Chapter Six
Saturday morning arrived, bright and quiet, with the kind of sunlight that made everything look sharper, more vivid. No lectures, no deadlines, no rushing between buildings—just the calm hush of the weekend. I slipped out of bed, the silver ring on my finger catching the light as I stretched my hand toward the window.
When I stepped outside, a small package rested on the doorstep. My first thought was, of course, that it was for my mother. After all, men sent her gifts all the time—flowers, chocolates, even handwritten notes. That was her world. I hesitated, heart fluttering, expecting her name on the tag.
But as I picked up the package and examined it more closely, my pulse quickened. There it was—my name, written carefully, deliberately, across the card. I froze. Me? Nobody had ever sent me anything like this before. My mother's gifts were practical, deliberate, instructive. This was different—playful, intimate, and mysterious in a way that made my chest tighten.
I knelt on the doorstep, turning it over in my hands, the curiosity bubbling in my stomach. Who could it be? Why me? My fingers lingered on the silver lettering of the card, tracing it as though I could absorb some hidden message through touch alone.
Before I could dwell too long, my phone buzzed. A message from Kian, my childhood friend who had just returned from Australia: "Hey, I'm outside. Ready for basketball?"
I tucked the package under my arm, heart still racing, and hurried downstairs. Kian was leaning against his car, grin wide, energy contagious. "Ready for the game?" he called, stretching his arms casually.
"Almost!" I replied, smiling despite myself. My fingers brushed the ribbon of the package one more time, curiosity gnawing at me. I was still trying to piece together the puzzle of who would send something so delicate and personal.
The drive to the stadium was filled with laughter and teasing. Kian reminded me why our friendship had always been effortless—how we could speak without words, how the years apart never truly altered the rhythm of our connection. I told him about my latest sketches, about small things at school that had made me laugh, and even about the faint tension I sometimes felt around my mother, though I carefully omitted the part about the gift.
At the stadium, the energy was electric. Sneakers squeaked, the basketball thumped against polished floors, and the crowd's cheers echoed like music. Kian led me to a spot near the court, and I barely had time to settle before my pulse jumped—there he was.
The prince. Storm-gray eyes, poised posture, the kind of presence that made it impossible to look away. He scanned the court with the same calculated intensity, until his gaze landed on me. Everything else—the bouncing ball, the roaring crowd, even Kian's playful teasing—faded.
During a timeout, I gathered courage. "Did you… send the gift?" I asked, voice low but steady.
He paused, a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps?—crossing his expression. "I… don't know what you mean," he said, calm and precise. Yet the subtle curve of his lips, the slight hesitation in his eyes, suggested otherwise.
I looked away quickly, forcing my attention back to the game, though my mind buzzed. Every time our eyes met across the court, a strange tension pulsed between us, tiny but undeniable. A brush of hands when we reached for the ball, a shared glance that lasted just a second too long—moments that sent a thrill through me I couldn't explain.
Kian noticed my distraction. "You okay? You've been out of it since he showed up," he said lightly.
"I'm fine," I replied, forcing a smile. "Just… the game."
Even as we laughed and shared old stories, I couldn't shake the thought of the mysterious package. Who would go to such lengths to send something so thoughtful, so carefully chosen? The prince had denied it, but the denial only deepened the enigma.
Once home, I carefully placed the package on my desk. My fingers trembled slightly as I untied the ribbon and unfolded the scarf. It was soft, delicate, and exquisite, threads glinting faintly like frost in sunlight. Beneath it, a letter slipped quietly onto the desk.
I picked it up, my pulse racing. The silver lettering shimmered under the morning light, elegant and deliberate. No name, no seal—just a style I recognized immediately.
I unfolded the note carefully, holding my breath. The words were simple but charged, each one heavy with meaning:
"Tonight, we talk. Find me where the city meets the shadows."
I froze, heart hammering, breath caught in my throat. I didn't know who had left it—Kian? Some new friend? Or him? Somehow, though, I felt the weight of the moment deep in my chest, a pull I couldn't ignore.
I held the envelope close, feeling the warmth of the scarf beneath my fingers. My mind raced through possibilities, each one more tantalizing and terrifying than the last. Whoever it was, they had taken control of the narrative in a way I hadn't anticipated.
Somewhere in the shadows, a story had begun—and I was already entangled.