Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 133

POV: Sebastian

I don’t mean to remember my father.

The memory comes anyway—sharp as a blade drawn without warning.

I am fifteen again, standing in the great hall of my childhood palace, boots polished until my feet ache, spine straight because I have learned the cost of slouching. The hall is full of men older than me, watching. Waiting. Judging.

“Repeat it,” my father says.

“I followed the order,” I reply.

“You followed it poorly,” he answers. “And you embarrassed me.”

The slap comes after the words. It always does.

I blink, and I am back in my own palace, staring at my reflection in the darkened window of my study. Older now. Crown heavier. Hands clenched the same way.

I press my palms to the glass.

“I won’t be him,” I murmur.

And yet.

***

The boys don’t speak to each other at breakfast.

That is how Evangeline knows before I do.

Adrian eats methodically, eyes down, jaw tight. Mark pushes his food around the plate, fork clinking too loudly against porcelain. Neither looks at the other. Not once.

“Did something happen?” Evangeline asks lightly.

“No,” Adrian answers too quickly.

“Yes,” Mark mutters at the same time.

I look up. “Which is it?”

Silence.

“Speak,” I say.

Adrian’s shoulders tense. Mark’s foot taps against the floor.

“It’s nothing,” Adrian says again.

“That’s a lie,” Mark snaps. “And you know it.”

I turn to him. “Watch your tone.”

Evangeline’s hand settles on my arm. “Sebastian.”

I pull away. “If there’s an issue, it’s handled here.”

Adrian stands abruptly. “May I be excused?”

“No,” I say.

He freezes.

“I said no,” I repeat.

Mark laughs sharply. “See?”

“That’s enough,” I snap.

Evangeline rises. “Boys,” she says calmly. “Give us a moment.”

They hesitate.

“Please,” she adds.

They leave, tension trailing behind them like smoke.

As soon as the doors close, I exhale hard.

“You’re losing them,” Evangeline says quietly.

“I’m correcting them,” I reply.

“You’re cornering them,” she counters. “There’s a difference.”

I turn on her. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand exactly,” she says. “Because I grew up watching men confuse fear with respect.”

The words hit harder than any accusation.

“This rivalry—” I begin.

“—isn’t about a girl,” she finishes. “It’s about you.”

I stare at her. “That’s unfair.”

“Is it?” she asks. “Adrian learned to survive by becoming what you praise. Mark learned to survive by becoming what you resist.”

I pace. “They’re brothers. They’ll resolve it.”

“Not if you keep forcing them into opposite corners,” she replies.

I stop. “What would you have me do?”

“Talk to them,” she says. “Not at them.”

I scoff. “Talking doesn’t build kings.”

“No,” she agrees. “But it builds sons.”

Later that afternoon, I walk the eastern corridor alone.

The servants bow. The guards step aside. No one speaks.

I remember another corridor—longer, colder. My father walking ahead of me, never beside.

“Do you know why I’m hard on you?” he asked once.

“So I won’t be weak,” I replied.

“So you won’t be loved,” he corrected.

I shake the memory away.

I stop outside the training hall.

Adrian stands inside, practicing alone. Every movement is precise. Controlled. Empty.

“Stop,” I say.

He does instantly.

“Come here,” I order.

He approaches, posture rigid.

“You’re angry,” I say.

“Yes, Father,” he answers.

“About what?” I ask.

He hesitates. “I don’t know.”

That’s the problem.

“Do you feel responsible for Mark?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says immediately.

“Why?”

“Because someone has to,” he replies.

“And why isn’t that me?” I ask quietly.

His eyes flick up, startled.

“I didn’t say that,” he replies.

“You didn’t have to,” I say.

Silence stretches.

“You don’t have to carry him,” I say finally. “He is my son too.”

Adrian swallows. “Then please… see him.”

The plea is quiet. Honest.

It breaks something open in me.

“I will try,” I say.

He nods, relief flickering across his face before discipline smothers it again.

That evening, I find Mark in the stables.

He sits on a bale of hay, boots dusty, jaw clenched like he’s waiting for a fight.

“You’re avoiding me,” I say.

“Can you blame me?” he replies.

“Yes,” I answer. “And no.”

He snorts. “That’s new.”

I step closer. “I handled this badly.”

He looks up, disbelief clear on his face. “Is this a trick?”

“No,” I say. “It’s… difficult.”

He studies me. “You don’t apologize.”

“I know,” I reply.

Silence.

“You think Adrian’s better,” he says suddenly.

“I think Adrian is afraid,” I say.

He frowns. “Of what?”

“Of failing me,” I answer.

Mark scoffs. “And you think I’m not?”

I hesitate.

He laughs bitterly. “You just don’t care when I do.”

“That’s not true,” I say sharply.

“Then why does it feel like I have to scream to be seen?” he demands.

The words lodge in my chest.

“I don’t want to lose you,” I say.

He blinks. “Then stop treating me like a problem to be solved.”

I nod slowly. “I will try.”

He studies me carefully. “You said that to Adrian too, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I admit.

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I don’t want to fight him.”

Neither do I.

That night, Evangeline and I sit together in silence.

“You’re changing,” she says eventually.

“I’m questioning,” I reply.

She smiles faintly. “That’s where change starts.”

I look toward the corridor that leads to our sons’ rooms.

“I was taught love was earned,” I say.

“And?” she asks.

“And I don’t want them to grow up believing that,” I answer.

The admission settles between us—heavy, frightening, necessary.

I don’t know how to undo years of instinct.

But for the first time, I am willing to learn a lesson my father never taught me.

That strength without gentleness is just another kind of failure.

And that breaking a cycle doesn’t begin with command—It begins with listening.