Chapter Twenty-Two
Nate shifted on the barstool, the leather squeaking beneath him. He stared at the amber glow of his whiskey, swirling it with the kind of care usually reserved for delicate glassware.
“So,” Jason said, eyebrows raised, “real-life princess, huh?”
“Yep.”
Jason leaned back, a smirk tugging at his face. “As in, with a palace and little dogs and everything?”
“Uh-huh.”
Against his better judgment, Nate had Googled her.
Or, more accurately, fallen down a tiara-sized rabbit hole.
That’s how he knew things he had no business knowing.
Like the time her pet ferret, Herr Doktor Schnitzel, met an untimely end courtesy of a dachshund.
Or that she’d broken her forearm mid-Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy in front of the Japanese Prime Minister.
Or that there were Instagram reels dissecting her in-public smile after she turned sixteen.
“Well, shit,” Jason said, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” Nate muttered. The word sounded tiny. Shit didn’t cover it. Allegra came with ancestral portraits, centuries of bloodline, and a national anthem. And he, well, he’d once played King Ribold the Massive on a set that smelled like sweat and cheap fog machine fluid.
Jason took a slow sip of his drink, eyes narrowing. “Really though, how you holding up?”
“Honestly?” Nate let out a rough laugh. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Twice. And then backed over for good measure.”
Jason winced. “Oof.”
“I keep replaying it,” Nate went on, the words tumbling out now that he’d started, “trying to figure out which parts were Ella and which parts were… her.” He stared at the bar top, tracing a ring someone else had left behind.
“And I should be pissed. I am pissed. But I still miss her. Which makes me an idiot or a masochist.”
Jason’s expression shifted, the teasing draining away. “Damn, Nate. You really went in for her, huh?”
Nate didn’t answer right away. The way his chest ached every time he thought about her, the way her voice still echoed in his head, her laugh like a ghost he couldn’t shake, said it all.
“Yeah,” he admitted finally. “I really fucking did.” He took another swig of his whiskey, the liquid fire doing nothing to dull the sting.
“So why not call her?” Jason asked.
“We didn’t leave on the best terms.”
“Right. Apologize.”
Nate grimaced. “I tried. The number’s disconnected. And I can’t exactly phone the palace and ask for her, can I? ‘Hey, this is Nate. Yeah, the porn dude. Is your princess available?’”
Jason wasn’t deterred. “Then DM her. Email her. Something.”
“Her socials are run by some PR robot,” Nate muttered.
“I did find an email and sent a message. Got a reply that could’ve frozen over hell.
” He mimicked an icy German accent. “We’ve never heard of you.
Don’t contact us again. And if Allegra’s name ever leaves your lips, our lawyers will make you wish you hadn’t been born. ”
“Yikes. So that’s it?”
Nate nodded. “Yeah. That’s it.” He rubbed his temples, an ache throbbing behind his eyes. “I think I need to do something, you know? Distract myself.”
Jason leaned forward. “Well, maybe this isn’t the time, but that offer to join me? It still stands.”
Nate managed a tired smile. “Thanks, Jason. I’ll think about it.”
***
Three weeks later, Nate had learned two things.
One: His brother’s company ran on a holy trinity of cold brew, wages that made volunteering look lucrative, and the unshakable conviction that no one—investors, engineers, not even God—actually understood what the hell they were building.
But someday, poof, the world would wake up, realize they’d been missing this thing they didn’t know they needed, and everyone would be rolling in cash.
Two: No matter how many hours he spent glaring at A Beginner’s Guide to Distributed Systems Architecture, a title that could double as a sleep aid, his brain still refused to care.
He slumped on his couch anyway, the book open on his chest, one sock on and one sock missing, staring at a paragraph he’d already read four times.
Something about fault tolerance. Or containers.
Or fault-tolerant containers. At this point, it could have been a sourdough recipe and he wouldn’t have noticed.
The apartment was quiet, the only sound the steady hum of the AC recycling air that still carried a whiff of last night’s Thai curry.
Across from him, the shelving unit had been rearranged with almost aggressive intent.
Where polished adult industry awards had once stood, textbooks now teetered in sideways stacks.
A couple of childhood photos had been exhumed from whatever box they’d been buried in: gap-toothed Nate and his brothers, grinning like idiots in a time before adulting was a verb.
And, because apparently he was that guy now, a cheap stress ball stamped with the TriaPulse logo sat front and center, looking thoroughly defeated.
Rebranding: personal edition.
