Chapter Twelve
I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, my mother's voice returned—calm, satisfied, and unyielding. The words from last night replayed in my mind like a storm I couldn't escape. Dawn crept slowly through my curtains, but it felt less like morning and more like interrogation light, exposing everything I didn't want to face.
I lay still, trying to slow my racing heart. Somewhere down the hall, doors opened and closed softly. Cups clinked. Life went on, as if nothing had fractured. But my chest thumped with a heaviness I couldn't shake.
I dressed slowly, deliberately. For the first time in weeks, I lingered in front of the mirror, smoothing my blouse, adjusting my hair, watching my reflection as if I might recognize a version of myself I had lost. Butterflies fluttered nervously in my stomach, a relentless reminder that nothing felt ordinary anymore.
At breakfast, my mother was already at her desk, her phone pressed to her ear, hair perfect, nails flawless, eyes sharp and calculating. I could feel a wave of anger rising—how could she sit there like nothing had happened? Like the world hadn't shifted under her influence?
"Morning," I said, my voice tight.
"Morning," she replied lightly, barely looking up.
I didn't confront her. I couldn't. Instead, I asked cautiously, hiding the tremor in my voice: "Did you… hear anything unusual happening around campus, or… anyone at school?"
She tilted her head slightly, brows lifting, but her face remained a mask of innocence.
"Who?" she asked. "What do you mean?"
Her denial was smooth, almost practiced. My anger flared hotter. She was pretending, acting like she knew nothing. Like she hadn't orchestrated chaos. Like she wasn't capable of bending the world to her will.
I forced myself to speak again, pretending ignorance. "Did anything happen to Kian? Or… anyone connected to him? Was there trouble? Anything serious?"
She set her cup down, scrolling through her phone as if my words were nothing more than background noise. "I don't know what you mean," she said lightly.
I didn't ask again. I carried my mug back to my room, every step weighted with frustration and disbelief.
School was a blur. I needed to be there—not just for Kian, but to anchor myself. I spotted him near the library courtyard, sitting alone, head down, shoulders tense.
"Kian," I called softly.
He looked up, startled, then gave a faint, grateful smile.
"I… I wanted to check if you're okay," I said, lowering my gaze for a moment. "I know things have been… heavy."
He sighed. "Yeah… it's been a lot. But I'm managing."
I crouched beside him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "You're stronger than you think," I whispered. "I'll be here if you need me."
For a moment, he let out a shaky laugh. Relief, perhaps, or maybe just a small escape from the tension that had overtaken him. I brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, holding the gesture a little longer than necessary.
Then I saw him.
The prince. Striding toward us, as if he had appeared from nowhere. My heart froze.
His eyes narrowed slightly as they took in the scene: me with Kian, comforting him. A flash of something sharp passed over his face—jealousy, hurt, maybe suspicion. I opened my mouth to explain, to wave him over, but he didn't wait.
His jaw tightened, and he walked away, brisk, decisive. He left the campus entirely that day.
I sank back beside Kian, chest pounding. I had no number for the prince. No way to reach him. Nothing. And yet, my heart ached with a painful, undeniable truth.
Why was I even angry? Why was my chest heavy, my stomach twisting, over someone I barely spoke to? Someone who had only ever exchanged fleeting words, never a text, never a call, never a sign that he cared? And yet… despite all logic, I knew the answer. I was in love with him. I couldn't help it. I didn't want to admit it, but I couldn't fight the feeling, and seeing him walk away ignited a strange, raw ache I didn't know how to soothe.
I turned my focus back to Kian. His eyes were tired, his body tense, but he needed me. I swallowed the ache in my chest and said softly, "Come on. Let's go."
The walk to his house was quiet. I tried to speak lightly, to ease his mind, but every step carried the weight of my heart, my confusion, and the absence of the prince. My mind kept circling, tugging me in impossible directions.
When we arrived, his parents were waiting. Their faces were composed, but I could see the tremor of grief, the silent strain they tried to hide. His mother moved gracefully, arranging cups and plates, but her hands shook slightly. His father stood rigid, jaw tight, hands clenched. The recent disaster with their ice business had left scars deeper than any words could cover.
"Leah," Mrs. Davenport said softly, offering a tight smile. "Thank you for coming."
I nodded, my own throat tight. "Of course. I… I just wanted to be here for Kian."
I noticed the subtle glances his parents exchanged. Pain and gratitude mingled in their eyes. I could feel the tension of the house, the invisible weight pressing down on every corner, every word, every movement.
I stayed close to Kian, brushing his hair from his forehead, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. Even as he leaned against me for comfort, my thoughts kept drifting back to the prince. How he had left, the jealousy in his eyes, the storm I couldn't reach. My chest ached, torn between caring for Kian and longing for someone I barely had.
And then, an unbearable thought crossed my mind. I could tell Kian about my mother. About what she had done, the dangerous calls, the lengths she might go. But no. I couldn't. Because if my mother fell, I could fall with her. And then what? My other life, my home, my precarious safety—all at risk.
I thought of my father, of his new wife, her coldness, her disdain for me. If I exposed my mother now, where would I go? Who would protect me? My heart ached, not just with love and jealousy, but with fear and responsibility. I had to hold my tongue, at least for now.
So I stayed, silent, watching Kian's family, comforting him, offering what solace I could. I watched the careful facades of strength that his parents maintained, the unspoken grief, and I understood the weight of responsibility, the price of secrecy, and the cost of love.
The evening stretched, long and heavy. The tea had cooled, the plates cleared, but the storm inside me hadn't eased. My heart throbbed for the prince I couldn't reach, my mind tangled in confusion between loyalty and desire, love and duty. The room felt thick with emotion, grief, and unspoken truths, and I realized how much life could press on a person without warning.
I stayed until Kian's parents finally suggested rest, lingering in the room for a moment, letting the quiet settle. Every shadow, every breath, reminded me of the fragile threads connecting everyone—my love, my loyalty, my fear, the prince, Kian, my mother. None of it was simple, and none of it would be.
And somewhere in the distance, I knew the prince had gone home, the gifts and notes still floating in my mind, my heart still aching, and my mother's shadow looming over all, silent but unrelenting.