Page 44 of Royal Secret

The elevator dings, mercifully sparing me further delay, but I can feel the seconds slipping through my fingers like sand. When the doors finally close, I hit the ground-level button repeatedly, as if that will hasten the descent.

Once outside, the usually charming narrow streets become my adversary. Cars inch along, trapped in the morning congestion that clogs the arteries of the city. I weave through the traffic on foot, my hope diminishing with every honk and screech of tires.

Finally breaking free from the gridlock, I make it to her hotel, my breath ragged and my shirt clinging to my back. The lobby is cool and calm, the few people in it staring at me with interest. I approach the front desk, where a man in a neatly tailored suit greets me with a professional smile.

“Your Highness.” His eyes widen a bit at the sight of me. “What an honor. How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for Courtney Fuller,” I manage between gulps of air, trying to steady my voice. “Please, it’s important.”

He taps away at his keyboard, his brow furrowing slightly. My chest tightens with anticipation.Please let her still be here.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he says after what feels like an eternity. “Ms. Fuller checked out not long ago. She seemed to bein quite a rush; mentioned something about a last-minute flight back to the US.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Last-minute flight. Back to the US. The phrases echo in my head, a litany of finality. I lean against the counter for support, my mind reeling. I waited too long. I should have gone after her the second she left my apartment.

“Did she… did she say anything else?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

The clerk shakes his head apologetically. “No, Your Highness. She was very discreet.”

“Thank you,” I reply, my voice barely audible.

I turn away from the desk, the enormity of my mistakes ready to crush me. Courtney is gone, and with her, the chance to explain, to make things right. I’ve lost her, and in doing so, I’ve lost a piece of myself.

Back at my apartment, I slam the door shut behind me, the sound echoing through the empty space like the final chord of a tragic symphony. My hands are shaking — anger, grief, disbelief — they all meld into a tumultuous storm within me. Courtney is on a plane back to the US, and I am here, in Bergovia, grappling with the magnitude of my blunder.

The polished wood floor feels cold underfoot as I pace back and forth, my mind racing. What could I have done differently? Should I have been honest from the start? Or was it that moment by the fountain when I hesitated, when I should have poured out my heart? A litany ofcould-havesandshould-havestaunt me, each one a sharp jab to an already bruised soul.

I bypass the neat stack of work documents on my desk; they seem trivial now, irrelevant. Forgetting about any semblance of professional responsibility, I find myself drawn instead to the cabinet where I keep a modest collection of spirits. The smooth glass bottle of whiskey feels heavy in my hand, its contents the only relief I can think of for a wound that seems incurable.

As the amber liquid burns its way down my throat, the sharp edges of my emotions begin to blur. First comes the anger, hot and fierce, at myself more than anyone else. I hurl a pillow across the room, and it thuds against the wall, harmless and ineffective. Then the anger fades to grief — a deep sorrow that seems to consume the very air I breathe.

“Damn it, Courtney,” I mutter to her memory, to the ghost of her laughter that haunts the corners of this place. “I tried. I did the best I could.”

Hours slip away unnoticed, the level in the bottle steadily dropping as shadows lengthen across the floor. Finally, there’s a knock at the door. I open it, foolishly hopeful, only to find my youngest brother waiting on the other side.

Oliver doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and resignation.

“Jakob,” he finally says, his voice cutting through the haze, “I’ve been calling.”

I shrug. “I can’t talk now, Oliver.”

“What happened?” he asks, not listening.

I stare at the floor. “Courtney… left.”

My grip on the bottle slackens as I meet his gaze, the clear blue eyes so much like our mother’s. Oliver never was one to mince words or to wallow in self-pity.

“Look at yourself, Brother,” he continues, stepping into the room and gently prying the bottle from my fingers. “This isn’t the way to fix things.”

Oliver’s gaze holds mine, earnest and unwavering. He settles onto the armchair, the leather creaking under his weight. I draw in a deep breath, the stench of alcohol as I do so reminding me of the depth I’ve sunk to. It’s time to unburden myself, to lay bare the ugly truth.

“I’ve made a mess of things, Oliver,” I begin, my voice rough with emotion. “Courtney… she was never supposed to be more than a mission.”

“A mission?” He leans forward, his brow furrowing in confusion.

I nod, feeling the familiar pang of guilt. “I followed her, made sure she wasn’t here to cause trouble for the family. Then I saw it — the sapphire necklace. It belonged to our family, and she had it.”

“You stole it back,” Oliver surmises, his tone flat.

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