In the corner, a half-built side table leaned lopsidedly against the wall, sandpaper scattered around it. Nate had started with enthusiasm—maybe even hope—but that had died fast, leaving a monument to unfinished intentions.
He eyed the table for a moment as if he might actually pick up a piece of wood and try to fix it.
But the thought fizzled almost immediately.
He was this close to just chucking the text book across the room, ordering another round of takeout, and binge-watching that reality show where people compete to build tiny houses out of cardboard when his phone buzzed.
In the corner, a half-built side table leaned lopsidedly against the wall, sandpaper scattered around it. Nate had clearly started with enthusiasm—maybe even hope—but that had died fast, leaving a monument to unfinished intentions.
He was this close to chucking the book across the room, ordering another round of takeout, and binge-watching that reality show where people compete to build tiny houses out of cardboard when his phone buzzed.
Nate frowned.
Blocked Caller ID.
Absolutely not, shouted every survival instinct he possessed. Blocked numbers were from telemarketers, wannabe producers, and industry hangers-on who thought “former” meant negotiable. The phone buzzed again.
He sighed, thumb hovering. “I hate you,” he told it and answered.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice, thick with a German accent that swallowed the H. “Is this Nate?”
Nate’s spine went ramrod straight. The book slid off his chest and hit the floor with a thwack.
“Uh,” he said. “Depends. Who’s this?”
“Clara.”
His stomach didn’t just drop. It plummeted.
“As in…?”
“As in Valenstadt-Clara.”
Oh. Oh, fuck.
His mouth went Sahara dry, as if his body had siphoned all available moisture. “Um, yeah. It’s me.”
“Good,” Clara said. Was that relief in her voice? “Was told this number might reach you.”
“Right,” he said. “Uh… hi.”
“Hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said, her tone too much like Allegra’s.
“Huh? No. You’re good.”
“I’m calling about my sister.”
“Shit.” His hand clenched around the phone. “Is Ell—” He winced. “Is Allegra okay?”
Clara made a noise that was half-snort, half-scoff. “Okay? She’s miserable.”
Nate’s jaw clenched, shoulders rounding as if he’d taken a blow.
“Because of me?”
“Partly. And because she’s excellent at doing it to herself.”
He shut his eyes, thumb digging into his leg.
“And, well…” Clara hesitated. “Because she misses you.”
His head snapped up. “She said that?”
“Not in words, but I know my sister.”
Nate exhaled harshly. “Look, I never meant to hurt her.”
“Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t hurt.”
He thumped his forehead with his fist. “If you’re calling to pass on ‘I’m a piece of shit,’ well, too late. I get it, all right? I never should have—.”
“Nate!” Clara’s voice was exasperated. “Just listen.”
His mouth clicked shut.
She continued, quieter now. “She’s re-engaged to Julien LaRoche.”
Nate’s jaw locked. Of course he knew the name: rugby superstar, French national hero, a man who wore tailored suits and shook hands with presidents. Her one-time fiancé. Apparently her again-fiancé.
He drew a breath that didn’t quite reach his lungs. “Why are you even telling me this?”
Clara didn’t answer immediately. He could hear movement on her end—heels on marble, maybe a door opening. Finally: “Because he’s—how do I put this politely?—a complete fuckhead.”
Nate barked a startled laugh. It died almost immediately.
“And my sister can’t stand him,” Clara added.
His brow furrowed. “Then… why?”
Clara sighed, the sound so Allegra it made his chest ache. “I don’t know. Because she thinks people-pleasing is a personality trait. Because she’d rather martyr herself on the altar of poor decisions than admit she wants something for herself.”
Nate shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him. “That’s complete bullshit,” he muttered.
“Welcome to my family.”
For a moment, silence hung between them.
“Tell me something, Nate. Do you care about her? And spare me the noble crap. I’m not asking if you remember her fondly. I’m asking if you’d be willing to fight for her.”
“Yes,” he said. Then, because it wasn’t enough, because Clara von Wildern would know: “Fuck, yes.”
“So she deserves to hear it,” Clara said, and damn if she didn’t sound like she was handing him a live grenade with the pin already pulled. “Whatever she does after—that’s on her.”
He groaned and tipped his head back against the couch. “Minor complication. She very obviously does not want to hear my voice.”
“Still,” Clara said, and he could practically see her waving a dismissive hand, “if she could just see you—”
“Even if she wanted to—which she doesn’t. I’m here, and she’s there. And I’m fairly certain every airport and border crossing in Valenstadt has my mugshot taped up next to the words Deport on Sight.”
A beat.
“Okay,” Clara said. “But I have a plan.”