Page 34 of Royal Secret

“And they went to the United States,” I finish for him.

“The way that I heard the story, they thought it would be temporary, but… they never returned.”

A cold draught seeps into my bones. My family, uprooted and cast adrift because they dared to defy. And all this time, I was oblivious, living a life devoid of any inkling of royalty or rebellion.

“Thank you for telling me,” I manage to say, though the words sound hollow in my ears.

“Of course. You deserve to know the truth,” he replies, reaching across the table to cover my hand with his.

His touch is warm, reassuring, yet I feel so far removed from the woman who once roamed these historic streets.

I can’t help but feel a surge of anger at the royal family, his family, for the pain they’ve caused mine. The irony isn’t lost on me — I’m sitting across from a prince, someone whose ancestry once decided my family’s fate.

“My great-grandparents… they made decisions they thought were right,” Jakob says carefully, as if navigating a minefield. “But that was a different time, Courtney. And it certainly wasn’t me.”

I know he’s right, and yet, the unfairness of it all stings sharply. If history had taken another path, if stubborn pride hadn’t gotten in the way, I could have grown up here, amid these ancient streets and grand palaces. Nobility might have been my birthright, not just a fascinating tale to uncover.

“Jakob, I— I just need some time alone.” Whereas before I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to my empty hotel room, suddenly I feel like I can’t stand to be around anyone.

I need to process all of this, and that might involve tears. It might involve yelling or punching a pillow. Either way, I want all of that to happen in private.

He nods, his eyes reflecting a worry that perhaps he’s revealed too much, too soon. “Of course. Let me take you back to your hotel.”

We rise from our hidden booth, leaving behind the still-hot tea and a silence filled with history.

“Thank you for understanding,” I say, though part of me is upset that he didn’t share this information sooner.

Then again, why should he? He owes me nothing, and I already know that his allegiance is to his family and his country. Once I go back to Texas, I’ll be nothing but a memory to him.

“Certainly,” he replies, offering a small smile that doesn’t entirely reach his eyes.

He’s clearly worried about today, about the revelations that may have opened old wounds rather than healed them. And while I appreciate his concern, what I crave most now is solitude, a moment to gather the scattered pieces of my identity.

We barely clear the threshold of the bookstore when a soft murmur sweeps through the crowd gathered outside. Jakob’s presence draws people towards him with an almost gravitational pull. I hang back a step, watching as he greets each person with a warmth that seems to come as naturally to him as breathing.

“Prince Jakob, could we please have a photo with you?” A young woman clutches a book to her chest, her eyes alight with admiration.

“Of course,” Jakob replies, his voice laced with genuine warmth. He positions himself beside her, flashing a charming smile that will no doubt make its way into countless social-media feeds within the hour.

“Thank you so much, Your Highness!” she beams, and my heart twists at the affection in her voice. It is clear how much he means to these people.

“Jakob, may I have your autograph?” another asks, holding out a pen and a well-worn notepad.

His hand moves with practiced ease, this being something I can tell he’s done hundreds, maybe thousands, of times.

“Thank you for your kindness,” he says, handing back the notepad with a gracious nod.

The crowd murmurs their thanks, their faces lit with joy from the simple act of acknowledgment from someone they hold in such high esteem.

“Your people really love you,” I comment, more to myself than to him as he finishes and turns back to me.

He shrugs modestly, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. “I am here to serve them, in any way I can.”

I watch him, this man who navigates fame with such ease and grace, who has found his place in the fabric of his country’s heart. He belongs here, rooted in Bergovia’s rich soil and history. Unlike me. I’m an outcast, a person who kind of belongs to this country but doesn’t really.

As we begin walking again, I feel like a leaf caught in the wind — drifting, searching for where I might land. Perhaps, like my grandmother, I am meant to find my own path — one that strays from the expected course and into the unknown.

“Thank you for today,” I say, waiting until we’ve left the crowd behind and we can speak in private again. “It was… enlightening.”

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