Chapter Ten
The gifts did not stop.
They arrived at the edges of my ordinary life with quiet insistence. A ribbon tied too carefully. A note folded with intention. A scent that lingered long after I set the flowers down. Each time, my heart fluttered, unsettled and curious, like something fragile trying to take flight inside my chest.
I told myself it was Kian. I had to. We had been friends for years—childhood friends, familiar and easy in a way that made every moment comfortable. But part of me hesitated. Kian's actions didn't match the gifts. He laughed, joked, teased as usual, never mentioning the notes, the flowers, or any of the small gestures that had begun to consume my thoughts. Every time I tried to ask, something interrupted—someone entering the room, a sudden phone call, a minor accident. By the end, it felt like he was unaware of anything at all.
And so the confusion grew.
Part of me wanted to believe it was him.
Another part whispered that it wasn't.
And a quieter, more mysterious part wondered if it could be someone else entirely—someone unexpected, someone extraordinary, like the prince.
He was the heir—the future of the throne. Intelligent, composed, commanding. But being heir was more than a title; it was a burden that followed him like a shadow. That morning, he had been in a tense discussion with his mother, the queen, about crucial decisions affecting the kingdom. Every word weighed heavily, every choice dissected, every consequence considered. His elder brother deferred to him, his younger brother tried to challenge him, and his sister's charm floated effortlessly through the room, yet he remained focused, calculating, precise.
Even in those tense moments, a thought of me flickered through his mind—a note folded with care, a rose placed where only I would find it, a message sent quietly in the chaos of his life. It was dangerous, a small rebellion in the midst of endless duty, but he could not resist. Every gesture required patience, strategy, and caution, as though even the smallest mistake could reveal his secret.
Before all of this, I had barely cared about how I looked. Clothes were clothes. Hair was hair. Mirrors were functional. Now, mirrors had become confessions. I lingered in front of them, adjusting sleeves, tilting my head, wondering which version of me felt most… seen. I watched dressing videos late at night, scrolled through fashion pages, experimented with colors and cuts I had never thought about before. Even a simple trip to the grocery store became an occasion for careful thought, my heart racing as if someone might notice—or perhaps just to calm the restless thoughts that fluttered endlessly in my stomach.
Butterflies lived permanently in me now.
That afternoon, as I moved through the house for a cup of coffee, I passed by my mother's small office. The door was slightly ajar, and through the faint glow of her computer screen, I heard her voice, low, deliberate, and dangerous:
"No, that won't work. He thinks he can refuse me? He thinks being married makes him untouchable? I will make him regret standing in my way."
I froze, coffee cup trembling slightly in my hands. Her words were chilling.
"Burn something he values," she continued, calm yet icy. "Let him wake up to loss, to uncertainty. Let him understand that anyone who blocks me pays a price. By the time I call again, he should be desperate… ready to bend to me."
This wasn't negotiation. It wasn't persuasion. It was threat, power, and precision—all delivered with effortless composure.
When I finally stepped inside the doorway, she looked up, her sharp eyes meeting mine, the dangerous edge gone.
"You heard something," she said smoothly, her tone unreadable. "Be careful. Anyone who stands in my way… they learn quickly."
She didn't tell me the details, the name of the man, or the methods she intended to use. All I knew was that my mother was relentless, cunning, and willing to go to extraordinary lengths to get what she wanted.
Meanwhile, the prince moved through the palace with a careful balance of strategy and subtle rebellion. That morning, he had paused during a discussion on trade disputes, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, weighing risk and consequence. His mind briefly wandered—planning the next note, imagining how a single rose placed in just the right corner could reach the girl who occupied his thoughts. Every meeting with advisors, every word exchanged with his siblings, every subtle negotiation with his mother was layered with precision, yet somewhere in the quiet corners of his mind was Leah—her smile, her laughter, her quiet curiosity—and he found ways to touch her life without exposing himself.
I tried to live normally amidst this whirlwind. School, errands, cooking, quiet evenings with my mother—all were colored by anticipation and uncertainty. Every time I prepared for a day, butterflies twisting in my stomach, I lingered over outfits and makeup, trying to look presentable yet effortless, hoping someone—anyone—might notice. And yet, when I met Kian, the confusion only deepened. He never acknowledged the gifts. He never said a word that hinted at affection. Each attempt to talk about them dissolved into laughter, teasing, or distraction, leaving me suspended between hope and doubt.
One evening, a small journal appeared at my apartment. My initials glimmered delicately on the cover. Inside, a note read:
For the thoughts you cannot speak aloud.
I sank onto the sofa, fingers tracing the embossed letters. I imagined someone—was it him?—in a quiet study, candlelight flickering, writing carefully, deliberately. Kian? My heart wanted to believe it was him, yet my mind whispered another possibility: the prince, orchestrating these gestures from afar, testing my curiosity, keeping me suspended in uncertainty.
The next day, I found myself in the cafeteria, sipping coffee, still distracted by thoughts of the journal and the gifts. Mimi appeared, bright-eyed, practically bouncing on the spot.
"Leah! The lecturer is here! The course is starting!"
I blinked, stunned. I hadn't expected it at all. Normally, the lecturer was sick or away, and the class often canceled. I hurried to the lecture hall, arriving late, heart still racing, and pushed the door open quietly.
The room was already buzzing with students. And then my gaze landed on him—sitting a few rows ahead, calm, focused, utterly composed. The prince.
I froze. He was here. Our eyes met briefly, and my chest tightened. I looked away quickly, cheeks flushed, and made my way to my seat, a few rows back, almost directly opposite him.
Then I saw it.
The pen in his hand moved across the page with elegant, precise strokes. Familiar. The loops, the slants, the careful spacing—it was hauntingly familiar. My breath caught. My pulse raced. Slowly, impossibly, the recognition hit me: the handwriting… it matched the gifts.
A thrill ran cold through my body. Could it be? Could he be the one sending them all along? Every doubt, every attempt to convince myself it was Kian, wavered and shattered in a single, electrifying moment.
The lecture continued, voices blending into a dull hum. All I could do was watch him, heart pounding, torn between fear, wonder, and longing. Every careful stroke of his pen felt deliberate, calculated—but for me.
And in that suspended moment, I understood that my life, the gifts, the butterflies, and the mystery were about to change forever.
Nothing would ever be the same.