Chapter 20
I hadn't expected the air outside to feel heavier than inside the house, but the crowd that had gathered for the prince's pre-birthday celebration made it so. People swarmed around the driveway, laughing, chatting, their attention bouncing between each other, the decorations, and the faint glitter of champagne glasses catching the evening light.
I gripped the prince's hand tightly, dragging him through the throng. He let me, calm as ever, his steady presence a tether to sanity in the chaos. Finally, he stopped and tilted his head toward me.
"Do you want to get somewhere quieter?" he asked gently, his gaze soft and patient.
I nodded. "Yes," I breathed, relieved. A quiet garden sounded like paradise after the noise.
We wove through the crowd and found the garden at the edge of the property. Lanterns were strung along the path, casting soft pools of golden light across trimmed hedges and blooming flowers. The scent of jasmine and roses hung in the air, mingling with the crisp night breeze. Here, for the first time since leaving the ballroom, I felt a sense of calm.
The prince led me to a small wrought‑iron bench nestled under a blooming archway. We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the distant murmur of the party fading like a half-remembered song.
"You're quiet," he said, his voice low, almost teasing, yet filled with curiosity. "Are you thinking about what just happened inside?"
I smiled faintly, shaking my head. "Not exactly. Just… trying to breathe."
He laughed softly, and it sounded like music against the night. "I can't imagine what that must've been like—seeing her, there, in front of everyone."
I glanced at him, studying the way the light caught his profile. He had an intensity in his eyes that made it hard to look away. "She's… complicated," I said finally. "More than anyone could ever see."
We talked for a while, our conversation weaving between light and serious, laughter and moments of silence. I asked him about his past, about the places he had been, the things he had seen, and in turn, he asked me questions about my ambitions, my favorite books, and the dreams I sometimes kept hidden.
Then, he smiled suddenly, a playful spark in his eyes. "I hope you've been enjoying the gifts you've been receiving."
I blinked. "Wait… you've been the one sending them?" I asked, startled. My pulse quickened as the realization hit me. "You mean… you were the one?"
He only smiled wider, a faint glimmer of mischief in his expression. "I thought you might like them."
I stared, speechless for a moment, the heat rising in my chest. I remembered the last time I had asked him directly, and he had denied it. And now here it was, undeniable. A private, personal gesture, sent carefully, deliberately, for me. I felt a mixture of surprise, gratitude, and a strange warmth that curled through my chest.
We continued talking, the night growing deeper around us, the garden becoming our private world. There were moments when our hands brushed, moments when our laughter mingled with the faint sound of leaves rustling, and I began to feel something I had been trying to ignore—a pull, a desire that had been quietly growing since the first time we had danced together.
And then… he leaned closer, just slightly, as if he wanted to bridge the space between us. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Leah…"
My heart thumped. I leaned toward him, closing the distance just a little, and then, almost instinctively, he tried to kiss me. My breath caught in my throat, and for a fleeting moment, the world narrowed to just the two of us.
Then, a shout shattered everything.
"Mimi!" I groaned, stepping back as I saw her weaving through the trees, her energy unstoppable.
"Leah! Leah, come! Come and see, come and see!" she called, her voice brimming with excitement. "Come see what your mum has done!"
I froze, my chest tightening instantly. "What did she do now?" I muttered under my breath, a mix of dread and curiosity.
Mimi shook her head, grinning. "No! I can't tell you. You just have to come see!"
Reluctantly, I let the prince take my hand, and we made our way back through the quiet garden paths and into the main driveway. The crowd had grown even thicker, whispers rippling like waves as more people arrived for the celebration. Cheers erupted ahead, drawing my gaze to a stunning sight.
A Rolls‑Royce Cullinan gleamed in the center of the driveway, polished to perfection. The obsidian black paint reflected the soft lantern lights and the faces of the crowd, glimmering like liquid glass. The massive, sculpted wheels shone, and the iconic grille stood proud, framed by sharp, commanding LED headlamps. Even the faint hum of the engine seemed to echo with authority and power, a reminder of the car's perfection.
A large, handwritten note on the windshield immediately caught my eye:
"I am sorry, Leah, for hurting you."
The crowd around the car erupted into murmurs and admiration.
"Who gives a car like this as an apology?" someone whispered.
"Your mum is incredible! Who does that?"
"She's so lucky to have a mother like this," another said, their voice full of awe.
I froze, my emotions tangled. I knew my mother too well. I remembered every time I had asked her for a car. Casual hints, desperate pleas, all waved off with a smile, a shrug, or a vague promise. She had never acted, never provided, never fulfilled that simple request. And now… here it was, impossible and gleaming.
I understood the gesture immediately. Not just the apology, not just the car—it was her performance. Nora had orchestrated everything perfectly: the timing, the crowd, the admiration, the cheers. She wanted everyone to see her as the perfect mother, the loving, generous, dazzling matriarch. The applause, the whispers, the wide-eyed fascination—it was all part of her statement.
And yet, underneath it, she had genuinely tried in her own way. She had always provided, always planned, always controlled, even if the gestures were filtered through her image. The Cullinan was her way of giving, but it was also a reminder: she was the orchestrator, the one in control, and the world was watching.
I looked at the prince. His gaze was calm, attentive, flicking toward me with subtle care, a quiet reminder that I wasn't alone in navigating this performance. He hadn't been fully captured by my mother's show. Not entirely. And that small acknowledgment made the mix of anger, awe, and hesitation in my chest even more complex.
I stepped closer, examining the Cullinan. The scent of polished leather, faint vanilla, and cedarwood drifted from the open doors. The metal was cool beneath my fingers, impossibly smooth. I wanted to touch it, to feel it, but I hesitated, torn between acknowledging the gift and resisting her performance.
Murmurs and cheers from the crowd continued to swirl around me. "Who gives a car as an apology?!" someone asked again, their voice full of incredulity.
I remembered every prior refusal from my mother, every subtle dismissal, every time she had waved off my requests. And yet, here it was, shiny, flawless, impossible to ignore. The Cullinan stood as a testament to her wealth, power, and meticulous control over perception.
I didn't know whether to accept it. I could feel the weight of the crowd's eyes, their whispers, their awe. I knew the car was hers to give, a statement meant for everyone else, but also meant, somehow, for me. The question loomed in my mind: should I claim it, or leave it, a symbol of everything complicated between us?
I stayed rooted, torn between pride, resentment, and the faintest glimmer of admiration for the precision of her gesture. The Cullinan gleamed, the note on the windshield bold and clear, and the crowd's excitement filled the air.
I glanced at the prince again, standing quietly beside me, his hand brushing mine ever so slightly. His gaze was steady, almost comforting, reminding me that while the crowd saw a show, we could still have a world that was ours, private and untouchable.
I took a slow breath, letting the tension roll through me, knowing I would have to decide soon. My mother's eyes followed me across the crowd, sharp and calculating, her smile perfect, her posture flawless. She had expected awe, admiration, maybe even surrender—and perhaps she had achieved it in the eyes of everyone else. But I… I wasn't so easy to impress.
I stood there, torn, frozen at the edge of choice, caught between the brilliance of her performance and the complexity of her intentions. I knew her. I knew the Cullinan was more than a car—it was a symbol, a stage, a calculated gesture of love wrapped in a show. And for the first time, I truly understood that with Nora, nothing was ever simple.