28. Nick
NICK
Ihad forgotten what it felt like to be watched.
Not politely observed, not respectfully acknowledged—the way people look at a prince during official engagements—but watched. Cameras tracking movement. Voices whispering. Phones lifting the moment I stepped into view.
Sourwood had once felt blissfully invisible.
Now it felt like a stage.
The TikTok of Hank and me was spreading rapidly, stills of us cradling in each other’s arms swaying to music plastered across the internet. The last twenty-four hours have been a nightmare. Each time I tried to leave Millie’s house, there’d be more onlookers.
Yesterday morning, Hank drove me back to Millie’s after word got out.
I spent the afternoon on the phone with Agnes and Alfred and ignoring calls from the king.
A few photographers showed up outside her house that night.
Agnes and Alfred flew in on the royal jet at midnight and turned Millie’s living room into headquarters for dealing with this public relations disaster.
I’d spent my whole life being the good prince, the good son, and yet again, my desire for men has led to another scandal, this one ten times worse than the last.
This morning, feeling stir crazy, I insist on a trip to Common Grounds, a coffee shop down the street.
Alfred shields me from the scrum of photographers on the curb.
I’m not used to people in Ardenia looking at me when I’m in public.
It’s an odd, uncomfortable sensation having it happen in Sourwood.
I was supposed to be a normie like everyone. Now my secret’s out.
When we get to Common Grounds, heads turn our way.
“Your Royal Highness, perhaps we should get our coffee to go. Any of these people could throw a Molotov cocktail in an instant,” Alfred murmurs while scoping out the shop without an ounce of subtlety.
A child runs past us when we exit, dragging a pine branch twice his size while his mother pretends not to stare. Across the gravel lot, a man very obviously pretending to check his messages angles his phone toward me.
A camera shutter clicks. Another follows.
I used to be trained not to notice such things. Today every sound lands like a pebble against glass. Onlookers trample across front lawns to get a peek, leaving trash and muddy paths in their wake.
“This used to be peaceful,” I say quietly.
“It still can be, sir,” Alfred replies diplomatically. “If we return home.”
Home.
Meaning Ardenia. Meaning duty. Meaning leaving Hank behind before the chaos swallows him too.
I adjust my scarf and force a smile as a family passes. The scent of pine fills the air. Less than a month ago, Hank was telling me about tomatoes with the urgency of a political issue.
I nearly laugh remembering it.
Then my chest aches.
Because Hank isn’t here. Because I made certain he wouldn’t be.
I texted him yesterday: Best if we give each other space for now. I don’t want this hurting you.
He replied with a simple “Ok” and nothing else.
The absence of his rambling messages and emoji feels louder than shouting.
This is what I get for thinking I could be a regular guy who falls in love.
Millie gives me a big hug when I return home. Her sons stare out the front windows at the press.
“Boys, close the blinds,” she tells them.
“Listen to your mum. Do you know how easily a projectile can crash through this pane of glass?” Alfred knocks on the glass, shakes his head at its thinness.
“You’re a barrel of fun, aren’t you?” Millie shuts the curtains and directs her kids to go upstairs. She puts a polite but firm hand on Alfred’s elbow. “Go in the kitchen and have a snack, Alfie. I’ve injected one of the apples with rat poison. Let’s see if you can find it.”
Alfred darts into the kitchen. He’s trained for combat, but not for sarcasm, apparently.
“Millie, I am so sorry about this,” I tell her.
“It’s not your fault that the press are vultures. This will blow over.”
“Any damage to your property, I will personally cover.”
“Can I get you to put in a pool?” She guides me to the living room, where Agnes has set up damage control headquarters.
She’s typing on a laptop while cradling her phone against her shoulder and scrolling social media on her tablet.
On the coffee table is a mountain of Fig Newton wrappers and empty Diet Coke cans.
I’ve never been so grateful to have Agnes here. She is built for crises. I may be a mess, but she never is.
“How are things here?” I gesture to the scramble of devices surrounding her.
“A bit busy. I have the press and representatives from our different foundations wanting to know what the hell is going on.”
That’s as close to cursing as Agnes gets. She’s holding in much more. I hate that she’s having to clean up this shitstorm. I would help, but I have no idea what to do. Royals aren’t trained on how to solve their own problems. My helplessness is fully on display.
“No comment?” I suggest.
“They want to know what you’re doing in Sourwood alone.”
“Tell them he was visiting a friend. A sick friend,” Millie says, adding in a fake cough.
“They also want to know about the man you were dancing with…and the nature of your relationship.”
I wish I had an answer. I don’t even know the nature of my relationship with Hank anymore.
“Tell them to fuck off,” Millie says.
“I’ll tell them no comment,” she says kindly. She closes her laptop and puts it and the tablet on the coffee table. She gives me her undivided attention. “I know this isn’t how you wanted this month to go.”
“Up until the press descended, it was going great.” I flop down on the couch, a sense of defeat crushing my chest. “I fucked up, Agnes.”
“You did no such thing, Your Highness. I should’ve been on top of this.” Agnes wrings her hands. I’m not the only one in pain. The concern Agnes has for me goes beyond my schedule.
“Agnes, you can’t beat the internet. But I appreciate that you tried. I probably don’t say this enough, but thank you for everything.”
“I’ll never forget the courage you showed when your mother was sick and when she eventually…
” She rubs my knee, a first. “I’ve known you for your whole life.
