Page 53 of Defying the Crown
Caleb's already grabbing the remote, shutting off the TV. "Dude, what the actual fuck?" His voice is soft, stunned. "He's a fucking prince?"
"Are you okay?" Jayda's hands hover near my shoulders, afraid to touch me. "What happened? The news is saying—"
"I don't want to talk about it." My voice sounds hollow, distant, like it's coming from someone else.
"Danny, come sit down." Caleb moves toward me, his lanky frame unfolding from the couch. "We're here for you, man."
Something inside me snaps. "I said I don't want to talk about it!" The words explode from me, raw and jagged.
Jayda flinches. "We're just worried—"
"Don't." I push past them both, heading straight for my bedroom. "Just... leave me alone."
"Daniel, wait—" Caleb calls after me.
I slam my door shut, the sound cracking like thunder in our apartment, cutting off their voices mid-sentence. The cool wood presses against my back as I slide down against it, my body feeling impossibly heavy, until I hit the floor with a dull thud. My knees automatically pull tight against my chest, a defensive position I've assumed countless times since childhood—my body's way of making itself smaller, less of a target. The pressure builds inside me until I can't hold it back anymore, and I let myself sob, ugly, gasping cries that rip from my throat and shake my entire frame. Tears burn hot trails down my cheeks, dripping onto my t-shirt, and I taste salt when I try to breathe through my mouth. My fingers dig painfully into my shins, anchoring me to something solid while everything else feels like it's crumbling away.
After what feels like forever, I get up and lie back on my unmade bed, staring up at the ceiling. The blinds are drawn, plunging the room into a dim twilight that matches my mood. My phone screen glows harsh and blue in the darkness as I scroll through our messages, each word now tainted with deception.
"Tell me about your job,"I'd asked him.
"I work with the government for my family's business,"he'd replied."Foreign affairs, budget, consulting. Lots of meetings and paperwork. Nothing exciting."
The truth hides in plain sight, mocking me with its cruel simplicity. All those "meetings" he mentioned so casually were royal engagements with diplomats and dignitaries. The "work travel" that kept him away for days at a time wasn't some corporate drudgery but official state business—negotiations and ceremonies that impacted an entire nation. The "family business" he'd described with such practiced nonchalance wasn't some inherited company but literally running a country—a monarchy with centuries of history behind it. How could I have been so blind? The clues were scattered throughout our conversations like breadcrumbs, but I'd been too caught up in my feelings to notice the trail leading to the truth.
I scroll further back.
"Nice place,"I'd texted when he sent a photo from his balcony.
"Just the family home,"he'd answered.
Family home. A fucking palace. His "assistant" Erik wasn't just his assistant at all but his royal handler—probably some high-ranking official with an impressive title and job description that included managing the Crown Prince of Denmark's day-to-day affairs and keeping his royal ass out of trouble. I bet Erik had been hovering in the background of every video call, strategically out of frame, making sure Harald didn't reveal too much to the random American guy he'd met online. God, it was all so obvious now.
My thumb hovers over a selfie he sent—Harald standing beside a portrait of some stern-faced man in military dress.
"Who's the guy in the painting?"I'd asked.
"Just a distant relative,"he'd written back."Family likes to keep the old portraits up."
The "distant relative" was probably his great-grandfather or something. The King of Denmark.
God, I'm such an idiot. The security detail. The luxury hotel. The way people stared at him on the street. The evasiveness about his family. How could I have been so blind? So fucking stupid?
I throw my phone down on the bed, pressing the heels of my palms against my burning eyes until I see white spots dancing in the darkness. First Alex, now this. What is it about me that makes men lie? Is there something fundamentally broken inside me that attracts deception? Some cosmic joke where the universe decided I should be everyone's favourite punching bag? The familiar weight of betrayal settles in my chest, constricting my lungs until each breath becomes a struggle. I thought I'd learned my lesson after Alex, but apparently, I'm still the same naive idiot who believes what people tell him. Maybe Jayda's right—maybe I should just get a cat and call it a day. At least cats are honest about their indifference.
My phone buzzes again. Harald's name flashes on screen.
"Daniel, I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But please give me a chance to explain."
Three missed calls. Seventeen unread texts. Two voicemails.
Another text appears:"What we have is real. That wasn't a lie."
I grab the phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. For a split second, I consider responding. Then I remember his words at the hotel: "There's another part of my life I haven't told you about."
Yeah. The part where he's literal fucking royalty.
I toss the phone aside again and curl onto my side, pulling the blanket over my head as fresh tears burn my eyes.
