21. Jakob
CHAPTER 21
JAKOB
I t’s early. So early.
And yet I don’t mind waking up at all, because I happen to have next to me the greatest company in the world. I stretch languidly, the sheets a silken caress against my skin, and turn to find Courtney still slumbering. Her peaceful expression tugs at something deep within me, and warmth unfurls in my chest. I am, without a shadow of a doubt, the luckiest man in the world.
Perhaps feeling my gaze on her, she stirs.
“Good morning,” she murmurs, her voice still husky with sleep. She blinks open green eyes that hold the freshness of Bergovian meadows after rain.
“Good morning,” I reply.
The urge to reach out, to trace the contours of her face is overwhelming, but I resist, not wanting to break the tranquility of the moment.
“Shall we make breakfast?” Courtney suggests, her smile as inviting as the thought of the first meal of the day shared together.
“Let’s.” I push back the duvet and guide her hand to help her out of bed.
Her dress lies on the floor, so I offer her a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt. They’re too big for her, but seeing her in my clothes makes me hungry to kiss her again.
And so I do. Over and over, until she’s laughing and pushing me away.
We pad into the kitchen, a space designed for elegance and utility, the marble countertops pristine and the copper pans gleaming from their hooks. I don’t use the kitchen much, and it shows, but this morning I am excited to roll my sleeves up and get messy.
Courtney ties her hair up in a loose bun, a few strands framing her face in a way that’s effortlessly charming. I watch her for a moment, how she navigates my kitchen with ease, finding the eggs and the skillet as if she’s done this a thousand times before in this very spot.
“Can you handle the toast?” she asks, a playful challenge in her eyes.
“Watch me become the master of the toaster,” I quip, accepting her gauntlet with a grin.
We whisk eggs and butter toast, our movements harmonious. It’s as if we’ve found a shared rhythm that neither words nor music could adequately express. I catch her looking at me, her gaze carrying a tender curiosity, as if she’s trying to memorize the way I move, the way I smile when I’m with her.
“Jakob, this is perfect,” she says as I hand her a plate laden with golden-brown toast, our fingers brushing in a spark of connection.
“Only because you’re here,” I respond.
“Because we’re together,” she corrects, and I have no reason to argue.
Our breakfast comes together on the island counter, a simple feast bathed in the gentle morning light. We sit side by side, knees touching under the table. Each bite is savored, each glance exchanged carries a sense of new affection, and the world beyond these walls feels infinitely distant.
The world… the one thing that could steal all of this away. Unless I do something about it.
Fork in hand, I twirl the scrambled eggs on my plate, working up the courage to dive into a conversation that could change everything. Courtney, her sun-kissed hair now free from the bun and cascading over her shoulders, takes a sip of orange juice, her eyes catching mine.
“Hey,” I start, setting down my fork, “I’ve been thinking about something.”
She tilts her head, curious, an expectant smile playing on her lips. “Oh? What’s on your mind?”
“Texas,” I say, and her eyebrows rise in surprise. “I want to visit you there. See your world, meet the people in your life you talk so fondly of.” The idea sends a wave of excitement through me, but I’m cautious not to let on too much.
“Really?” she asks, her voice a blend of delight and disbelief. “You’d come to Texas?”
“More than that,” I add quickly, before my resolve can falter, “I want you to come back to Bergovia with me afterwards, as soon as possible.”
Her hand pauses mid-air, the piece of toast forgotten. “Jakob, that’s… that’s amazing, but what about your work? You’ve already lost so much time there showing me around.” Her concern is genuine, but it’s my family that weighs on my mind, their expectations towering like the ancient castles that dot this country.
“Work will manage without me for a little while,” I assure her, deciding to ignore the inevitable upheaval for now. I don’t let on about that part, though; I need to shield her from the brewing storm until I’m ready to face it myself.
“Okay,” she breathes out, a radiant grin spreading across her face, dispelling my anxieties. “Yes, let’s do it!”
The room fills with her laughter, and for a moment, I bask in the sound of our shared joy before reality nudges again. I pat my pockets, looking for my phone, needing to make arrangements. Yet, it’s nowhere to be found.
“Can’t find my phone,” I murmur, more to myself than to her.
“Mine’s dead,” she responds cheerily, not a hint of worry in her tone.
A chuckle escapes her, and I find myself joining in. It’s liberating, this accidental disconnection from the rest of the world.
“Looks like we have the day to ourselves, then,” I say, the irony not lost on me.
On any other day, I’d be swamped with duties, but today, fate seems to have conspired to give us this uninterrupted time together.
“Best unplanned day off ever,” Courtney declares, and I can only nod in agreement, feeling the luckiest man in the world.
“How about a latte?” I ask, clearing our empty plates.
“I would love that.”
“You get cozy on the couch,” I instruct.
