Chapter 21
The night air was thick with excitement, the lanterns casting pools of golden light that flickered across the driveway. The Cullinan sat there, impossibly perfect, its polished surface reflecting a thousand faces, a thousand whispers, a thousand expectations. I could feel every eye on me, every murmur slicing through my chest, yet it was the note on the windshield that burned brightest in my mind:
"I am sorry, Leah, for hurting you."
I had read it over and over in my head, tasting the words like bittersweet wine. Sorry. A word too small for everything she had done, everything she had ignored, every refusal she had ever made. And yet, here she was, presenting me with a gift that could only exist in stories, in the kind of fairy tales my mother loved to orchestrate.
I stepped closer to the car, my fingers brushing the smooth metal, the cool touch grounding me in the reality of it. The scent of the leather interior, faint cedarwood, vanilla, and something almost intoxicating in its newness, drifted toward me. I wanted it. I wanted to sink into it, to feel the power and the privilege, to let the world see me owning it.
But I couldn't.
I couldn't because accepting it fully felt like surrendering, like allowing her to remind me of the invisible strings she had always held. I had been here before, countless times, letting her manipulate situations, bending to her whims, letting her craft moments of awe to make me feel small, indebted, controlled. And I wasn't ready to do it again—not tonight, not ever.
So I stepped back.
The crowd shifted around me, murmurs and gasps blending into a low, persistent hum. I could feel their eyes, the weight of their awe, but I didn't want it. My gaze flicked from the gleaming vehicle to the prince. He had been watching quietly, his expression unreadable yet intense. He didn't rush forward or speak—he didn't need to. His mere presence was enough to steady the storm inside me, to remind me that I didn't have to decide for anyone but myself.
I turned, stepping away from the Cullinan. I didn't walk fast—this wasn't a flight, just a careful retreat, a dance of defiance. My heart pounded, each beat a reminder of the tension twisting through me. I could feel the pull of the car, the allure of its perfection, yet the knot of fear and anger in my chest kept me moving backward, away from it, away from her.
The prince stepped closer. I sensed him before I saw him, a quiet shift in the space beside me. His eyes found mine, and I felt it again—that steady, grounding presence that somehow made me braver, calmer, yet painfully aware of every vulnerability I carried.
"Leah…" His voice was low, warm, commanding without pressure. "You don't have to decide right now. But you can't keep running either."
I froze. The words weren't an accusation, weren't a judgment—they were an invitation. And I realized with a jolt that I had been trying to run, not from him, not even from the crowd, but from the weight of choice itself. Accepting the car could feel like admitting defeat, but refusing it could feel like denying myself something that, in another life, I might have wanted freely.
I tried to step aside again, to circle, to create distance, but his hand found mine. The warmth of his touch, the firmness of his grip, anchored me in a way nothing else had that night. It was not possessive, not demanding—but it was unyielding.
"You don't have to let her control you, Leah," he said, his voice soft, yet threaded with an authority I couldn't ignore. "But don't let fear stop you from taking what you deserve either."
I swallowed hard. The words struck me, echoing something I had been trying to remind myself for years: I had agency. I had the right to claim my space, my things, my choices. Not her, not anyone.
Slowly, reluctantly, I let myself be guided back toward the car. Not with haste, not with surrender—but with deliberate steps, a quiet declaration that I could navigate this world on my own terms.
The crowd's excitement swelled as I neared the Cullinan, whispers rippling like waves. "She's taking it! She's finally taking it!" someone shouted, and the applause was immediate. My mother's eyes followed me, sharp, calculating, a flicker of satisfaction dancing across her features. But I didn't flinch. Not now.
I ran my fingers along the hood, feeling the cold, perfect metal beneath my touch. The sleek lines, the polished curves, the smooth leather seats—it was a dream, and yet it was mine to touch, mine to claim. And in that moment, I realized something fundamental: I could accept the gift without surrendering myself. I could acknowledge her gesture and still remain untouchable, unbroken, and entirely my own.
