Chapter 216: Chapter Two Hundred and Sixteen

Alexander

The ride back to the palace was the longest two hours of my life.

Talk about awkward…

I sat between the king and queen in the back of the royal car, dressed to impress and absolutely dying inside. My mother’s perfume was a cloud of soft florals and nerves. The king’s silence was a steel cage. I didn’t look at either of them.

To make it even more exciting, Karl sat in the front passenger seat, not flinching once.

Holy shit, that man had nerve.

Meanwhile, I was sweating enough for all of us combined.

The king had reinstated him officially—as if it was the most magnanimous concession… as if he hadn’t already spent a lifetime guarding the son he wasn’t allowed to claim.

I hadn’t spoken to Karl since last night—since he’d defended me. Since he’d told the truth. Since he’d shattered everything and somehow made me feel… whole.

I could see the edge of his profile in the mirror. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers curled and uncurled near the holster at his side. Like he wanted to shoot someone. Probably Edvard.

No one said a word.

The road wound through the countryside like it had somewhere better to be.

I wished I could’ve taken the other car. Or a train. Or a rocket.

Or just stayed in Leo’s arms and let the world burn.

The moment we stepped into the palace, something felt off.

Not just the usual anxiety clawing at my ribs—but an actual shift in the air. Formal staff in ceremonial uniform. The scent of fresh flowers in the corridor. Karl moved ahead without a word, but I saw the subtle tightening of his shoulders. Something was happening.

My mother turned to me just outside the Blue Salon. “They're here,” she said simply.

I didn't need to ask who they were.

Apparently, while we were still packing at Orsania, the king had already announced our return. The Dah Birch family had arrived promptly—no doubt expecting protocol, pleasantries, and progress. Not a demolition.

Inside, Sofía's father stood stiffly by the fireplace, arms crossed, his diplomatic smile thin as paper. Her mother greeted me with the warmth of someone who'd already heard the bad news and was just trying to be civil. Sofía was near the window, elegant, unbothered. A warrior in pearls.

This girl never ceased to surprise me. No wonder we’d been friends all of our lives—we balanced each other out, despite it all.

The king arrived last, striding in like he owned the floor and completely oblivious to what my relationship with Leo really implied. “Good,” he said. "Let's get this going. I assume we're discussing the next steps for the engagement—"

“No,” Sofia interrupted, calm but firm. “We're here to inform you that there won't be any next steps.”

He froze.

I stepped beside her. “We've decided to end the engagement. Publicly. Peacefully. Together.”

The silence that followed could've shattered glass.

“This isn't a decision we made lightly,” Sofía added. "We respect our families. But we believe in choosing our own paths. And we ask that you respect that choice."

Her father's jaw ticked. "You realize this alliance has been in motion for years. There will be diplomatic fallout."

“I'm aware,” I said. “But I'd rather face political consequences than live a lie.”

The king looked like he might combust. His nostrils flared. His lips parted—but before he could explode, my mother placed a hand on his arm. She didn't say a word. Just looked at him.

And somehow, that was enough.

"For the sake of appearances," I said, "we'll delay the announcement until tomorrow. We'll speak to the press together. Sofía and I will prepare the official statement this afternoon."

Nobody liked it.

But nobody could stop it.

Once the meeting ended, no one moved.

For a moment, we all just stood there, locked in polite paralysis. The Dah Birches didn’t storm out—which surprised me—but they didn’t exactly linger with warmth either.

“We’ll remain a while,” Sofía’s mother said with a brittle smile. “A cup of tea before we go.”

“Of course,” Queen Helena replied, already signaling the staff.

Sofía didn’t look at her parents. She turned to me instead and nodded once—quiet, steady. “Shall we?”

I led her down the corridor, past the portraits of monarchs I no longer wanted to emulate, to one of the smaller drawing rooms near the library. The moment the door closed behind us, I exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.

She sat gracefully on the edge of the chaise, kicking off her heels with a wince. “That went well.”

I stared at her. “You mean we survived.”

She smiled faintly. “Same more or less.”

I dropped into the chair across from her and scrubbed a hand down my face. “We’re really doing this.”

“Yes, we are.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook and pen. “And we’re going to do it beautifully.”

We didn’t write anything epic that afternoon. Just the honest truth.

We sat side by side on the sun-warmed sofa, leaning into the quiet like it was something sacred. There was no pressure, no tension—just a calm between us that hadn’t existed in a long time.

It felt like it used to. Before the expectations. Before the history. Before love and family and duty twisted everything out of shape.

She joked about the press, about how her father was probably using a teaspoon to drill a hole through his porcelain teacup. I laughed harder than I should have. She smiled at me, and for a second, I could see the girl I once thought I might fall in love with.

She must’ve hurt more than she showed. And at times, I felt something flicker in her—sadness, maybe even longing. But not for the wrong reasons.

She wasn’t mourning a romance.

She was grieving a life that had been chosen for her.

And I understood that better than anyone.

I won’t lie. It wasn’t easy. Saying goodbye to someone who knew my fears before I had words for them… someone who once made me feel like I might actually survive this world…. But love isn’t always fireworks and declarations. Sometimes it’s letting go, gently, with grace. So that something better—something real—can take its place.

Tomorrow, we’d tell the world.

But today… we just sat together in the quiet, remembering who we were and why we still mattered.

That night, I carried the teapot myself.

I could’ve asked for help, could’ve let a servant fuss over temperature and porcelain, but something about doing it on my own felt… necessary.

The hallway was dim and hushed, the palace settling into sleep. I turned the corner, and there he was—stationed outside my door like always.

Karl.

He didn’t look at me as I approached. He stood straight, hands behind his back, eyes on the shadows ahead.

“Goodnight, sir,” he said quietly.

I paused. Stood there with the tray in my hands and the kind of weight on my chest that wasn’t from grief, for once.

I turned, took a step back toward him.

“I think you’ve guarded my door enough for a lifetime,” I said.

He finally looked at me.

I held up the tray. “I have two cups. Would you like to have some tea with me?”

His brow furrowed, just slightly. A flicker of surprise passed over his face, followed by something else—something softer.

“Of course, Alexander,” he said, stepping closer. “Would you like to tell me about your evening?”

I met his eyes.

“No,” I said. “This time, I’d rather you tell me about your life.”

And for once, he didn’t hesitate.