Chapter Five
The days following the fundraiser were heavy with unspoken words. Breakfasts were quiet; the clatter of cutlery against plates felt sharper, each sound echoing through the vast kitchen. Nova, ever precise, moved with the grace of someone who could measure a person by a glance, and I found myself shrinking under her gaze.
I avoided her as much as I could. At home, I retreated to my room earlier, lingered in the garden under the guise of fresh air, or buried myself in my sketchbook, hoping she wouldn't notice how carefully I timed every step to escape questions I knew were coming.
"You've been distant," she said one evening, her tone calm but carrying a sharp edge. I didn't answer. Silence stretched between us, heavy and uncomfortable. She knew. I didn't need her to say it outright. Nova always knew.
School provided a welcome distraction. Lectures, assignments, and the casual bustle of classmates filled the hours, giving me temporary relief from the tension at home. I wandered the campus with a sketchbook tucked under my arm, finding corners of quiet where the hum of student life dulled into background noise. Painting remained my refuge, the brush scratching across the canvas a small rebellion against the weight pressing on me.
It was during one of those afternoons, while sketching the sun slanting through the windows of the art room, that I heard a familiar voice.
"Leah?"
I looked up. Kian. Back from Australia, grinning like he'd just stepped out of a memory. His presence was a sudden, warm light, cutting through the gray of unease I'd carried home with me.
"You're back," I said, surprised and relieved, letting myself smile.
"I am. And you've been hiding in libraries again, I see," he teased, sliding into the seat beside me. "Do you ever breathe outside textbooks and canvas?"
"I do," I said lightly, though my stomach twisted. "Sometimes."
We spent the afternoon wandering the campus gardens, swapping stories of our years apart, laughing as though the distance between us had never existed. With Kian, I could breathe again. He reminded me of simpler times—of childhood afternoons chasing shadows through the palace corridors, of laughter that echoed louder than expectation or secrecy.
But even his warmth could not erase the shadow lingering at the edges of my thoughts. The prince. Storm-gray eyes. That carefully controlled presence that made my heart race in ways I could not name.
I had seen him briefly at a formal meeting on campus, an official visit by dignitaries where the air was crisp with protocol and the faint scent of polished wood and expensive cologne. He stood slightly apart from the crowd, posture impeccable, his gaze scanning the room with that same calculated intensity, until it landed, ever so briefly, on me.
I didn't know him well—he hadn't reached out beyond those fleeting interactions—but the awareness he carried seemed almost tangible, a weight pressing into the space around me. I didn't understand it, didn't even know how to define it, yet I felt it, like a pulse beneath the ordinary.
One evening, preparing for a family dinner, I caught my reflection in the tall mirror in my room. Dark hair brushing my shoulders, slender but strong frame, eyes bright but thoughtful. For a heartbeat, I lingered—not to admire, but to remind myself of who I was beneath the layers of expectation and secrecy. A girl capable of choosing her own path, even if the walls around her were heavy and watchful.
Dinner was no lighter than the mornings. Nova spoke politely, her words carefully chosen, each syllable a probe. I answered in measured tones, careful not to reveal too much, careful not to betray the faint thrill and unease that clung to every thought of the prince. We existed in the same space, yet an invisible wall separated us, built of tension, curiosity, and unasked questions.
Afterwards, I escaped to the gardens again, notebook in hand, sketching the shapes of shadows cast by the fountains and hedges. The cool night air wrapped around me, brushing the hair from my face, yet even here, calm was fleeting. A figure emerged from the dim light, tall and deliberate, storm-gray eyes flicking to mine with the faintest recognition.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said, voice low but precise.
"I'm fine," I replied, though my pulse quickened.
"Curiosity has a way of attracting more than you intend," he said, a subtle caution threading his words. His gaze swept the garden, scanning as though expecting something to emerge from the darkness, before landing on me again.
I nodded, uncertain how to respond. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and stepped back, disappearing into the shadows with the same quiet authority that always seemed to mark him.
The tension at home persisted. Nova's eyes followed me, though I never allowed her to catch me studying the prince's presence, even from afar. I sensed her understanding—some part of her had pieced together the faint traces of his attention. And yet she said nothing, letting the silence grow, letting the weight of unspoken knowledge shape every exchange between us.
Days passed in this rhythm: school, painting, walks with Kian, and cautious glimpses of him, always measured, always brief. Even as I laughed and moved freely among friends, even as I sketched and breathed beneath the branches of familiar oaks, the pull of something extraordinary persisted.
Leah—the ordinary girl, the daughter of a mother who understood strategy before empathy—stood poised between two worlds. One was tangible, comforting, and filled with friendship and creativity. The other was uncertain, charged, and carrying a gravity she could neither name nor ignore. And between these worlds, Nova watched. She knew something had shifted in the threads of my life, though I had no idea how much she understood.
That night, as the city settled into quiet hums and distant lights flickered like stars fallen to earth, I lay in bed with the soft rustle of leaves brushing against my window. I thought of Kian, of the prince, of the paintings waiting in my sketchbook, and of the silent, calculating presence of my mother. And I realized, with a pulse of both fear and thrill, that the ordinary and extraordinary were colliding, and I had no choice but to navigate the space between.
Every glance, every brushstroke, every word unspoken carried weight. And I knew the balance—between freedom and duty, curiosity and caution—was only just beginning to shift.