Page 13 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

It’s not anything obvious—just small moments that seem to stack up. The way Mia’s gaze lingers when she asks about my past, like she knows there’s more I’m not saying. The way the locals talk about the town is that it is a place where “everyone knows everyone,” even though I’ve done everything I can to stay on the edges.

Mia’s words earlier still hang in my head.“It’s about time Bardstown saw a little more of Graham Cole.”

Did she mean it as a harmless jab? Or was it something more? Something sharper, more knowing?

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening as I push the thought aside. She couldn’t know. No one here knows.

But what if they did?

I’ve spent years avoiding that question, pretending it didn’t matter. But tonight, the thought feels heavier, harder to ignore. If people in Bardstown found out who I really was—where I came from, the family I left behind—it wouldn’t just change how they see me. It would change everything.

It would make this life—the one I built from scratch—feel like a lie. But nothing about this town is a lie; I love the quiet it brings; I like how I can work and earn my own living, and the best part is that people actually love what I do. I’m not expected to perform better or do things a certain way because I’m royalty. There’s no preferential treatment. I’m treated the same, a commoner. That’s something I didn’t have growing up. My father always pushed me to do better than my brother. To prove myself worthy to be king in case anything happened to him or my brother.

I drive on autopilot, the road blurring as my mind drifts back to the life I walked away from—the castle, the name, the weight of being a Montgomery.

It wasn’t just the expectations that drove me away, though those were heavy enough to crush anyone. It was the constant performance, the way every interaction felt like a transaction. I was never just Graham; I was Graham Montgomery, and that name came with rules, responsibilities, and a legacy I never asked for.

My father made sure of that.

I was raised to be someone else, someone molded in his image—a strategist, a leader, a man who valued the family name aboveall else. And for a while, I tried. I wore the suits, made the speeches, and played the role. But every year, it chipped away at me, piece by piece, until nothing was left but a hollow shell.

Leaving was supposed to change that, to make me whole again.

But some wounds don’t heal just because you put distance between yourself and the thing that caused them.

I shake my head, trying to focus on the road, but the memories keep coming. The last time I spoke to my mother. The way her voice cracked when she asked if I’d ever come back.

“You’re just going to disappear?” she’d said, frustration and sadness bleeding into her words.

I’d promised to keep in touch. And I did, at first. Postcards. Emails. Short, polite phone calls. But over time, the distance became easier than the connection. Every conversation reminded me of what I left behind, of the life I’d turned my back on.

And then, four years ago, I stopped answering altogether.

I told myself it was for the best and that cutting ties was the only way to move forward. But the truth is, some nights, the silence feels unbearable. I wonder if my brother hates me now, if my mother’s gentle understanding has turned into quiet disappointment, and if my father even notices I’m gone—or if he’s relieved not to deal with a son who couldn’t live up to the Montgomery name.

The truck jolts slightly as I hit a bump in the road, pulling me back to the present. My house comes into view, the modest porch bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.

This is my home now. Not the castle. Not the sprawling estate with its manicured gardens and endless corridors. This small, simple house is mine.

But as I park in the driveway and cut the engine, I can’t help but feel like this life is as fragile as the reflection in the rearview mirror. One crack, one misstep, and the truth could shatter everything.

What would people here think if they knew the truth?

Would they see me as the same man? Or would they start treating me like something different—like the son of privilege, like the Montgomery I’ve spent years trying not to be?

I grab the bag of tools from the passenger seat and step out of the truck, the gravel crunching under my boots. The air is cool and quiet, the kind of calm that Bardstown always promises.

But tonight, even that calm feels uneasy.

I stand on the porch for a moment, staring out at the fields beyond the house. The sky is a deep shade of orange, the last light of day slipping away. This life is all I’ve ever wanted—a place where no one asks too many questions, where I’m not defined by the name I left behind.

But lately, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s coming. Something I can’t avoid or outrun. It feels like I would wake up one morning, and all of Bardstown would realize I’ve been lying to them. Or the castle would eventually get tired of me avoiding their calls and track me here.

I swallow. Maybe I should listen to the voicemail when I have time.

SOPHIE

The car slows to a stop in front of a sprawling brick mansion, its ivy-covered façade glowing softly in the late afternoon light. I step out onto the cobblestone driveway, stretching after the long ride. The air here feels different—cleaner, lighter, laced with a faint hint of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers.

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