4. Graham
GRAHAM
T he soft scratch of the pencil against paper fills the small workshop, the only sound breaking the stillness of the room. Sunlight filters through the window, casting golden streaks across the plans spread out on the worktable. I pause, stepping back to study the sketch. It’s for the new community park—clean lines, open spaces, something simple and inviting.
It’s the kind of project that makes Bardstown feel like home, like I’m doing something that matters, even on a small scale.
I reach for my coffee, only to grimace when I realize it’s gone cold. That’s when my phone rings.
The sound cuts through the quiet, sharp, and unexpected. I glance at the screen, and my chest tightens when I see the number.
It’s not a familiar contact, just a string of digits I haven’t seen in years. But I know where it’s from.
The castle.
I don’t answer.
The phone stops ringing, but the tension doesn’t fade. It never does when something like this happens. It’s rare, but when it does, it feels like a tether pulling at me—a tether I thought I’d cut long ago.
I let out a slow breath, setting the pencil down and rubbing the back of my neck. Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since I walked away from that life.
At first, I kept in touch, providing updates on the family’s health, the state of the estate, and the deals being made. But four years ago, I stopped. Not because I didn’t care but because knowing what was happening back there felt like carrying a weight I couldn’t bear anymore.
The truth is, I didn’t leave the castle because I hated it. I left because I hated who I was becoming there.
When you grow up in a place like that, everything about your life is planned out for you. Who you talk to, what you wear, the person you’re supposed to be. My father was the architect of it all—every detail of our lives was meticulously designed to protect and grow the family’s legacy.
And I went along with it for a while. I could live up to his expectations and be the perfect son and heir. But the more I tried, the more I felt like I was losing myself.
The turning point wasn’t a single moment. It was a series of them. My father’s sharp words when I didn’t close a deal fast enough. The constant comparisons to my older brother, who seemed to thrive under pressure. The suffocating weight of a life I didn’t choose.
And then there was the final straw—a disagreement with my father that turned into an argument and a full-blown shouting match. I still remember how his voice rang out through the halls, cold and unforgiving.
“If you can’t carry this family’s name with pride, you’re not worthy of it.”
That was the moment I realized I had to leave. Not because I couldn’t handle the pressure but because I didn’t want to become someone who thrived on it as my father and brother had.
So I packed a bag, left the castle, and didn’t look back.
I thought cutting ties would be easy, and I’d feel lighter without the weight of my family’s expectations. And for a while, I did. Bardstown gave me something the castle never could—a sense of freedom, a chance to build a life on my terms.
But freedom comes with its kind of loneliness.
I still think about my family sometimes. I think about my mother, who never said much but always seemed to understand more than she let on.
I used to wonder if they missed me. If they thought about me the way I thought about them. But over the years, the questions stopped feeling important.
Now, when the calls come, I don’t answer.
The phone buzzes again, this time with a voicemail notification. I don’t play it. Instead, I put the phone down, turning back to the plans on the table. I don’t want to know what’s going on over there.
What if it’s about your parents? What if it’s important? What if it’s life or death?
The voice creeps into my head, urging me to listen to the voicemail, but I do not relent. If this were actual life or death, the castle wouldn’t call. Bardstown would already know my true identity because my parents would have sniffed me out one way or the other. I just don’t want to risk communicating at all. I liked my quiet life a little too much now. Answering the call and playing that voicemail would mean I’m inviting trouble.
I pick up the pencil again, forcing my focus back to the work before me. Bardstown is my home now. It’s quiet, steady, and mine.
I step out of the workshop, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension from sitting hunched over plans all morning. The air outside is fresh, the kind that only Bardstown can offer—crisp, clean, and laced with the faint scent of wildflowers from the nearby fields.
I’ve been working on the new community park design for weeks, and seeing the space start to take shape is satisfying in a way that sketches and plans never can be. The outline of the walking paths is already marked, and the newly installed benches gleam under the sun.
As I head to my truck, I hear voices. Familiar voices.
I glance up and immediately spot Mia standing near one of the freshly planted trees, chatting animatedly with an older woman. Dotty. Riley’s aunt. Between the two of them, their energy is enough to power the whole town.
I slow my steps, scanning for an exit, but there’s nowhere to go. They’re blocking the main path back to my truck, and ducking into the bushes isn’t exactly subtle.
Too late.
Mia spots me, her face lighting up with that mischievous smile I know all too well. “Graham! Don’t think you’re sneaking past us!”
I sigh internally, forcing a polite smile as I approach. “Mia. Dotty. How are you two doing?”
Dotty beams at me, her floral sundress swaying slightly in the breeze. “Oh, we’re just fine, dear. Out for a little walk and catching up on all the town gossip.”
“And trust me,” Mia adds, folding her arms and tilting her head, “there’s plenty to catch up on. You’ve been keeping busy, haven’t you?”
“As much as I can,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “You know how it is—work never ends.”
Mia narrows her eyes playfully. “Work, huh? Is that what you call hiding away in your workshop for hours on end?”
Dotty chuckles, shaking her head. “He’s always been the quiet type, hasn’t he? You’d think he was designing a rocket ship with all the time he spends in his workshop.”
I smile faintly, hoping they’ll move on, but Mia’s grin widens. She’s got something up her sleeve, and I can feel it.
“So, Graham,” she says, her tone turning almost casual. “Have you heard about the wedding?”
There it is.
“I might’ve heard a little,” I reply nonchalantly.
Dotty clasps her hands together, her face lighting up. “Oh, it’s going to be wonderful! Ethan and Riley are just the sweetest pair, aren’t they?”
“They are,” I agree, shifting slightly on my feet.
“And it’s all anyone’s talking about,” Mia adds, her eyes narrowing as if gauging my reaction. “You should come. It’ll be the event of the year.”
