Page 62 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

I hesitate, but there’s no way around it now. “Graham.”

And just like that, the air shifts.

A pause stretches too long before someone further down the table speaks up. “Speaking of Graham… where is he, anyway?”

A ripple effect follows.

“Yeah, I haven’t seen him all week.”

“Is he out of town or something?”

“Wait, no one knows?”

I grip my fork tighter, my stomach twisting as a murmur of confusion spreads through the guests.

Aunt Dotty raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s odd. That man is always around.”

Ethan frowns, shifting slightly in his seat. “No one’s heard from him?”

Emma, bless her sweet soul, looks concerned. “I mean… I thought Sophie would’ve known.”

Every single pair of eyes lands on me.

I freeze.

Because what exactly am I supposed to say?

GRAHAM

The bells ring loud across the kingdom.

Deep, commanding, final.

They echo through the castle walls, rolling over the hills and down into the streets where the people of Alveria have gathered, dressed in their finest, waiting to witness a new era.

Isaac has been crowned king.

The grand hall is filled to the brim—nobles and dignitaries standing in hushed reverence, their faces illuminated by the flickering golden glow of the chandeliers. The air is thick with the scent of burning incense and polished wood, with centuries of tradition pressing down on us.

At the center of it all, Isaac stands tall, draped in the deep royal blue of our house. A crown of gold and onyx now rests on his brow. The royal sigil—our family’s crest—has been fastened to the front of his ceremonial robe, heavy with meaning and responsibility.

I watch as he lifts his head, his shoulders squared, his expression unreadable as the High Chancellor makes the final declaration. I’ve forgotten just how tense coronations used to be. I shift a little, averting my gaze from my brother, who smiles and waves to his subjects.

“Long live King Isaac of Alveria!”

The entire hall erupts.

Thunderous applause. Voices raised in cheers. The sound of a new reign beginning.

My brother remains still for a fraction of a second longer; I know he’s letting it sink in, feeling the weight of the moment settle deep into his bones. Then, he finally exhales, stepping forward to greet the court, his movements deliberate and regal.

He was always meant for this.

He was always the one destined to rule.

And even though this was never meant to be my burden, I still feel the phantom weight of it pressing down on me as I slip out of the grand hall, away from the noise, away from the legacy I once ran from.

Later that evening, I sit in my father’s private study, my fingers curled around a glass of whiskey. The warmth does little to ease the tension in my chest.

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