Page 41 of Royal Secret

What this entirely means, I’m not sure. I do know, though, that things are about to change.

“Enjoy your day, Jakob,” Mrs. Petrov says, her gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“Will do,” I respond, eager to return to the sanctuary of my apartment and the woman who unknowingly holds my world in her hands.

Instead of going straight into the apartment building, I duck into the building’s garage, the attendant opening the gate and bowing once he sees me coming. I need to check the news. See what people are saying. See who has called me.

Reaching my car, I search for my phone, finding it stashed in the center console. It buzzes angrily in my hand, a constant vibration of incoming calls and texts. A digital pulse of curiosity from family, friends, acquaintances, and those who believe they have a stake in my personal life. My thumb hovers over the screen, scrolling through messages that all ask about “the new woman in my world.” The one whose laughter has begun to sound like home.

Amongst the flurry of inquiries sits a lone message from my father — two words that carry more weight than any headline:Call me.

A knot tightens in my stomach as I turn on my heel, heading back to the sanctuary of my penthouse. With each floor ascended in the elevator, the knot coils tighter, until I’m struggling to keep my hands from shaking.

In the apartment, the sound of running water greets me. Courtney is in the shower. I sneak up to the cracked door, catching her silhouette through the frosted glass. This could’ve been another fragment of time stolen just for us, but responsibility — or, rather, the expectation of it — looms overhead.

Before I can even contemplate a response to my father, my phone rings again, the screen lighting up with his name. I answer, moving to the farthest corner of the living room, away from the innocent hum of Courtney’s tune.

“Jakob,” my father’s voice is stern, each syllable laced with disappointment.

It’s as if I’m a child again, caught with a hand in the cookie jar. But this isn’t about cookies; it’s about matters of the heart, and the consequences that come with being born into a legacy.

“I see the tabloids are having a field day,” he continues, and I feel the scowl in his tone.

I glance at the bathroom door, ensuring it remains closed, the sound of water still cascading down.

“Father, it’s not what it seems,” I start, my voice steady despite the undercurrent of panic. “I’m handling it. Keeping her close is strategic — better to manage the narrative than let rumors run wild.”

“You are keeping her close by kissing her?”

I rake my fingers through my hair in frustration and turn to the windows. “You asked me to watch her, and I am. I’m making absolutely sure that she is not a threat to national security. Trust me, please. I understand your concerns about the Jägers.”

There’s silence on the other end, a pause long enough to make me second-guess each word I’ve just spoken. Then he sighs, a sound of resignation that doesn’t quite convey understanding.

“Very well. But we will discuss this further, Jakob. Soon.”

As the call ends, I lower the phone, staring at the now blank screen. The lie tastes bitter, its residue clinging to me. I’m not just managing a narrative; I’m entangled in the very story I’m trying to control. And as I hear the shower cease, signaling Courtney’s return to a world that’s all too interested in her presence, I realize that honesty is a luxury I can ill afford — at least, not yet.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, the burden of deceit heavy against my thigh. I rub a hand over my face, trying to erase the lines of worry that crease my forehead. Every word I told my father was a calculated misstep on a dance floor I never desired to tread upon.

Keeping Courtney close — yes, that part is true, but not for the reasons I claimed. Not to control the narrative or prevent her from speaking to the press. No, it’s because when she’s near, the chaos of my life fades into soft murmurs, and all that remains is the clarity of her laughter, the warmth in her eyes.

I have admitted that to myself… but admitting it to my father, well, that feels a long way off.

CHAPTER 22

COURTNEY

The steam from the shower still clings to my skin as I stand in the fogged-up bathroom, the towel wrapped hastily around me. My heart is a wild thing in my chest, beating furiously against my rib cage. I press my hand to the cool tile wall, trying to steady myself.

I overheard everything. Every single word Jakob said to his father. I’m not just some girl he happened to like; I’m a project, an assignment handed down by the King of Bergovia himself. The thought makes my stomach twist. How could I have been so naïve? To think that someone like Jakob… that he could actually care for someone like me?

Peeling off the towel, I quietly pad into the attached master bedroom and slip into the dress from last night. It’s crumpled and smells faintly of the evening’s revelry. My reflection in the mirror is a stranger’s: flushed cheeks, eyes bright with unshed tears, betrayal etched into every angle of my face.

I can’t stay here, locked away with the truth gnawing at my insides. I need answers, and there’s only one person who can give them to me.

Pushing the door open, I step into the living room. Jakob is there, his back to me, putting his phone on a charging stand. He looks regal even in his jeans and T-shirt, every bit the prince — but now I see the lies woven into his expensive clothes.

“Jakob.” My voice breaks, and he turns, startled. There’s a flicker of something in his expression — guilt, maybe, or surprise. It doesn’t matter. “We need to talk.”

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