I give her a polite nod. “Riley already invited me, so I’ll be there.”
Dotty pats my arm. “That’s wonderful news! I almost thought you wouldn’t want to because you always mind your business. It’s touching you’re doing this for Riley.”
“I couldn’t say no,” I say. Weddings aren’t my thing, and the thought of standing in a crowd, surrounded by familiar faces and probing questions, isn’t exactly appealing. But this is Riley; she’s on the top two list of people who made Bardstown easy for me to blend in. It’s just a few hours, and I’ll be out of there.
“Well, we won’t keep you,” Mia says, her tone light but her gaze sharp like she’s still trying to read me. “But don’t be a stranger, okay? It’s about time Bardstown saw a little more of Graham Cole.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
As I walk away, I can feel their eyes on my back, Mia’s especially.
I reach my truck and climb in, letting out a slow breath. Bardstown may be my home now, but moments like these remind me that some people here will always want more than I’m willing to give.
I glance back at the park as I start the engine, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. This place, this life I’ve built—it’s enough for me. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I drive away.
The truck rattles as I drive down the winding country road, the golden light of sunset spilling over the fields. Usually, this drive is my favorite part of the day—just me, the open road, and the promise of home waiting at the end of it. But tonight, my thoughts are louder than the hum of the engine, and I can’t seem to outrun them.
What if someone here found out the truth?
For seven years, I’ve lived as Graham Cole, the quiet landscape architect who moved to Bardstown, built a modest life, and blended into the town’s rhythm. People here know me as a guy who designs outdoor spaces, lends a hand when needed, and minds his own business. And that’s exactly the way I want it.
But lately, I can’t shake the feeling that the walls are starting to close in.
It’s not anything obvious—just small moments that seem to stack up. The way Mia’s gaze lingers when she asks about my past, like she knows there’s more I’m not saying. The way the locals talk about the town is that it is a place where “everyone knows everyone,” even though I’ve done everything I can to stay on the edges.
Mia’s words earlier still hang in my head. “It’s about time Bardstown saw a little more of Graham Cole.”
Did she mean it as a harmless jab? Or was it something more? Something sharper, more knowing?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening as I push the thought aside. She couldn’t know. No one here knows.
But what if they did?
I’ve spent years avoiding that question, pretending it didn’t matter. But tonight, the thought feels heavier, harder to ignore. If people in Bardstown found out who I really was—where I came from, the family I left behind—it wouldn’t just change how they see me. It would change everything.
It would make this life—the one I built from scratch—feel like a lie. But nothing about this town is a lie; I love the quiet it brings; I like how I can work and earn my own living, and the best part is that people actually love what I do. I’m not expected to perform better or do things a certain way because I’m royalty. There’s no preferential treatment. I’m treated the same, a commoner. That’s something I didn’t have growing up. My father always pushed me to do better than my brother. To prove myself worthy to be king in case anything happened to him or my brother.
I drive on autopilot, the road blurring as my mind drifts back to the life I walked away from—the castle, the name, the weight of being a Montgomery.
It wasn’t just the expectations that drove me away, though those were heavy enough to crush anyone. It was the constant performance, the way every interaction felt like a transaction. I was never just Graham; I was Graham Montgomery, and that name came with rules, responsibilities, and a legacy I never asked for.
My father made sure of that.
I was raised to be someone else, someone molded in his image—a strategist, a leader, a man who valued the family name above all else. And for a while, I tried. I wore the suits, made the speeches, and played the role. But every year, it chipped away at me, piece by piece, until nothing was left but a hollow shell.
Leaving was supposed to change that, to make me whole again.
But some wounds don’t heal just because you put distance between yourself and the thing that caused them.
I shake my head, trying to focus on the road, but the memories keep coming. The last time I spoke to my mother. The way her voice cracked when she asked if I’d ever come back.
“You’re just going to disappear?” she’d said, frustration and sadness bleeding into her words.
I’d promised to keep in touch. And I did, at first. Postcards. Emails. Short, polite phone calls. But over time, the distance became easier than the connection. Every conversation reminded me of what I left behind, of the life I’d turned my back on.
And then, four years ago, I stopped answering altogether.
I told myself it was for the best and that cutting ties was the only way to move forward. But the truth is, some nights, the silence feels unbearable. I wonder if my brother hates me now, if my mother’s gentle understanding has turned into quiet disappointment, and if my father even notices I’m gone—or if he’s relieved not to deal with a son who couldn’t live up to the Montgomery name.
The truck jolts slightly as I hit a bump in the road, pulling me back to the present. My house comes into view, the modest porch bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.
This is my home now. Not the castle. Not the sprawling estate with its manicured gardens and endless corridors. This small, simple house is mine.
But as I park in the driveway and cut the engine, I can’t help but feel like this life is as fragile as the reflection in the rearview mirror. One crack, one misstep, and the truth could shatter everything.
What would people here think if they knew the truth?
Would they see me as the same man? Or would they start treating me like something different—like the son of privilege, like the Montgomery I’ve spent years trying not to be?
I grab the bag of tools from the passenger seat and step out of the truck, the gravel crunching under my boots. The air is cool and quiet, the kind of calm that Bardstown always promises.
But tonight, even that calm feels uneasy.
I stand on the porch for a moment, staring out at the fields beyond the house. The sky is a deep shade of orange, the last light of day slipping away. This life is all I’ve ever wanted—a place where no one asks too many questions, where I’m not defined by the name I left behind.
But lately, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s coming. Something I can’t avoid or outrun. It feels like I would wake up one morning, and all of Bardstown would realize I’ve been lying to them. Or the castle would eventually get tired of me avoiding their calls and track me here.
I swallow. Maybe I should listen to the voicemail when I have time.