Page 52 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

I shake my head. “Graham, please. Just talk to me.”

“I have to leave town.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

I step forward. “What? Why?”

He starts packing up his things.

His notebook, his sketches, the scraps of paper we scribbled ideas on when we were too caught up in planning to be neat—he grabs everything, moving with purpose and desperation I don’t understand.

Like he needs to get out of here.

Like he needs to get away fromme.

“Graham, stop,” I say, my voice shaking now. “You’re not making any sense.”

He still won’t look at me.

Still won’t explain.

I step closer, forcing myself into his line of sight, but he dodges my gaze so smoothly. It’s like second nature; he’s trained to do it.

“What happened?” I whisper. “Was it the phone call? Who was it?”

Nothing.

“Graham, please.” My chest aches. “Don’t do this.”

He grabs his bag and strides toward the door.

Panic spikes through me.

He’s actually leaving.

I don’t know why it hurts so much, but it does. It kills.

Just as he reaches the door, he hesitates.

And then—he turns.

His eyes finally find mine for the first time since he walked back in.

And it’s the worst part.

Because they’re full of something I can’t handle.

Regret.

Pain.

Something so deeply unspoken it makes my stomach twist.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. Then—soft, barely above a whisper?—

“I’m sorry.”

I freeze.

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