wall, hands destroyed, voice gone, finally empty of everything but hurt. 

He doesn’t speak. Nó lectures, no protocol, no professional distance. He just crosses the room 

and pulls me against him-fierce, desperate, the kind of hold that keeps broken things from shattering completely. 

“I see you,” he whispers into my hair. “Even here. Even like this. I see you.” 

For the first time in weeks, I let myself be held. Let myself fall apart in the arms of someone who’s been watching it happen in real-time. 

“This isn’t survivable,” I rasp, throat shredded. “They’re locking everything down. Making sure I can’t embarrass them anymore. I’m just-fuck, Gabe, I’m just a spare part they’re managing.” 

His arms tighten. “It is survivable,” he whispers back, voice cracking. “But not playing by their rules. Not anymore.” 

I pull back enough to see him-really see him. The mask is gone. Just Gabriel, looking as 

wrecked as I feel. 

“Then help me change it,” I breathe, our foreheads almost touching. “Because I’d rather burn everything than keep pretending this is a life.” 

Outside, the storm builds, rain hammering windows like it’s trying to break in. We stare at each other while chaos rages around us. 

For the first time since everything went to hell, we stop pretending. 

“Okay,” Gabriel says, and it sounds like revolution. “Let’s change it.”