Chapter 4
My phone’s having a seizure on my nightstand, buzzing like it’s trying to achieve liftoff. Through my hangover haze, I grab it and squint at the screen—1:47 PM.
Shit. I’ve slept through every single morning lecture. Jake’s bed is empty and neatly made because of course he’s a functional human being.
Forty-seven notifications. That’s never good.
The first thing I see is Jake’s text.
Jackie boo: DUDE CHECK TWITTER NOW
Then Ashley’s…
Ash: Leo wtf happened last night???
My Instagram’s exploding. Tags everywhere. And there it is—the photo that’s apparently ended my college reputation.
Me, clearly visible, sandwiched between two very enthusiastic party-goers, surrounded by what looks like the aftermath of a furniture store explosion. Overturned tables, shattered glass, someone’s bra hanging from a ceiling fan like a surrender flag.
“Fuck me sideways,” I mutter, scrolling through the damage.
The photo’s everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, some gossip blog called “Harvard Tea” that I didn’t even know existed.
The headlines are chef’s kiss terrible:
“Harvard Students Gone Wild—Privileged Kids Trash Apartment”
“Ivy League Rager Ends in Destruction”
“Is This Your Future Leaders, America?”
My stomach drops through the floor when I see the comments. Most are just dragging rich kids in general, but then—
Freezy69: Wait is that the German business guy’s son? He looks familiar…
_smAsher_: Bro looks like actual royalty lmaooo
kristyyy: Anyone else think he looks like a prince from some documentary or is it just me? It’s giving ‘old money’ with massive attitude issues, kinda hoooot~
My secure phone—the one I’m only supposed to use for emergencies—starts ringing. Klaus’s contact name fills the screen, and I briefly consider throwing myself out the window.
“Your Highness,” Klaus’s voice could freeze hell over, and he’s speaking rapid German, which means I’m absolutely fucked. “Would you care to explain why your face is currently plastered across American social media in what appears to be a scene from a fraternity’s fever dream?”
“Klaus, I can explain… It’s not what it looks like. I wasn’t even involved in the property damage, I was just there when—”
“Spare me your excuses. Do you have any idea what could happen if someone connects the dots? If they realize who you actually are?” His voice rises with each word. “This could have international implications!”
“Klaus, I understand, but—”
“Your father is already on his way to Boston,” Klaus cuts me off, and suddenly my hangover feels ten times worse. “He will arrive there shortly. A car will collect you at three o’clock sharp. Do not be late. Do not appear intoxicated. And for the love of God, try to look like the heir to a throne rather than a fraternity pledge who lost a fight with a liquor store.”
The line goes dead. My father. Here. In Boston.
I stumble to the bathroom, catch sight of myself in the mirror, and wince. Klaus wasn’t wrong about the fraternity pledge comparison. My hair looks like I’ve been electrocuted, there’s what might be someone’s lipstick on my collar, and I definitely slept in these clothes.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, already pulling off last night’s disaster outfit.
I shower in record time, going through the mental checklist of “how not to look like you’ve destroyed the royal family reputation” that’s been drilled into me since childhood.
By the time I’m dressed in my least wrinkled button-down, I’ve already composed three different apology speeches in my head, none of which will matter because Father doesn’t forgive—he calculates damage control.
The car they send isn’t subtle—black Mercedes, tinted windows, driver who looks like he moonlights as a hitman. The ride to whatever secret location my father’s commandeered feels like being driven to my own execution.
The hotel suite is exactly what you’d expect—ostentatious, private, swept for bugs probably.
My father stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back in that way that means someone’s about to get eviscerated.
“Father,” I start, but he holds up a hand.
“Sit.” One word, but it carries nineteen years of authority. So I sat.
“Do you think this is a game, Leonhard?” He doesn’t turn around, which is worse than if he was yelling. “Sending you here was an act of trust. A chance for you to experience normal life before your duties consume you. And this is how you repay that trust?”
“I was just trying to fit in, to be normal for once—”
“Normal?” He finally turns, and his expression could cut diamond. “Normal students don’t make headlines. Normal students don’t risk exposing centuries of carefully guarded privacy with their reckless behavior.”
“It was one party! One stupid photo! I didn’t even do anything wrong.”
“Didn’t do anything wrong?” His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Let me enlighten you about your ‘nothing wrong.’ The parties every weekend, sometimes more than twice. The drinking until you can barely stand. The questionable relatives and parade of partners through your dormitory.”
My blood turns to ice. How could he possibly—
“Your grades, which have dropped from exemplary to barely passing. Your missed classes. Your complete abandonment of everything you were sent here to accomplish.”
He continues with surgical precision, listing things no one could know unless…
“How?” My voice cracks. “How do you know all of this?”
“Did you truly believe we would send the heir of Liechtenstein to America without protection? Friedrich’s smile is thin, predatory. “Without someone to ensure your safety and monitor your behavior?”
The door opens, and my world tilts off its axis.
Gabriel walks in like he belongs here. Like this is normal. Like he hasn’t just shattered everything I thought I knew.
“Your Highness,” he says, and hearing that title in his voice—the voice that whispered jokes in the library, that called me interesting—makes me want to vomit.
“No…” The word comes out strangled. “No. Fucking. Way.”
“Language, young man,” my father warns, but I’m beyond caring.
No. What. The. Actual. Fuck?
“Gabriel has been ensuring your safety since the day you arrived,” Father explains with infuriating calm. “His family has served the crown for generations. He was the obvious choice—young enough to blend in, trained enough to protect you.”
The pieces click together with sickening clarity.
The watching at parties. Following me around campus. The convenient study sessions. The protective gestures I thought meant something else entirely.
“From now on,” Father continues, eyes fixed on Gabriel, “constant supervision. No questionable company. Mandatory lectures. Daily exercise. Proper nutrition.” Each item ticked off like he’s ordering takeout. “His image must be impeccable. We cannot afford another incident.”
My jaw locks tight enough to crack teeth. The room shrinks, walls closing in. I want to scream, to throw something, to tell them both exactly where to shove the royal scepter.
But nineteen years of palace training has one benefit: I know how to burn silently.
“Is that understood?” Father asks.
Gabriel nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Leonhard?” Father’s eyebrow raises, expecting submission.
“Clear.” One word. That’s all he gets.
Father straightens his already perfect cuffs. “I have meetings. Handle this appropriately.”
Then he’s gone, leaving nothing but expensive cologne and crushing expectations.
The door clicks shut. Just me and Gabriel now.
My bodyguard. My babysitter. The guy who made me feel seen, only to reveal it was through surveillance.
Every laugh, every almost-moment—all lies. Professional deception in attractive packaging.
I’d kissed James thinking I was free. Studied with Gabriel thinking I’d found a friend, maybe more. Let myself believe someone saw me as just Leo.
But there’s no such thing as just Leo. There never was.
And the one person I thought understood that was just another guard, another cage, another reminder that I’ll never be free.
The worst part? I’d actually started to fall for him.
For my fucking bodyguard.
