Chapter 29 

Turns out planning a royal escape requires less Ocean’s Eleven, more “my best friend’s a hacker and my fake fiancée has opinions about love.” Not exactly the rebellion squad I’d imagined, but here we fucking are. 

Emilia’s apartment becomes conspiracy central. She’s got maps spread across her designer coffee table like we’re planning D-Day instead of Operation: Get Leo Laid Without International 

Incident. 

“The Swiss border’s your best bet,” she says, all business despite the fact she’s risking everything. “My cousin has a place in Zurich. Discrete. No questions asked. From there, you disappear.” 

“You know they’ll blame you.” I’m pacing, because sitting still feels like accepting defeat. “When we vanish, you’re the obvious accomplice. They’ll make your life hell.” 

“My life’s already hell, darling.” She doesn’t even look up from the train schedules. “At least this way, someone gets a happy ending. I want the freedom you two are fighting for, even if it’s just vicarious. And if I can’t get it for myself, I’ll make damn sure you do.” 

Gabriel’s been silent through this whole planning session, but I catch him looking at her with something like awe. “Why?” he asks finally. “Why risk everything for us?” 

Emilia’s smile goes sharp, a little broken. “Because watching you two pretend you don’t love each other is physically painful. Because someone should get to choose. Because fuck them, that’s why.” She pauses, softer now. “And because maybe, if you make it, there’s hope for the rest of us.” 

Meanwhile, Jake’s turned into some kind of digital puppet master from his Harvard dorm room, probably using the university’s wifi to commit international crimes. His texts come through at all hours, each one more incredulous than the last. 

Just rerouted palace funds through seventeen shell companies. Pretty sure I’m on several watchlists now. 

Your family’s cybersecurity is embarrassing. I could’ve stolen the crown jewels with a flip phone. 

Booked trains, hotels, three backup routes. You owe me so many beers I’m basically opening a brewery. 

The final message makes me laugh despite everything: I’m basically funding your gay royal rebellion. This better make a good Netflix series or I’m suing for emotional damages. 

Packing is surreal. Whole life reduced to a duffel bag-jeans, t-shirts, the watch Gabriel gave me that I can’t leave behind even though it’s traceable. No designer anything, no royal crests, nothing that screams “runaway prince.” 

“Casual wear suits you,” Gabriel observes from the doorway. He’s got his own bag, looking like every gorgeous backpacker who ever ruined someone’s gav vear. “Verv ‘mysterious European 

hitchhiker’ energy.” 

“Please, I could wear a garbage bag and still be the hottest disaster on any given train.” But my hands shake folding a sweater. This is real. We’re really doing this. “Second thoughts?” 

He crosses the room in two strides, hands framing my face. “You don’t have to do this. We could find another way. You could keep your family, your title, some version of normal-” 

“Normal?” I laugh, but it comes out cracked. “Gabe, I’ve never been normal. I’ve worn their crown, played their games, smiled for their cameras for nineteen fucking years. I’m done being their spare part.” 

His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I lean into it because I’m weak for this man. “Yes, I do have to do this,” I continue, fierce and certain. “With you. Unless you’re having second thoughts about shacking up with unemployed ex-royalty?” 

“Never,” he breathes, and kisses me like a promise. 

”’ནེཝཾ།དྡྷེ།བྷི ནྟི།ཟེ 

The escape itself is anticlimactic. No dramatic chase scenes, no spotlights or sirens. Just two guys with backpacks slipping out through the garden gate at 3 AM while Emilia creates our alibi. 

“I’ll tell them you’re sick,” she promised earlier. “Severe food poisoning. Very dramatic. Lots of vomiting. Should buy you at least eighteen hours before they start asking questions.” 

“You’re a criminal mastermind in pearls,” I told her, and meant it. 

“Damn right I am. Now go, before I cry and ruin my reputation.” 

The train station at dawn is ghostly empty. Our footsteps echo on the platform, too loud in the quiet. Every person could be palace security. Every camera could be tracking us. My paranoia’s at Olympic levels. 

“Breathe,” Gabriel murmurs, hand steady on my lower back. “Jake’s magic worked. We’re just two guys catching an early train.” 

“Right. Totally normal. Not fleeing a country or anything.” I force my shoulders down from around my ears. “Very casual. Much calm.” 

The train arrives with a mechanical sigh. We board separately-Gabriel first, me counting to thirty before following. Different cars, different seats, everything planned to the second. But as the train lurches into motion, I allow myself one look back through the window. 

Goodbye, palace. Goodbye, crown. Goodbye, everything I was supposed to be. 

Twenty minutes later, Gabriel texts: Coast clear. Car 7. 

I find him tucked into a window seat, looking unfairly good for someone who hasn’t slept. The seat beside him is empty, waiting. Home. 

“So,” I drop beside him, our thighs touching because I need the contact. “Come here often? Trains heading toward freedom? Very sexy. Great meet-cute energy.” 

“Terrible pickup line. Two out of ten.” But he’s smiling, real and unguarded. “Though you’re pretty enough to make it work.” 

The countryside blurs past-forests and fields and futures we get to choose. I let my hand rest on the armrest between us, palm up. An invitation. 

“Last chance to back out, Your Highness,” Gabriel says, but he’s already linking our fingers. “Could still jump off at the next stop. Return you to your tower.” 

“I told you,” I squeeze his hand, grounding us both in this insane, perfect moment. “I’m not that anymore. Not Your Highness, not the spare, not their problem to manage. Just Leo.” 

“Just Leo,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the words. “I like just Leo.” 

Our palms press together-warm, solid, unshakable. The train carries us toward borders and decisions and a life we get to build ourselves. No scripts, no schedules, no surveillance. 

For the first time since I was seven years old standing too close to that fucking vase, I feel completely, absolutely, impossibly free. 

The sunrise paints everything gold through the window. Gabriel’s thumb traces circles on my palm. Somewhere behind us, Emilia’s probably delivering an Oscar-worthy performance about food poisoning. Jake’s definitely monitoring our digital trail from his couch. 

And us? We’re just two guys on a train, holding hands like it’s not revolutionary. 

Like it’s not everything. 

“What are you thinking?” Gabriel asks, voice soft in the morning quiet. 

I turn to study his profile-this man who was my guard, my secret, my salvation. “I’m thinking we actually did it. We’re actually free.” 

He meets my eyes, and there’s wonder there, mixed with fear and joy and love so deep I could drown in it. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “We are.”