Chapter 30 

*A FEW MONTHS LATER* 

Turns out “happily ever after” looks like a fixer-upper in bumfuck France with plumbing that throws tantrums and shutters that’ve seen better decades. 

The realtor called it “rustic charm.” I called it “at least it has walls,” which was about where my standards landed post-escape. 

But fuck if it isn’t perfect. 

“The shower’s being dramatic again,” Gabriel announces from the bathroom, because apparently even our pipes have commitment issues. “Either we get two minutes of Antarctic ice water or Satan’s personal hellfire. No middle ground.” 

“Very binary of it. Progressive.” I’m attempting breakfast, which in our house means not burning toast beyond recognition. Success rate: sixty percent on good days. “Maybe it’s making a statement about the extremes of human existence.” 

“Or maybe it’s just shit plumbing in a house older than your entire dynasty.” He emerges toweling his hair, looking unfairly good for someone who just battled possessed pipes. “We could call someone.” 

“With what French? My extensive vocabulary of ‘croissant’ and ‘where is the library’?” I wave vaguely at our kitchen―mismatched dishes from the local marché, a coffee maker held together by hope, the general aesthetic of “two guys who’ve never adult-ed before trying very hard.” 

This is when Croissant chooses violence, barreling through like a golden hurricane’ and sending my carefully constructed toast tower flying. Espresso follows at a dignified pace, probably to steal whatever lands on the floor. 

“Your son’s being a terrorist again,” I inform Gabriel, who’s already grabbing paper towels. “This is why we can’t have nice things. Or any things. Or toast.” 

“My son? Yesterday when he cuddled you during that thunderstorm, he was ‘the best boy who ever lived.”” Gabriel’s trying not to laugh. Failing. “But sure, property damage is all 

my fault.” 

The dogs were Gabriel’s idea-“we need something to be responsible for besides ourselves”— and I agreed because apparently I’ve lost all ability to say no to him. 

The shelter lady looked skeptical when we showed up, two obvious disasters asking to adopt. But euros are euros, and we walked out with two more disasters to add to our collection. 

Croissant’s a walking anxiety attack covered in gold fur. Espresso judges everyone like he’s writing Yelp reviews in his head. They’re perfect. 

“Jake says hi, by the way.” I check my phone, scrolling through his latest digital crimes. “Also says-and I quote-‘saw a tourist couple at Harvard asking about you. Told them you transferred to clown college. Very believable.” 

Gabriel snorts, stealing my successfully unburned toast. “How’s he not expelled yet?” 

“Pure spite, probably. Also he’s apparently facing everything because it turns out channeling your energy into international cyber crime really focuses the mind.” 

I hip-check him away from my breakfast. 

“He’s got our emergency protocols updated. New identities ready if shit goes sideways.” 

Living off the grid-or as off as you can get when your best friend’s a hacker-means constant vigilance wrapped in domestic mundanity. 

Jake routes our money through so many shell companies I’m pretty sure we own part of the moon by now. Everything’s fake names, burner phones, paying cash at the farmer’s market like we’re in witness protection for gay royalty. 

Which, technically… 

“Letter from Emilia,” Gabriel says, holding up an envelope addressed to our aliases. “Forwarded through Jake’s network of crime.” 

I snatch it, careful as always. Her messages come coded, hidden in complaints about weather and fashion. 

But underneath the rambling about Venetian rain, the message is clear: they bought our story, the palace is maintaining the narrative, we’re still free. 

“She says Mother’s gotten really into pottery,” I translate. “Which means she’s so pissed she needs to violently shape clay to avoid committing regicide.” 

“Therapeutic.” Gabriel wraps his arms around me from behind, chin hooking over my shoulder to read. “And your father?” 

“”Focused on his rose garden’ means he’s pretending I never existed.” I lean back into him, letting his warmth chase away the sting. “The Liechtenstein special. If we don’t acknowledge it, it didn’t happen.” 

Some days it hits harder-the family I’ll never see again, the country that raised me, the life I torched. But then Gabriel presses a kiss to my neck, Croissant tries to eat our mail, and I remember: I chose this. 

The village treats us like any other gay couple who moved in to renovate a disaster house. 

Madame Dubois sells us bread and gossip in equal measure. The mechanic fixed our ancient Peugeot and only raised an eyebrow at our terrible French. Kids kick footballs into our garden and we kick them back, pretending we don’t notice when they sneak photos. 

Because yeah, sometimes the whispers follow. A tourist stares too long at the café. 

A headline resurfaces on some gossip blog-“Whatever Happened to the Runaway Prince?” Jake buries them fast, but the internet’s forever. 

“Someone recognized you at the market yesterday,” Gabriel mentions, careful like he’s defusing a bomb. “The cheese vendor’s daughter. She had that look.” 

“The ‘holy shit is that the gay prince’ look? I’m familiar.” I turn in his arms, needing to see his face. “You worried?” 

“Always.” His honesty still catches me off-guard sometimes. “But not enough to run. Not anymore.” 

“Good. Because I just figured out how to use the washing machine and I’m not learning a new one.” I kiss him, morning breath and all, because I can. Because there’s no schedule, no handlers, no one watching. “Plus Espresso finally stopped hiding my shoes. That’s basically a marriage proposal in dog language.” 

“Romantic. Really selling the fairy tale ending here.” But he’s smiling, that real one that took months to coax out. “Still worth it? Even with the shit plumbing and toast terrorism and constant low-grade fear of discovery?” 

I think about our life-small and chaotic and nothing like the palace I grew up in. Mismatched everything, dogs with ridiculous names, neighbors who bring casseroles and ask no questions. Gabriel beside me every morning, no titles between us. 

“Every fucking second,” I tell him, meaning it down to my bones. “Even when you steal my toast. Even when Croissant commits food crimes. Even when the shower tries to murder us.” 

He kisses me again, deeper this time, until Espresso barks because clearly we’re being too happy and it’s disturbing his judgment of the universe. 

This is freedom: burnt toast and broken plumbing and two idiots with their disaster dogs, building something real in a forgotten corner of France. No crowns, no protocol, no performing happiness for cameras. 

Just Gabriel’s hand in mine and terrible French and the knowledge that I chose this life. 

Chose him. 

Chose love. 

And honestly? Fucking worth it.