Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 117

POV: Evangeline

No one says Alexandro’s name the next morning.

That is how I know he is truly gone.

I sit at the long breakfast table, spine straight, hands folded, untouched porridge cooling in front of me. Father enters without ceremony, already dressed for council, his presence filling the room like a verdict. He does not look at the empty chair where Alexandro should be.

“Evangeline,” he says. “You will attend council with me today.”

I lift my gaze slowly. “Why?”

“Because,” he replies, pouring himself tea, “circumstances have changed.”

Mother sits beside him, composed, eyes fixed on her plate. She does not meet my gaze.

“I am not trained for council,” I say.

“You are trained to listen,” Father answers. “That will suffice.”

The words settle over me, heavy and unmistakable.

“I want to know where my brother is,” I say quietly.

Father’s hand stills. “You want many things.”

“He ran because of you,” I press.

“He ran because he was weak,” Father snaps. “And weakness will no longer be indulged in this house.”

I push back my chair and stand. “He was not weak. He was—”

“Enough,” Father says sharply. “Sit.”

I don’t.

Mother finally looks up. “Evangeline,” she says calmly, “this is not the moment.”

“When will it be?” I ask. “When he’s forgotten completely?”

Father rises to his feet. “You will not poison this household with sentiment.”

“Sentiment?” I repeat. “You mean grief.”

“You mean disruption,” he counters. “And you will learn, as Alexandro refused to, that duty does not wait for feelings to settle.”

I swallow. “What does this have to do with me?”

Father steps closer, his shadow cutting across the table. “Everything.”

Council is a lesson in erasure.

They speak of Alexandro as if he were a failed investment, a misstep quickly corrected. Titles are reassigned. Responsibilities redistributed. The future is redrawn with frightening efficiency.

No one asks if I agree.

“Your daughter is of age,” one of the elders says smoothly. “Unmarried. Well-bred. Unblemished.”

I stiffen.

Father inclines his head. “She will do.”

I look between them. “Do what?”

“Stabilize,” Father replies. “What your brother fractured.”

My heart pounds. “You’re talking about marriage.”

“Yes.”

“So soon?” I ask.

“So necessary,” he corrects.

“To whom?” I ask, already dreading the answer.

“A prince,” one elder says. “Sebastian. His father seeks a union that strengthens both houses.”

I laugh once, brittle. “You’re replacing Alexandro with me.”

Father’s gaze hardens. “I am preserving this family.”

“I am not a pawn,” I say.

“You are a daughter,” he replies. “And daughters serve.”

Mother’s hand brushes mine under the table—brief, warning.

“Say nothing,” her touch tells me.

“I want time,” I say instead.

“You have had enough time,” Father says. “Your brother wasted his.”

I feel something inside me go very still.

“And if I refuse?” I ask.

Father’s voice drops. “Then you will learn how replaceable rebellion truly is.”

Silence stretches.

I nod.

“Very well,” I say.

Mother exhales softly.

The elders exchange approving glances.

I sit through the rest of the meeting without speaking, my body present, my mind elsewhere—following the echo of my brother’s footsteps out of the palace gates.

That afternoon, my chambers change.

New dresses arrive—richer fabrics, tighter silhouettes. Jewelry is laid out with clinical precision. A maid I don’t recognize begins taking measurements without asking.

“Stop,” I say.

She freezes. “My lady?”

“Leave,” I say.

She hesitates, then bows and retreats.

I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my hands.

A knock comes. Mother enters quietly.

“You handled council well,” she says.

“I handled it quietly,” I reply. “That’s not the same.”

She closes the door. “It’s what keeps you safe.”

“Safe from what?” I ask. “From having a will?”

She sighs. “From becoming Alexandro.”

My throat tightens. “Don’t.”

“He chose chaos,” Mother says. “You are choosing continuity.”

“I didn’t choose anything,” I say. “It was decided for me.”

She sits beside me. “Sometimes survival looks like surrender.”

I turn to her. “Did you surrender too?”

Her eyes flicker. “That is not relevant.”

“It is to me,” I say. “Did you ever love Father?”

A pause.

“Love,” she says carefully, “is not what builds dynasties.”

I stand. “Then I won’t pretend this is love.”

“You don’t have to,” she replies. “You only have to endure.”

Days blur.

Lessons intensify. Etiquette, diplomacy, silence. I am coached on how to smile without warmth, how to listen without reacting, how to accept without questioning.

Father watches closely now.

“You will not embarrass us,” he says one evening as I practice walking with a book balanced on my head.

“I won’t,” I reply.

“You will not speak of your brother,” he adds.

I pause. “I won’t in public.”

His gaze sharpens. “Not at all.”

I meet his eyes. “I won’t erase him.”

For a moment, I think he might strike me.

Instead, he says, “You will learn.”

The night before the betrothal announcement, I stand in the gallery where Alexandro and I used to race, breathless and laughing, before we learned what laughter cost.

I run my fingers along the stone balustrade.

“I’m still here,” I whisper, unsure who I’m speaking to.

A maid approaches. “My lady, your father requests your presence.”

I follow her to his study.

“You will leave in a month,” Father says without preamble. “The marriage will be swift.”

“I understand,” I reply.

“You will not shame us,” he says. “You will not falter.”

“I understand,” I repeat.

He studies me. “You’ve changed.”

“Yes,” I say. “I had to.”

He nods, satisfied. “Good.”

As I turn to leave, I stop. “Father?”

“Yes.”

“If Alexandro returns,” I say carefully, “what will you do?”

His answer is immediate. “He will not.”

I leave before the words can cut deeper.

That night, I sit alone in my chambers, surrounded by silk and expectation.

I press my palm to my chest, feeling my heart beat—steady, obedient.

This is how it begins.

Not with protest.

Not with tears.

But with silence.

With acceptance so complete it feels like disappearance.

I lie down fully dressed, staring at the ceiling, and make myself a promise I don’t yet understand the weight of:

I will survive this.

Even if survival means becoming someone my brother would no longer recognize.

Even if it means learning how to live without the part of me that once believed love could be chosen.