But as I open the cupboard where the beans are usually stashed, I’m met with emptiness. A little frown creases my forehead; it’s unlike me to run out of something as vital as coffee beans, even in the apartment that I only spend part of my time at.
“Seems like we’re fresh out,” I announce. “Give me five minutes. I’ll run to the market across the street.”
“Take your time.” She picks up the TV remote.
With a quick smile, I grab my keys and wallet and head downstairs. The crisp morning air greets me as I step outside, the streets just beginning to bustle with life. My feet carry me automatically across the street to the familiar grocery store, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of Courtney’s laughter and the softness of her lips.
“Your Highness!” a familiar voice calls out just as I reach the coffee aisle.
It’s Mrs. Petrov, the shop owner, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Your face is all over town today! And who’s the lovely lady?”
What is she talking about?
“Uh… a friend,” I say, not willing to give anything away until I know exactly what’s going on.
“Looks like more than a friend to me,” she teases, holding up her phone.
There on her screen is a grainy photo of Courtney and me. It’s our time on the balcony last night, a kiss captured from afar, now a digital whisper riding the morning airwaves.
“Beautiful girl,” Mrs. Petrov adds, a knowing smile etched into her features.
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing my coffee beans and swiping my card.
Nerves rush through me. I’m not ashamed of being with Courtney; I’m proud. I had expected to reveal our relationship on our own timeline, though, and in our own way. Now, without our consent at all, it’s public fodder.
What this entirely means, I’m not sure. I do know, though, that things are about to change.
“Enjoy your day, Jakob,” Mrs. Petrov says, her gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary.
“Will do,” I respond, eager to return to the sanctuary of my apartment and the woman who unknowingly holds my world in her hands.
Instead of going straight into the apartment building, I duck into the building’s garage, the attendant opening the gate and bowing once he sees me coming. I need to check the news. See what people are saying. See who has called me.
Reaching my car, I search for my phone, finding it stashed in the center console. It buzzes angrily in my hand, a constant vibration of incoming calls and texts. A digital pulse of curiosity from family, friends, acquaintances, and those who believe they have a stake in my personal life. My thumb hovers over the screen, scrolling through messages that all ask about “the new woman in my world.” The one whose laughter has begun to sound like home.
Amongst the flurry of inquiries sits a lone message from my father — two words that carry more weight than any headline: Call me.
A knot tightens in my stomach as I turn on my heel, heading back to the sanctuary of my penthouse. With each floor ascended in the elevator, the knot coils tighter, until I’m struggling to keep my hands from shaking.
In the apartment, the sound of running water greets me. Courtney is in the shower. I sneak up to the cracked door, catching her silhouette through the frosted glass. This could’ve been another fragment of time stolen just for us, but responsibility — or, rather, the expectation of it — looms overhead.
Before I can even contemplate a response to my father, my phone rings again, the screen lighting up with his name. I answer, moving to the farthest corner of the living room, away from the innocent hum of Courtney’s tune.
“Jakob,” my father’s voice is stern, each syllable laced with disappointment.
It’s as if I’m a child again, caught with a hand in the cookie jar. But this isn’t about cookies; it’s about matters of the heart, and the consequences that come with being born into a legacy.
“I see the tabloids are having a field day,” he continues, and I feel the scowl in his tone.
I glance at the bathroom door, ensuring it remains closed, the sound of water still cascading down.
“Father, it’s not what it seems,” I start, my voice steady despite the undercurrent of panic. “I’m handling it. Keeping her close is strategic — better to manage the narrative than let rumors run wild.”
“You are keeping her close by kissing her?”
I rake my fingers through my hair in frustration and turn to the windows. “You asked me to watch her, and I am. I’m making absolutely sure that she is not a threat to national security. Trust me, please. I understand your concerns about the J?gers.”
There’s silence on the other end, a pause long enough to make me second-guess each word I’ve just spoken. Then he sighs, a sound of resignation that doesn’t quite convey understanding.
“Very well. But we will discuss this further, Jakob. Soon.”
As the call ends, I lower the phone, staring at the now blank screen. The lie tastes bitter, its residue clinging to me. I’m not just managing a narrative; I’m entangled in the very story I’m trying to control. And as I hear the shower cease, signaling Courtney’s return to a world that’s all too interested in her presence, I realize that honesty is a luxury I can ill afford — at least, not yet.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, the burden of deceit heavy against my thigh. I rub a hand over my face, trying to erase the lines of worry that crease my forehead. Every word I told my father was a calculated misstep on a dance floor I never desired to tread upon.
Keeping Courtney close — yes, that part is true, but not for the reasons I claimed. Not to control the narrative or prevent her from speaking to the press. No, it’s because when she’s near, the chaos of my life fades into soft murmurs, and all that remains is the clarity of her laughter, the warmth in her eyes.
I have admitted that to myself… but admitting it to my father, well, that feels a long way off.