Page 41 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

By the time I return to Mia’s house, the ache in my chest has only grown heavier, each step feeling like it’s dragging me deeper into a place I don’t want to be. I left the house feeling excited, and I’m back here, emotionally exhausted.

I close the door behind me quietly, the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Mia’s playlist from the kitchen filling the otherwise silent house. My body feels like it’s moving on autopilot as I head upstairs, my thoughts spinning too fast to focus.

Graham’s words replay in my mind, sharp and biting.

You’ve lived your whole life as a rich kid.

The sting of it cuts deeper than I want to admit. It’s not just the accusation—it’s the fact that he doesn’t know me at all, not really, and yet he still looked at me and decided I was some spoiled princess who’s never had to work for anything in her life.

The truth couldn’t be further from that.

Collapsing onto my bed, I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, willing myself not to cry. I haven’t felt this gutted in a long time.

Our family wasn’t wealthy—not even close. We were comfortable here in Bardstown, sure, but that was because Mom and Dad worked hard to ensure we had what we needed. They were smart about investing and planning for the future in ways most people in town didn’t consider.

But we weren’t handed anything on a silver platter. Mia, Sam, and I worked for everything we have now. I put myself through sleepless nights and endless hours to build my career in Manhattan, and I am proud of what I’ve accomplished.

And yet, all it took was one comment from Graham to make me feel like none of it matters. Like everything I’ve done, everything I’ve achieved can be reduced to the assumption that I’m some rich girl playing pretend.

The tears come before I can stop them, hot and angry, sliding down my cheeks as I curl into myself on the bed.

I don’t know why this hurts so much.

Maybe it’s because I’d started to see Graham differently.

After everything—the awkwardness, the tension, the way he let me in just enough to see glimpses of who he really is—I’d started to think that maybe, just maybe, we could be friends.

Or even more than that.

But now?

Now I feel like I was stupid to hope for anything at all.

The weight of his words presses down on me, crushing any optimism I’d been holding onto. How can I work with someone who sees me like that? Who doesn’t even care to understand where I’m coming from?

I swipe at my cheeks angrily, sitting up and wrapping my arms around my knees.

Why did I let myself get so attached to the idea of him?

Because that’s all it was, wasn’t it? An idea. A version of Graham I’d imagined based on the small cracks in his walls, the rare moments of vulnerability he’d shown.

But maybe that version of him doesn’t exist.

Maybe I’ve been holding onto a fantasy that was never real in the first place.

The thought sends another wave of hurt crashing over me, and I bury my face in my arms, letting the tears fall.

For the first time since returning to Bardstown, I wonder if I made a mistake.

Because if working with Graham is going to feel like this—like a constant reminder that I’ll never be enough—then maybe it’s not worth it.

Maybe he’s not worth it.

But even as I think it, my chest aches in a way that tells me I don’t really believe it.

A soft knock on the door pulls me out of my spiral, but the heaviness in my chest doesn’t lift.

“Sophie?” Mia’s voice is gentle, concerned.

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