The prince remained beside me, his presence a quiet reassurance. His hand brushed mine again, a small, almost imperceptible gesture that made my chest ache with warmth. He didn't speak; he didn't need to. He simply watched, and I felt seen in a way I hadn't felt all night, not by the crowd, not by my mother, not by anyone.
Then, chaos erupted. A small figure—a girl no older than six—had climbed onto the hood of the Cullinan, twirling like a ballerina in the gleaming reflections of the headlights. Cameras flashed, people gasped, and my mother's composure faltered for the briefest instant. Her perfect posture cracked, just enough to let the imperfection show.
I laughed—a real laugh, untamed and pure. It rang out like music against the tension, and the prince laughed too, deep and rich, his hand tightening around mine. In that moment, everything felt lighter, the world shrinking down to just the two of us, the Cullinan, and the impossibility of the night.
But I couldn't let myself get lost in it. Not entirely. My mother's shadow lingered, a reminder of the strings she could pull if I let her. I stepped away again, careful, deliberate, testing my own boundaries. I wanted to leave, to escape the gaze of the crowd, to reclaim my autonomy entirely.
The prince noticed instantly. He stepped closer, his presence enveloping me like a protective shield. His hand slid into mine again, firm, grounding. "You don't have to decide everything tonight," he said softly, "but don't let her make the decision for you either."
I shook my head slightly, the tension coiling in my chest like a spring. "It's not about the car," I murmured, almost to myself. "It's about… everything else. The chances I've given her, the times I've let her control me without even realizing it. I like the car… but I can't let it… tie me to her again."
He didn't answer immediately. He just held my hand, his thumb brushing over mine, silently urging me to find the balance between desire and defiance. And slowly, inch by inch, I let myself step closer, letting my fingers brush along the hood again, letting the reality of it sink in without fear, without surrender.
When I finally touched the door handle, I felt a surge of triumph. This was my choice, my control, my moment. I didn't bow to the spectacle, didn't let the crowd or my mother's expectations dictate my reaction. I simply claimed it, quiet and resolute, like staking a claim in a world that had always tried to script my life for me.
The prince's hand remained in mine, warm and unyielding. He stepped closer, his gaze flicking between me and the car, reading the subtle tension in my shoulders, the hesitation in my breath. He didn't speak, but the closeness, the attention, was enough to steady me. Enough to let me feel that I wasn't alone, that I could navigate both the brilliance of my mother's performance and my own autonomy at the same time.
I glanced at him then, and our eyes locked. There was something unspoken in that gaze—a recognition of boundaries, a recognition of defiance, a recognition of desire. A spark ignited between us, subtle but undeniable, and I felt the warmth of it coil through my chest, quiet and insistent.
"You did it," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.
I allowed a small, private smile to curve my lips. "I did it on my terms," I said softly, feeling a surge of quiet triumph.
The crowd continued their murmurs, the whispers blending into cheers, but I tuned them out. I didn't need their validation, didn't need their awe. I had claimed my choice, walked my line, and for the first time, I felt both powerful and free.
The prince leaned slightly closer, and I felt the warmth of him brush against me, subtle but undeniable. He didn't speak—words weren't necessary. His hand squeezed mine gently, a quiet acknowledgment that he understood, that he would stand beside me, and that, for once, I didn't have to navigate this world alone.
And then, with the Cullinan gleaming behind us and the crowd still buzzing, I felt a strange, thrilling sensation. Life wasn't just a stage. It was messy, chaotic, beautiful—and I could claim it without surrendering myself.
I turned fully toward him, our hands still intertwined. "Come with me," I whispered, the words trembling but deliberate.
He smiled, a faint, knowing smile that made my chest tighten. "Anywhere," he said simply.
And together, we walked away from the spectacle, past the murmurs, past the awe, into the quiet of the night—a world that belonged only to us.
For the first time that evening, I felt the full weight of freedom, the intoxicating thrill of defiance, and the warmth of desire all at once. And though the Cullinan remained gleaming, untouchable in the moonlight, I knew I had claimed something far more precious: control over my choices, over my life, and over the space between me and the man who had silently anchored me through it all.