Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 121

POV: Alexandro

I come back to the palace with nothing but dust on my boots and shame stitched into my spine.

The gates look the same. That’s the cruelest part. Stone doesn’t remember what it does to you. It just waits.

The guards recognize me instantly. One of them straightens, surprise flashing across his face before discipline crushes it.

“My lord,” he says, then hesitates. “Or—”

“Just open the gate,” I mutter.

He does. Slowly. Carefully. Like I might vanish again if he moves too fast.

Inside, the courtyard feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe I’m the one who’s shrunk. My clothes are worn now. My hands rough. The signet ring is gone. I sold it weeks ago for food and passage, telling myself I’d buy it back once everything worked out.

Everything did not work out.

I barely make it halfway across the stones before Father’s voice cuts through the air.

“So,” he says. “The ghost returns.”

I stop.

He stands at the top of the steps, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. Mother is beside him, hands folded, eyes scanning me like inventory.

“I told you not to come back,” Father continues.

“I know,” I say.

“You disobeyed again,” he replies.

“I ran out of places to go,” I admit.

That earns a small, satisfied nod. “Honesty suits you better than defiance ever did.”

Mother steps forward. “You look thin.”

I almost laugh. “It was a long journey.”

Father descends the steps slowly. “Where is she?” he asks.

The question hits harder than any blow.

I swallow. “Gone.”

“Gone where?” he presses.

“Away,” I say. “With someone else.”

His mouth curves faintly. “Of course.”

“She laughed,” I add, the words spilling before I can stop them. “When I told her what I gave up. She said she never asked for it. That I imagined everything.”

Mother’s eyes soften briefly. Father’s do not.

“And you believed her,” Father says.

“I had no choice,” I reply.

“You always had a choice,” he counters. “You simply chose poorly.”

Silence stretches.

“I want to come home,” I say finally.

Father studies me for a long moment. “Home is not a refuge for failures.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m not asking for comfort.”

“What are you asking for?” he asks.

“A place,” I answer. “Any place.”

Mother exhales. “He’s still our son.”

Father doesn’t look at her. “He is a liability.”

“I won’t be,” I say quickly. “I’ll obey. I’ll do whatever you want.”

That finally gets his attention.

“Whatever I want?” Father repeats.

“Yes.”

“You will renounce all claims,” he says. “You will accept that your sister has replaced you.”

My chest tightens. “Evangeline?”

“She is married,” Father continues. “Well-positioned. Useful.”

The word slices.

“I didn’t know,” I say quietly.

“You forfeited the right to know,” he replies. “You will not contact her.”

“I just want to see her,” I plead.

“No,” Father says sharply. “You will not reopen that wound.”

Mother looks away.

“And if I refuse?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Then you leave again,” Father says. “This time without return.”

I think of the road. Of cold nights. Of the girl’s laughter cutting deeper than hunger ever did.

“I accept,” I say.

Father nods once. “You will live here under supervision. You will train. You will keep your head down.”

“Yes.”

“You will speak only when spoken to,” he adds.

“Yes.”

“And you will remember,” he finishes, “that this is mercy.”

I bow my head. “Thank you.”

The word tastes like ash.

They give me a room in the west wing. Smaller. Bare. A servant waits awkwardly at the door.

“Your belongings?” he asks.

“This is all I have,” I say.

He nods, unsure what to do with that.

Later, Father summons me to the training yard. The swordmaster eyes me skeptically.

“You’re out of practice,” he says.

“I know,” I reply.

“Show me.”

I do. Poorly.

Steel rings. My arm trembles. Sweat blinds me. Each mistake earns correction—verbal, physical, relentless.

“Again,” the swordmaster snaps.

I swing. Again. Again. When I finally drop to one knee, breath ragged, Father watches from the balcony above.

“This,” he calls down, “is how obedience is rebuilt.”

I nod, too exhausted to argue.

That night, Mother brings me food herself.

“You shouldn’t have come back like this,” she says softly.

“I shouldn’t have left,” I reply.

She touches my shoulder briefly. “You loved foolishly.”

“I loved honestly,” I say.

She sighs. “Honesty is expensive.”

“Is Evangeline well?” I ask.

Her hand stills. “She is… composed.”

“Can I write to her?” I ask.

Mother meets my eyes. “No.”

The answer settles something inside me. Final. Unyielding.

“Then I’ll stay silent,” I say.

“That would be wise,” she replies.

Days turn into routine.

Training. Silence. Obedience.

Servants treat me differently now—not with fear, not with reverence, but with careful distance. I am no longer the heir. I am a cautionary tale.

One evening, Father calls me to his study.

“You will remain here,” he says. “You will serve the house quietly.”

“I will,” I reply.

He studies me. “You’ve changed.”

“Yes,” I say. “I had to.”

He nods, satisfied. “Good.”

As I leave, I pass a mirror and barely recognize the man staring back. Thinner. Harder. Emptier.

I think of Evangeline—how she used to look at me like I was unbreakable. I let that image go.

This is the price of returning. Not forgiveness. Not reunion. Just survival under rules written by someone else.

And I accept it. Because rebellion already took everything else from me.