I’ve been watching you all this time. And as an objective observer, I must say: you are stronger than you realize. You will weather this storm.”
I nod. Maybe I will, but when it’s over, I won’t have Hank.
I can only avoid talking to the king for so long. His secretary calls again and demands that Agnes put me on the phone. Agnes asks if I’d like privacy, but I ask her to stay.
“Hello, Father.”
The silence on the other end is painfully long, pretty much a form of torture.
“You have caused quite the spectacle,” the king says at last.
I close my eyes. “I know.”
“Photographs across every European paper. Commentators questioning your judgment. Ardenia looks foolish.”
“I wasn’t trying to embarrass anyone. I was trying to live.”
“That is not your role. How could you let this happen again? Do you remember last time?”
Vincent couldn’t hold a candle to Hank, and a flare of anger sparks in my chest at them being compared.
“This isn’t like last time. I care about him,” I say. My heart hurts knowing I will likely never see Hank again.
“This is not about affection.”
“It is entirely about affection.”
“You are the crown prince,” my father snaps. “Your life is not your own.”
The words are familiar. Memorized since childhood. Still, they land differently now.
“I have fulfilled every obligation asked of me,” I say. “Every appearance, every tour, every charity, every negotiation. I asked for one month.”
“And in return you have created scandal.”
I had so much fun at the bar crawl. So. Much. Fucking. Fun. I felt free and alive. I drank with friends and danced and kissed a guy and asked him to be my boyfriend. I was making up for a lifetime of holding all my joy locked away inside me.
Something inside of me cracks.
“I don’t want this role.” The words rushing out before fear could stop them. “Do you know what it’s like? Every friendship questioned, every relationship strategic. I am thirty-six years old and I have never once been allowed to choose my own life.”
I pace in the living room, my feet indenting the plush carpeting.
“I am lonely, Father,” I continue, my voice shaking now. “Painfully lonely. Sourwood was the first place I felt real. I made friends who didn’t bow to me. I fell—”
I stop myself, but it’s too late.
“I met someone,” I say quietly. “Someone kind. Someone genuine. Someone who treats me like a person rather than an institution.”
“That man is a distraction.”
“He is not.”
“He is unsuitable.”
The word makes my stomach twist.
“Why?” I ask.
A pause.
“Because he is a man.”
There it is. Plain. Final.
“You must marry,” my father continues. “You must produce an heir. This is not optional, Nicholas. The monarchy depends upon stability. We’ve been over this. We don’t have time.”
“Gay men are getting married and having children. I’ve met a few of them here.”
“Those men aren’t ruling a country. Ardenia isn’t ready for their future king to live that lifestyle. I’m sorry, but they just aren’t.”
I’ve spent my life living in a straight line watching everyone else get to zig and zag.
I am exhausted. The dread of having to go back to pretending chokes me.
If I keep living a lie, I will wear myself to dust. One day, I will be wiped off this earth with nobody knowing who I truly was, and that terrifies me.
“I will not marry someone under false pretenses,” I say. “That would be cruel to everyone involved.”
“You will do your duty.” Why can’t he see me as his son first and prince second? One time, that’s all I want.
“My duty,” I reply, voice steadier than I feel, “is also to be honest. How does being miserable in a fake marriage help the people of Ardenia?” A sliver of light appears in my dark tunnel. “What if I publicly came out?”
Agnes’s eyes jump at the suggestion.
“There will be lots of media coverage at first, but it will eventually blow over. In time, people in Ardenia and our allies will get used to the idea of a gay royal who’s married to a man.
By the time I take over the crown, it will be old news, and the transition will be seamless. We just need to give it time.”
Another long silence.
“We don’t have time, Nicholas.” For the first time, there’s no reprimand in his tone. Only exhaustion.
My grip tightens on the phone. “What do you mean?”
“I am ill.”
The words don’t register at first.
“…Ill?”
“I was diagnosed with ALS three months ago. The disease has been progressing rapidly since November, getting more aggressive. The doctors estimate that in a year, I will lose complete motor function. No movement or talking.” All of his intimidation vanishes. All that’s left is fear.
My father won’t be able to move or talk? The statement sounds ludicrous, like some made up language. The room tilts.
“That’s why you’ve been insistent that I get married and produce an heir. I’m taking over sooner than expected.” I slide down a wall to the floor, doing all I can not to cry. It’s no use. Tears spring from my eyes.
“This isn’t how I wanted to tell you the news.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why did you let me stay in America for a month?”
“Agnes was very insistent. She can be a bit intimidating," the king says. “You wanted freedom, and I wished to give you that for a little while.”
I press a hand to my mouth, breath coming unevenly.
“I cannot continue as monarch much longer,” the king went on. “The transition must begin now. The country needs stability. It needs you.”
All the anger drains away, replaced by something heavier—my duty to my country, to my father.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper. I thought I was at peace with my mother’s death years ago, but the wounds rip open at this news.
“You will learn,” he says gently. “You always do.”
When the call ends, I stand frozen in the dim room, phone still pressed to my ear long after the line went dead.
Outside, Christmas lights blink in soft red and gold through the window.
“Your Highness…” Agnes approaches slowly, her eyes red from a brief bout of tears.
Love, freedom, identity—all of it feels smaller now beside the weight of a crown I never wanted but can no longer refuse.
“Make sure the jet is ready to go tomorrow.”