Chapter 25
25
FARRON
My body was funny. Six days a week, I woke up at five-thirty on the dot for soccer practice, but somehow, on Sunday, I was able to sleep in. Well, that was a relative term, as I’d still wake up around nine, but for me, that was sleeping in and a luxury I appreciated. Waking up slowly, without having to immediately jump into action, was a treat, and so I took my time slumbering before finally forcing myself out of bed.
Colin was spending the weekend with his girlfriend, so I had the room to myself. Tore and I had both been exhausted after yesterday’s match, so we’d decided sleeping in our own beds would be smart. But we’d see each other today.
I did my morning routine, made my bed—a habit my mom had instilled in me as a kid—then checked my phone to see if anything earth-shattering had happened while I was asleep.
Tore had texted.
Family emergency. Had to go home. Will text you later.
I frowned, checking the time stamp. He’d texted at five in the morning. Family emergency? What could be so urgent that he’d have to leave at that time? Worry settled in my gut.
I texted back.
Everything okay? Let me know what’s going on when you have a chance.
Impatience clawed at me as I waited for his answer. What could be wrong that he’d have to drop everything and fly home? I didn’t know much about his family other than that he was the oldest and had two younger siblings. But it had to be something bad, right?
To distract myself from the gnawing worry, I made myself coffee and started scrolling through my phone, thumb flicking over the screen without much interest, until a trending video caught my eye:
Norwegian King Collapses at Public Event: LIVE UPDATES.
Norway. Tore’s connection to Norway wasn’t something we talked about much, but it was his home. It was where his roots ran deep.
Could his sudden departure have anything to do with this? Nah, that was crazy. It wasn’t like I’d fly home if our president died or something. But something niggled in the back of my mind, and I hit play on the video as I sipped my coffee.
The king—who was much younger than I had expected for some reason—had been giving a speech to commemorate the opening of a new hospital, the commentator explained. Dressed in a nice suit, he’d been mid-speech when he’d suddenly keeled over, people around him lunging forward in a futile attempt to catch him.
“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath, tapping on the link with a sense of foreboding I couldn’t explain. The page loaded, and I was met with the somber faces of news anchors, their expressions grave as they relayed the unfolding tragedy.
“King Ragnar of Norway has passed away after collapsing during a public function earlier today, a spokesperson for the Norwegian royal family has confirmed,” the anchor said in a somber tone. “Despite immediate life-saving measures at the scene and in the hospital, doctors were unable to revive him. The nation of Norway is in mourning as they come to terms with the sudden loss of their beloved monarch, who was only fifty-six.”
I leaned forward, elbows digging into my knees, as I watched clips of the king’s life flash across the screen: images of him waving from balconies, shaking hands with world leaders, smiling kindly at children. I didn’t know the man, but fifty-six was way too young to die, especially that publicly.
“Details regarding the cause of death have yet to be released, but Gustav von Glücksburg, the crown prince, will be crowned king sometime in the future. The line of succession is clear, with Gustav’s son, the young Prince Harald von Glücksburg, being next in line, followed by his two-year-old brother, Prince Olav,” she continued as the screen showed pictures of all these people.
Then an image popped up beside the anchor: a familiar face, a smile I knew too well, blue eyes I could never forget. Tore. “With the death of King Ragnar, Prince Tore von Glücksburg, the nephew of the king, is now third in line to the throne,” the anchor said, her words slamming into me with the force of a soccer ball to the gut.
I blinked, certain I’d misheard. But there he was, the man who had so unexpectedly conquered my heart, splashed across the screen with a regal bearing and an undeniable air of nobility. The picture shifted to one of him in a suit, standing beside individuals who must’ve been his royal relatives.
The room suddenly spun around me. This had to be some sort of twisted joke, a deepfake or something, right? But the undeniable truth stared back at me from the screen, and my mind struggled to make sense of it all. Tore? A prince?
My mind raced, piecing together fragments of conversations I’d had with Tore about his family. The offhand remarks he’d made about his obligations back home that I’d never thought to question in depth. He’d mentioned an uncle once, but he’d always glossed over the details with that self-deprecating humor of his, making it sound unimportant.
It suddenly felt like I’d been missing a massive piece of a puzzle I hadn’t even realized I was a part of. I snatched my laptop from my desk, the metal cool under my fingers as I flipped it open with more force than necessary. My breaths came out in ragged huffs, and the cursor blinked at me impatiently as I typed Tore’s name into the search bar. Tore Haakon von Glücksburg stared back at me from dozens of search results, each a punch to the gut, confirming the unbearable truth.
The Football Prince one headline read, the words blurring as I scrolled through article after article. Photos of Tore as a teen, clad in various soccer uniforms. Articles about him turning down an offer from Ajax. He’d told me about that, but he’d left out the part where the family obligation he’d mentioned was being part of the Norwegian royal family.
More official pictures of him, standing tall and regal beside his parents and with the Norwegian King and Queen—who were his uncle and aunt, I now understood. He looked different somehow—more poised, every inch the prince he never told me he was.
My heart hammered against my ribs like it wanted to break free, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the screen. It was all there: the heritage, the lineage, the duties that came with being born into a royal family—a life so far removed from my own, it might as well have been fiction.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered to no one, anger simmering beneath the surface of my skin. Why? Why would Tore hide this? What game was he playing by pretending to be just another student, another teammate? He’d never denied being rich and privileged, but being of royal blood was a whole ’nother level he should’ve been honest about.
The room felt suddenly claustrophobic, the walls closing in around me. My hands clenched around my coffee mug, still half-full, though the coffee had to be cold by now.
“Damn you, Tore,” I whispered, betrayal tightening its grip around my throat. He had seen me, known everything about my distrust for the wealthy, my disdain for privilege, yet he’d never told me this.
It wasn’t the lie itself that clawed at me. It was the trust I’d placed in him, the belief we had something real. The memories of our time together flooded in—every glance, every accidental brush of skin, every shared laugh. They were tainted now, poisoned by the truth of his identity. I had let down my guard and allowed myself to believe in our connection. All those late-night conversations, the confidences we’d shared, the complete trust I’d had in him. They twisted inside me now, each memory more painful than the previous.
Tore and I had shared secrets under the cover of darkness, our bodies entwined, whispering about dreams and fears. I had opened myself up to him, let him see parts of me no one else had ever glimpsed. And all the while, he’d been hiding behind a mask, playing a role that now made every touch feel like a deception.
“Should have known,” I muttered, a laugh devoid of humor bubbling from my chest. “A guy like that, mixing with the likes of me?” It was a farce, a cruel joke—and I’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.
And beneath the anger, beneath the sense of betrayal, was an ache so profound, it threatened to swallow me whole, a sense of heartbreak so intense, it left me breathless.
I wanted to throw something, punch a wall, yell out loud, anything to release the pressure building inside me. My grip on reality—and my mug—faltered.
“Shit!” I cursed as the ceramic slipped from my grasp, crashing onto the floor. It shattered into a million pieces… just like my heart.