Page 11 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

GRAHAM

The soft scratch of the pencil against paper fills the small workshop, the only sound breaking the stillness of the room. Sunlight filters through the window, casting golden streaks across the plans spread out on the worktable. I pause, stepping back to study the sketch. It’s for the new community park—clean lines, open spaces, something simple and inviting.

It’s the kind of project that makes Bardstown feel like home, like I’m doing something that matters, even on a small scale.

I reach for my coffee, only to grimace when I realize it’s gone cold. That’s when my phone rings.

The sound cuts through the quiet, sharp, and unexpected. I glance at the screen, and my chest tightens when I see the number.

It’s not a familiar contact, just a string of digits I haven’t seen in years. But I know where it’s from.

The castle.

I don’t answer.

The phone stops ringing, but the tension doesn’t fade. It never does when something like this happens. It’s rare, but when it does, it feels like a tether pulling at me—a tether I thought I’d cut long ago.

I let out a slow breath, setting the pencil down and rubbing the back of my neck. Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since I walked away from that life.

At first, I kept in touch, providing updates on the family’s health, the state of the estate, and the deals being made. But four years ago, I stopped. Not because I didn’t care but because knowing what was happening back there felt like carrying a weight I couldn’t bear anymore.

The truth is, I didn’t leave the castle because I hated it. I left because I hated who I was becoming there.

When you grow up in a place like that, everything about your life is planned out for you. Who you talk to, what you wear, the person you’re supposed to be. My father was the architect of it all—every detail of our lives was meticulously designed to protect and grow the family’s legacy.

And I went along with it for a while. I could live up to his expectations and be the perfect son and heir. But the more I tried, the more I felt like I was losing myself.

The turning point wasn’t a single moment. It was a series of them. My father’s sharp words when I didn’t close a deal fast enough. The constant comparisons to my older brother, who seemed to thrive under pressure. The suffocating weight of a life I didn’t choose.

And then there was the final straw—a disagreement with my father that turned into an argument and a full-blown shouting match. I still remember how his voice rang out through the halls, cold and unforgiving.

“If you can’t carry this family’s name with pride, you’re not worthy of it.”

That was the moment I realized I had to leave. Not because I couldn’t handle the pressure but because I didn’t want to become someone who thrived on it as my father and brother had.

So I packed a bag, left the castle, and didn’t look back.

I thought cutting ties would be easy, and I’d feel lighter without the weight of my family’s expectations. And for a while, I did. Bardstown gave me something the castle never could—a sense of freedom, a chance to build a life on my terms.

But freedom comes with its kind of loneliness.

I still think about my family sometimes. I think about my mother, who never said much but always seemed to understand more than she let on.

I used to wonder if they missed me. If they thought about me the way I thought about them. But over the years, the questions stopped feeling important.

Now, when the calls come, I don’t answer.

The phone buzzes again, this time with a voicemail notification. I don’t play it. Instead, I put the phone down, turning back to the plans on the table. I don’t want to know what’s going on over there.

What if it’s about your parents? What if it’s important? What if it’s life or death?

The voice creeps into my head, urging me to listen to the voicemail, but I do not relent. If this were actual life or death, the castle wouldn’t call. Bardstown would already know my true identity because my parents would have sniffed me out one way or the other. I just don’t want to risk communicating at all. I liked my quiet life a little too much now. Answering the call and playing that voicemail would mean I’m inviting trouble.

I pick up the pencil again, forcing my focus back to the work before me. Bardstown is my home now. It’s quiet, steady, and mine.

I step out of the workshop, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension from sitting hunched over plans all morning. The air outside is fresh, the kind that only Bardstown can offer—crisp, clean, and laced with the faint scent of wildflowers from the nearby fields.

I’ve been working on the new community park design for weeks, and seeing the space start to take shape is satisfying in a way that sketches and plans never can be. The outline of the walking paths is already marked, and the newly installed benches gleam under the sun.

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