Chapter 21
Daniel
I stumble out of the Peninsula's revolving doors, my legs trembling beneath me. The morning sun feels too bright, too harsh against my tear-stained face. My phone vibrates non-stop in my pocket – a constant reminder of the nightmare unfolding around me.
A crowd of photographers materializes, their cameras clicking like insects. Flashes burst in my face.
"Daniel! Over here!"
"Are you Prince Harald's boyfriend?"
"How long have you been dating the Crown Prince?"
My chest constricts. The air feels thick, impossible to draw into my lungs. I duck my head and push through the wall of bodies, their questions becoming a deafening roar. My hands shake so violently I can barely pull up my hood to shield my face.
My phone won't stop. Notifications flood the screen – texts from coworkers, Instagram tags, Twitter mentions.
CNN's headline glares up at me: "Danish Crown Prince's Secret Gay Romance Exposed.
" There's a photo of us kissing on the Wonder Wheel, another of us walking hand in hand on the boardwalk. My stomach lurches.
Harald's name lights up my screen. Again. Again. Again.
"Daniel, please let me explain."
"I never meant to hurt you."
"Pick up, kaereste. Please."
I silence the phone and shove it deep in my pocket, bile rising in my throat. The sidewalk swims before my eyes as I break into a run, desperate to escape the pursuing cameras. My heart pounds so hard I think it might burst. Every breath comes in short, painful gasps.
I duck into the first subway entrance I find, practically falling down the stairs.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as I collapse against a pillar, sliding to the ground.
My whole body trembles, fingers tingling with pins and needles.
The phone keeps buzzing against my thigh – Harald's desperate attempts to reach me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears leak out anyway.
Crown Prince. He's the fucking Crown Prince of Denmark. And I'm just... me. The foster kid. The insurance drone. The fool who fell for another beautiful lie.
I pull my hoodie tighter around my face as I emerge from the subway, scanning the street for cameras or curious eyes.
A woman walking her dog does a double-take, staring at me with dawning recognition.
I duck into a bodega, pretending to browse magazines while my heart hammers against my ribs.
The cashier glances up from his phone, his eyes widening.
"Hey, aren't you—"
I bolt before he can finish, abandoning any pretense of normalcy.
Three blocks from my apartment, a group of teenagers point phones in my direction.
I cross the street abruptly, taking a circuitous route through back alleys I've never used before.
By the time I reach my building, sweat soaks through my shirt despite the cool morning air.
The moment I unlock our apartment door, I hear the TV blaring. My stomach drops.
"—Crown Prince Harald of Denmark seen in New York City with a man now identified as Daniel Ramirez—"
I freeze in the doorway. Jayda and Caleb sit on the couch, their faces illuminated by the flashing images on the screen. My face. Harald's face. Our kisses played on repeat for the world's entertainment.
"Danny!" Jayda jumps up, rushing toward me. Her black-painted nails reach for me, her face twisted with concern. "Oh my god, we've been trying to call you!"
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.
I've been holed up in my bedroom for days now.
The blinds stay drawn, letting in just enough light to see the mess I've become.
My phone chimes with another notification—probably Jayda trying to coax me out for dinner again.
I ignore it and continue scrolling through yet another news article about "The Crown Prince and His American Lover. "
My reflection in the dark phone screen startles me. Bloodshot eyes stare back, surrounded by dark circles. My patchy stubble has grown into an uneven beard that itches constantly. I haven't showered since... I honestly can't remember when.
"Denmark's playboy prince slums it in New York with American escort boy" reads the headline. The article includes photos of us on the Wonder Wheel, Harald's arm wrapped around me. What felt intimate and special is now splashed across the internet for everyone to dissect.
I switch to Twitter, which is even worse.
"Who is Daniel Ramirez? Royal insiders say the Crown Prince's latest fling has a troubling past."
"Sources confirm Prince Harald met commoner on mental health support website. Palace in crisis mode."
"Does anyone else think this Daniel guy is just after royal money? #GoldDigger #RoyalScandal"
My stomach twists as I scroll through the comments:
"He looks trashy. Denmark deserves better than this nobody."
"Just another attention seeker. Bet he leaked the photos himself."
"Look at his eyes—total psycho. No wonder he was in a mental hospital."
They've found everything. My hospitalization. The suicide attempt. Photos from high school. Even shots of me leaving work at Insuricarica. Every private moment between Harald and I has been picked apart and analyzed by people who know nothing about us.
I click on a Danish news site translated to English and see photos of Harald I've never seen before—in military uniform, at state dinners, shaking hands with the Queen of England.
There's an entire slideshow titled "The Life of Crown Prince Harald," showing him growing up in the palace, attending boarding schools in Switzerland and England, graduating from university with honors in international relations.
A photo shows Harald standing beside his father, both in formal royal attire with medals and sashes. The caption reads: "Crown Prince Harald and King Magnus at the 2023 New Year's Royal Reception."
This man—this entire life—was hidden from me. The person I thought I was falling for doesn't even exist.
I drag myself out of bed Monday morning after refusing to go to work for a week, knowing I need to face the music eventually. My phone's been buzzing non-stop—Harald's texts, calls, and voicemails piling up. I switch it off completely, tossing it on my bed before heading out.
The subway ride is excruciating. People stare, some even take photos. A teenage girl whispers to her friend, "That's the prince's boyfriend." I pull my hoodie tighter around my face.
At Insuricarica, the security guard eyes me suspiciously before reluctantly letting me through. The office falls silent as I walk to my desk. Coworkers pretend to work while sneaking glances.
"Daniel Ramirez." Cassandra's saccharine voice cuts through the silence. "My office. Now."
Her office feels smaller than usual. She sits behind her desk, jowls quivering with barely contained glee.
"Well, well. Quite the celebrity, aren't we?
" she drawls, her southern accent stretching each word like taffy.
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes, which glitter with malicious delight.
The family photos on her desk—all featuring her array of cats in different holiday-themed outfits—seem to judge me alongside her.
I stare at the carpet as Cassandra's words hammer into me like nails into a coffin.
"The board has decided to terminate your employment, effective immediately.
" Her lips curl into a smile that reminds me of a cat who's finally cornered its prey.
The fluorescent light glints off her too-white teeth as she savours each syllable.
"Your... escapades have damaged our company image.
We can't have someone so publicly scandalous representing Insuricarica.
The insurance industry is about trust and integrity, Daniel, and you've become a liability. "
My stomach drops to my feet, a cold wave of panic rushing through my veins. Two years of mind-numbing work, of forcing myself out of bed each morning to face her torment—gone in a single sentence. I can already feel the anxiety clawing at my chest, wondering how I'll make rent next month.
"You can't fire me for my personal life."
"Oh, but we can. Page 47 of the employee handbook clearly states employees must maintain professional conduct outside of the workplace that reflects company values." She slides a folder across the desk. "Your final paycheck and termination papers. Security will escort you out."
As I empty my desk into a cardboard box, memories of Alex flood back. Finding him in our bed with another man. His pathetic excuses. "It didn't mean anything, baby." The same hollow feeling settles in my chest now.
Harald's betrayal cuts deeper somehow. Alex was upfront about who he was—a cheater. Harald built an entire relationship on lies. Pretending to be someone else. Tricking me into thinking he understood me.
A security guard hovers as I pack. Everyone watches, even Piper who doesn't want to look me in the eye. I hear whispers—"royal plaything," "fifteen minutes of fame."
Walking out of the building, box in hand, I realize this is what I deserve. People like me don't get fairy tales. Foster kid who nobody wanted, mental case who couldn't even kill himself properly, fool who falls for men who lie.
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.