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 sits heavy 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.
"Do you have any concept of what you've done?" Father's voice rises, sharp as broken glass. "Generations of careful diplomacy, royal dignity—and you destroy it for what? A flight of fancy with some American nobody?"
Daniel isn't a nobody. The thought flares briefly then dies, unspoken.
"This disgrace reflects on all of Denmark." Father paces toward me, each word calculated to wound. "You've proven every criticism true—you are weak, selfish, and entirely unfit for the crown you'll inherit."
I stand motionless. My father's condemnation washes over me in waves. I should defend myself. Defend Daniel. Explain that for once I found someone who saw me—the real me. Instead, I remain silent, a perfect royal statue carved from ice, while inside, everything crumbles.
"You will remain within your chambers until this scandal subsides," Father declares, each word a nail in my coffin. His eyes, so like mine yet devoid of warmth, fix on me with the cold precision of a sniper. "No public appearances. No interviews. No contact with anyone outside this household."
I stare at the intricate pattern of the carpet beneath my feet. The ornate swirls blur as I force myself to breathe evenly.
"You've embarrassed the monarchy enough," he continues. "Your staff will bring meals. Erik will filter all communications. You are to speak to no one outside these walls—especially not to that American."
Daniel's name remains unspoken, as if Father can't bear to acknowledge his existence. The thought of being cut off from even attempting to reach Daniel makes my chest constrict painfully.
"Father, this is—" Ella begins, her voice rising in protest.
"Necessary," he cuts her off sharply. "The damage control has already begun. The official statement is that the Crown Prince has returned to attend to pressing royal duties. You will be seen by no one while we determine how to proceed."
I finally find my voice, though it emerges hollow and small. "For how long?"
"For as long as it takes." His mouth sets in a grim line. "Perhaps this time of reflection will remind you of your responsibilities to this crown, this country, and this family."
The word "family" twists in my gut like a knife. What family? A father who sees only my failures, a mother long dead, and a sister who alone stands between me and complete isolation.
"Is that understood?" Father demands.
I raise my eyes to meet his. "Yes, Your Majesty."
The formality pleases him. He gives a curt nod and turns away, my punishment delivered, my sentence pronounced. I am to become a ghost in my own home, haunting rooms that suddenly feel more like prison cells than the chambers I've known since childhood.
Ella squeezes my arm, her touch an anchor in this storm. "I'll visit you," she whispers fiercely as we exit.
I nod mechanically, but my mind remains fixed on a Brooklyn apartment thousands of miles away, where the only person who made me feel truly alive now believes I am nothing but a liar.
I wake each morning to sunlight filtering through curtains I don't bother to open, pale fingers of dawn intruding despite my wishes for continued darkness.
My chambers—once my sanctuary—have transformed into my prison, gilded and suffocating in equal measure.
Every ornate fixture, every priceless painting, every velvet cushion mocks me with its perfection while I crumble, a fraud of a prince housed in splendour I haven't earned.
The ceiling's elaborate mouldings seem to press down on me each day, centuries of royal expectations weighing on my chest before I've even risen.
I trace the sunbeam's path across my silk sheets and wonder how something so free can visit something so trapped.
The palace staff moves around me like I'm made of glass, delicate crystal that might shatter at the slightest touch or careless word.
They leave trays outside my door rather than risk interaction, porcelain rattling as they hastily depart—their footsteps always quicker going away than coming.
Sometimes I hear them whispering, their voices dropping to nothing when I approach, conversations smothered mid-sentence with painful obviousness.
The sudden silence burns worse than whatever words they might have spoken.
Even the servants judge me now, these people who have known me since childhood, who once smiled warmly and snuck me extra pastries.
Their eyes slide away from mine, focusing on some fascinating spot on the wall behind my shoulder, and I wonder what rumours about the fragile Crown Prince have reached their ears.
What version of Harald do they see when they peek through keyholes or pass my chambers with downcast eyes?
Not their future king, surely. Something less. Something broken.
"Your breakfast, Your Highness," Erik says, placing a tray on my desk. Steam rises from the porridge, carrying the scent of cinnamon and apples. My favorite.
I turn away. "Thank you."
Erik lingers, searching my face with quiet concern. His green eyes—steady, loyal—scan the hollows beneath my cheekbones that have grown more pronounced this past week.
"You haven't eaten properly in days," he says, voice pitched low enough that the guards outside won't hear this moment of impropriety, of someone speaking to the Crown Prince as if he were merely human.
There's a gentle reproach there, wrapped in genuine worry that makes my chest tighten with guilt.
"I'm not hungry." The words barely carry across the room, a whisper so fragile it might disintegrate in the space between us.
My stomach betrays me with a hollow ache that I've grown accustomed to ignoring these past several days.
It's easier to feel empty than to face what awaits me beyond the prison of my chambers.