Chapter Eleven
My pen froze mid-sentence.
I didn't know when my focus drifted, only that it had slipped completely away from the lecture and landed somewhere it refused to leave. The professor's voice faded into a distant hum as my eyes fixed on the notebook resting on the desk a few rows ahead of me.
The handwriting.
My breath caught as I stared at the page. Every letter was deliberate. Clean. Perfectly spaced. The strokes were confident, controlled, almost… regal. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't careless. It was the kind of writing that carried intention.
My heart began to pound.
No.
I was imagining things.
I shifted in my seat, forcing myself to look down at my own notes, but my eyes betrayed me, sliding back again. The slant of the letters. The curve of each stroke. I had seen this before. I had traced it unknowingly in my thoughts.
The notes.
The gifts.
My fingers tightened around my pen.
It looked exactly the same.
The prince—the heir to the throne—sat ahead of me, posture straight, focused, untouched by the restless energy his presence always stirred in the room. He hadn't turned around once. He rarely did. He rarely spoke to anyone at all.
Except me.
That thought unsettled me more than anything else.
My mind unraveled backward, pulling memories I had tried hard to keep quiet. The first gift. The short note asking me to come to that place. The confusion when I arrived and found Kian instead. The calm way the prince had later denied any involvement, his voice steady, his expression unreadable.
No, he had said.
Clear. Certain.
And yet—
I looked again at the page.
The letters stared back at me like a secret refusing to stay buried.
The lecture eventually came to an end. Chairs shifted. Students began closing notebooks, murmuring to one another as the professor gathered his materials.
Before I could even collect my thoughts, the prince stood.
He packed his things with quiet urgency and moved toward the exit without hesitation.
"Wait—" I whispered, standing too quickly.
I needed to talk to him. I didn't even know what I wanted to ask. I just needed clarity.
I took one step.
"Leah."
Kian's voice stopped me.
I turned instinctively, my heart sinking as he fell into step beside me, smiling easily, unaware of the chaos inside my chest.
"Did you see my message?" he asked. "The one I sent earlier?"
I glanced back toward the door.
The prince was already gone.
"I… not yet," I said quietly.
Kian kept talking, filling the space between us the way he always did—about school, about random things, about nothing important. I nodded, smiled when expected, laughed softly when required, but my thoughts stayed behind in that classroom.
Why would Kian send gifts like those… and never mention them?
Why would the prince deny it… yet write like that?
The questions followed me all the way home.
I kicked off my shoes the moment I stepped inside, exhaustion settling deep into my bones. The house felt quiet, familiar, yet heavy—like something unseen lingered in the walls.
My phone buzzed.
Kian.
My stomach tightened as I opened the message.
Leah… I don't even know how to explain this. My dad's ice business burned down last night. Everything is gone. It was our biggest investment—generations of work. We're in a really bad situation right now.
My chest constricted.
Jonathan Hale's ice business wasn't just another shop. Everyone knew it. It was legacy. Power. Stability. And now—gone.
I typed back immediately, offering comfort, asking questions, trying to be there for him even though my own thoughts felt scattered. Kian replied briefly, shaken, doing his best to sound strong.
By the time I put my phone down, my head throbbed.
Nothing made sense anymore.
I reached for my laptop—maybe to distract myself, maybe to check something important—but it wasn't where I'd left it.
I searched my room. The living room. The kitchen.
Nothing.
With a sigh, I picked up a cup of coffee and walked toward my mother's room. Maybe she had moved it while working. She often turned the house into a quiet extension of her office when she came home late.
As I approached her door, I slowed.
Her voice drifted out.
Low. Calm. Controlled.
"…Yes," she said. "Whoever handled it did very well. Well done. Well done."
I stopped.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
"…I told you he wouldn't cooperate," she continued coolly. "Men like Mr. Jonathan Hale only understand loss."
My grip tightened around the mug.
"The ice business was his pride," she went on. "A generational investment. Now it's ash. That should teach him what happens when he stands in my way."
Each word landed slowly. Deliberately.
"…Make sure nothing is left standing," she added. "No mercy. I don't want obstacles."
I didn't knock.
I didn't move.
I stood there in the hallway, heart pounding, as her voice carried on behind the door—steady, satisfied, completely unaware.