Page 63 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

The room hasn’t changed since I left, and it’s comforting that at least this remains the same.

The heavy mahogany desk still sits at the center, stacks of books and documents neatly arranged in perfect order. The fireplace crackles softly in the background, casting dancing shadowsacross the stone walls. The scent of old parchment, leather, and aged bourbon lingers in the air, thick with nostalgia and something heavier.

The door creaks open behind me.

I already know it’s him before I turn. Considering how our first meeting ended, I brace myself for whatever Isaac has to say to me. Not like I don’t deserve it. I do.

Isaac steps inside, his presence just as imposing as ever, but there’s something different now. Something in the way he carries himself. The weight of the crown has settled on his shoulders, and it shows.

He closes the door and moves to the sideboard, pouring himself a drink before sitting across from me. For a while, neither of us spoke.

We just sit there, staring at each other, years of silence and distance hanging thick between us.

Finally, he exhales, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “They woke up today.”

I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around my glass.

I knew this already. I was outside their private ward when the doctors told us they had finally regained consciousness. But I haven’t seen them yet.

Because for seven years, I’ve wondered how they would look at me when this moment came.

Would they be relieved?

Angry?

Disappointed?

Isaac studies me carefully. “You should go see them.”

I let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over my face. “I don’t know if I can.”

His jaw clenches. “They asked for you.”

My heart stops.

He waits, giving me time to process that, to let the weight of those words crush me.

And then he sighs, leaning back slightly, his gaze still locked onto mine. “Look, I meant what I said before. You left, and you didn’t look back. I was hurt, Graham. I’m still hurt. You should have been here.”

“I know.” My voice is quiet. Raw. It’s the most honest thing I’ve said in a long time.

Isaac shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea what it was like? Watching them get older, watching the weight of the throne slowly break them down? Knowing they were waiting for you to come home, and you never did?”

Guilt slams into me like a freight train.

Isaac’s voice drops lower, quieter. “They never stopped asking about you.”

My chest aches. I grip the armrest of my chair, my fingers digging into the worn leather as I stare at the flickering flames in the fireplace.

I knew this conversation was coming. I knew the moment I stepped back into the castle that I’d have to face the truth—that I left, and they still waited for me.

Isaac exhales heavily, rubbing his fingers over his temple. “You think you were the only one who felt suffocated, Graham? You think I didn’t feel it, too? The pressure, the expectations, the constant weight of having to be enough?” His voice tightens, edged with something sharp. “The difference is, I stayed.”

I swallow, my throat thick with guilt. “I never wanted to abandon you.”

His jaw clenches. “Then why did you?”

I look down at my drink, the amber liquid swirling under the dim light. I don’t have an answer that will make any of this better.

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