Page 55 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

“Graham, finally,” a familiar voice snaps through the line. Charles. My father’s right-hand man. The same man who’s been trying to reach me for years. “I booked you on the next available flight. You need to be here as soon as possible.”

“I’m already heading to the airport,” I say, locking the door behind me and striding toward the road. I don’t bother taking my truck. I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I need to get out of Bardstown.

“Good,” Charles says. “Isaac will be handling things, but we need you here. There’s—concern.”

“Concern about what?” My voice is clipped, and my patience is running thin.

He hesitates. “We’ll discuss it when you arrive.”

Of course. The castle never says more than necessary over the phone. I grind my teeth as a taxi pulls up, and I slide into the back seat. “I’ll be there.”

“The moment you land, someone will be waiting.”

“Fine.”

I hang up, staring out the window as the driver pulls away from my house. The streets of Bardstown blur past me, a town that has been my haven for years—the only place where I could be Graham, not a prince, not a son weighed down by expectations.

And now, I’m leaving it behind.

I don’t know for how long.

I don’t know if I’ll ever come back… or if I’ll ever see Sophie again.

The moment the plane touches down, my stomach coils so tightly that I feel like I might be sick. I barely register the announcement over the speakers or notice the other passengers standing, stretching, and gathering their belongings. My mind is locked on getting to the castle, to my parents, and praying that I’m not too late.

I grab my duffel bag from the overhead compartment, slip on my baseball cap, and pull it low over my head before going through the jet bridge. I need to stay unnoticed. The last thing I want is for someone to recognize me, for whispers to start before I even leave the airport. The country may have a king, but it also has vultures—people who would love nothing more than to see the royal family in turmoil, waiting for any sign of weakness.

I keep my head down as I step into the arrivals hall. Just as Charles said, the limo is already waiting. It is sleek, black, and unmistakably royal. A uniformed driver stands beside it, and the moment he spots me, he opens the door without a word.

I slide in, sinking into the leather seat, gripping the handle of my bag with fingers that refuse to stop shaking.

“Straight to the castle, sir?” the driver asks.

I hesitate for half a second. “To the king and queen.”

There’s a pause, then a slight nod. “Of course, Your Highness.”

I flinch at the title. It’s been years since anyone called me that, and I don’t like how easily it pulls me back, how it coils around me like a chain I thought I’d broken. I don’t correct him, though. Not this time.

The drive is long, and the closer we get, the worse the tension in my chest becomes. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what I’ll walk into. My father, the king—the most indestructible man I’ve ever known—fighting for his life? My mother, the queen—delicate but always strong, now reduced to hospital machines and quiet prayers? It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t feel real.

But reality crashes into me in full force when the castle gates come into view.

It’s the same as I remember. Towering. Intimidating. Suffocating.

I barely have time to prepare myself before the car pulls up to the entrance. When the door opens, I step out, adjusting my cap to shield my face. The air is thick with tension, but I don’t even have time to register it fully because?—

Isaac is there.

Pacing. His posture is rigid, and his jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised it hasn’t cracked. His hands are curled into fists at hissides, his entire body thrumming with frustration, maybe even rage.

I don’t know how long he’s been waiting. I don’t know what’s running through his head.

All I know is that when his eyes land on me, they burn.

And before I can say a single word?—

He throws a punch.

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