Page 55 of Defying the Crown
Some people are meant to be alone. I'm one of them. Harald's deception just confirms what I've always known—I'm not worth the truth. Not worth staying for. Not worth loving.
Chapter 22
I step off the private jet into a nightmare of flashing cameras and shouting voices.
"Crown Prince Harald! How much did you pay the American escort for his services?"
"Your Highness, what does your father say about your gay relationship?"
"Is this a royal scandal or a love story?"
Questions ricochet around me like bullets. Erik and my guards form a human shield, guiding me toward the waiting car. I can't focus on any single face in the churning sea of reporters. They're vultures circling, sensing the carrion of my shattered heart.
"Keep moving, sir," Erik murmurs, his hand firm against my back.
Inside my chest, something vital has collapsed. Daniel's face when he discovered the truth—the betrayal washing over his features, wiping away the warmth I'd come to crave—plays on endless loop in my mind.
The car door slams shut, muffling the chaos outside. I lean my forehead against the cool window, watching Denmark welcome home its disgraced prince.
"Your father expects you at the palace immediately," Erik says, his voice professionally neutral.
I nod mechanically. What does it matter now? Everything important lies across an ocean, in a Brooklyn apartment where I'm no longer welcome.
My phone sitsheavy in my pocket. No new messages. I've sent dozens—explanations, apologies, pleas—each one meeting silence. The Daniel who trusted me, kissed me, held me close in those hotel sheets exists no more. I've killed him with my lies.
"I should have told him," I whisper, not realizing I've spoken aloud until Erik shifts uncomfortably beside me.
"Perhaps," he answers carefully. "But what's done cannot be undone."
Outside the window, Copenhagen slides past—beautiful, ancient, indifferent to the implosion of my personal life. These streets will someday be my responsibility. These people will look to me for leadership. The thought, once merely daunting, now seems impossible. How can I guide a nation when I couldn't even be honest with the one person who saw me as just Harald?
The palace gates loom ahead, promising judgment and consequence. I straighten my spine by instinct, royal training overriding my grief. But inside, I remain shattered.
The palace doors stand imposing and cold as we approach. I can't feel my legs beneath me—they move autonomously while my mind remains trapped in a New York hotel room, watching Daniel's face crumble with betrayal.
Ella rushes through the entrance before I've even fully emerged from the car. Her blonde hair catches the afternoon light as she flies down the steps toward me.
"Harald!" She crashes into me, wrapping her arms around my rigid frame. The warmth of her embrace barely penetrates the numbness enveloping me.
"It's going to be okay," she whispers fiercely against my ear, squeezing tighter. "We'll figure this out."
I can't bring myself to respond. Nothing feels okay. Nothing will ever be okay again.
Erik clears his throat softly. "His Majesty awaits in the study, Your Highness."
Ella's arms tighten protectively. "Father can wait five minutes."
"No," I manage, my voice sounding distant and hollow. "Let's get this over with."
The walk to Father's study stretches endlessly. Each step feels like marching toward execution. Ella keeps her hand firmly clasped around mine, but even her steadfast presence can't quell the dread building in my chest.
The heavy oak door swings open to reveal Father standing by the window, ramrod straight in his immaculate suit. The evening sunlight casts half his face in shadow, sharpening his already severe features.
His eyes—cold blue identical to mine—lock onto me. The disappointment radiating from them hits me with physical force.
"So." The single syllable slices through the silence with the precision of a surgeon's blade. "The Crown Prince of Denmark, cavorting with a man in public. Splashed across international tabloids like some common celebrity scandal."
I remain mute, unable to form words in my defense.
