Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 113

POV: Alexandro

I stop pretending I’m looking for her by accident.

I plan my days around the square now—around the hour when the spice sellers open and the bread ovens release their heat into the street. I learn the rhythms of the place the way I once learned sword forms, memorizing patterns so I can anticipate where she’ll be.

“Again?” Evangeline asks when I shrug into my cloak for the third time that week.

“I have business,” I say.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Since when do Dukes’ heirs carry baskets for merchants?”

I pause. “Since it matters.”

She doesn’t smile. “That’s what worries me.”

I don’t answer. I can’t afford the pause her questions bring. If I stop moving, the world presses back in.

Lina is arguing with a customer when I arrive, her voice calm and firm. I wait, hands clasped behind my back, until the man leaves muttering.

“You don’t have to hover,” she says without looking at me.

“I wasn’t,” I reply.

She glances over, unimpressed. “You were breathing loudly.”

“I was excited,” I say.

“About?” she asks.

“Seeing you.”

She sighs, tying the string of her basket. “You need to find another hobby.”

“I don’t want one,” I say quickly. “I want this.”

Her hands still. “This what?”

I step closer. “Us.”

She turns fully now, eyes sharp. “We don’t have an ‘us.’”

“We could,” I insist. “I’ve thought about it.”

“That’s the problem,” she replies. “You think alone.”

I swallow. “I think about you.”

“That’s not the same,” she says.

I laugh, frustrated. “You always say that.”

“And you never listen,” she counters.

I reach for her basket. “Let me help.”

“No,” she says firmly, pulling it back. “I didn’t ask.”

“I’m offering.”

“I don’t want offers,” she replies. “I want space.”

The word hits like a slap.

“Space from me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I step back, chest tight. “Why?”

“Because you’re turning every meeting into a promise,” she says. “And I never agreed to that.”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to agree. I’ll do the work.”

She looks at me like I’ve misunderstood something basic. “Love isn’t labor.”

“It can be,” I argue. “I’d do anything.”

“That’s not romantic,” she says quietly. “That’s frightening.”

I open my mouth to protest, then close it. The words jam in my throat, heavy and unwieldy.

“Just talk to me,” I say finally. “Let me explain.”

She hesitates, then nods toward the river path. “Walk.”

We move side by side, not touching. The river glints in the sun, indifferent.

“I don’t belong where I’m from,” I begin. “Everything there is rules and expectations. With you, it feels—”

“Different?” she finishes.

“Yes,” I say eagerly. “Real.”

She stops walking. “You think my life is an escape.”

“No,” I protest. “I think it’s honest.”

“Honest doesn’t mean easy,” she replies. “You watch me work and think it’s freedom. You don’t see the nights I count coins. The days I’m told my place.”

“I can change that,” I say.

She laughs, sharp. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The rescue,” she says. “You don’t love me. You love the idea that you can save something.”

“That’s not fair,” I snap.

“It is,” she insists. “You don’t ask what I want. You tell me what you’ll give.”

“I ask,” I say. “I ask every time.”

“And I answer every time,” she replies. “You just don’t like it.”

I clench my fists. “What do you want?”

She looks at the river. “I want to live without owing anyone.”

“You wouldn’t owe me,” I say.

She turns, eyes blazing. “I would owe you everything.”

The truth of it rattles me.

“I wouldn’t ask,” I say weakly.

“You wouldn’t have to,” she replies. “Power collects debt.”

I stare at her, my chest aching. “I can leave.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I can leave the palace,” I say quickly, the idea igniting. “We could go somewhere else. Start fresh.”

Her expression hardens. “Don’t say things you don’t understand.”

“I do,” I insist. “I’ve thought about it.”

“When?” she asks. “Between lessons? While servants buttoned your coat?”

I bristle. “That’s cruel.”

“It’s honest,” she says. “You don’t know what starting over costs.”

“I’m willing to learn,” I say.

She shakes her head. “You’re willing to burn everything and call it courage.”

Evangeline finds me pacing the gardens later, hands shoved in my hair.

“You saw her,” she says.

“Yes.”

“And?” she asks gently.

“She doesn’t see it,” I reply. “She’s afraid.”

“Of you?” Evangeline asks.

“No,” I snap. “Of the world.”

Evie studies my face. “Alex, listen to me.”

“I am listening,” I say, too fast.

“No,” she says. “You’re drowning.”

I scoff. “I’m in love.”

“Those aren’t opposites,” she replies.

I stop and face her. “You said you believed.”

“I believed in choice,” she says. “Not obsession.”

I flinch. “It’s not that.”

“You’re not sleeping,” she says. “You skip meals. You talk about leaving like it’s tomorrow.”

“She needs certainty,” I argue. “I can give that.”

“She needs agency,” Evie counters. “You can’t give that by deciding for her.”

I turn away. “You’re siding with her now.”

“I’m siding with reality,” she says.

“She’ll come around,” I insist. “She just needs time.”

Evie’s voice drops. “And if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” I say, certainty clinging like a shield. “I won’t let this fail.”

Evie reaches for my arm. “Alex—”

I pull away. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand too well,” she replies softly. “I’ve watched Father love like this.”

The words land, heavy and damning.

“I’m not him,” I say.

“Then don’t become him,” she pleads. “Don’t turn love into a demand.”

I shake my head. “You’re wrong.”

Her shoulders sag. “Please, slow down.”

“I can’t,” I admit. “If I slow down, I lose her.”

“That’s not love,” Evie whispers.

“It is to me,” I snap.

Silence stretches between us.

***

I return to the square the next day before dawn, nerves buzzing. Lina is there already, tying up her stall.

“I need to talk,” I say.

She doesn’t look up. “You always do.”

“I’ve decided something,” I continue.

She pauses. “That’s never a good sign.”

“I’m leaving,” I say. “The palace. The title. I’ll go wherever you want.”

She finally looks at me, disbelief flashing. “Stop.”

“I mean it,” I insist. “I’ll tell my father. I’ll make it right.”

Her face hardens. “You will not use me as an excuse to explode your life.”

“I’m choosing you,” I say.

“You’re choosing chaos,” she replies. “And asking me to carry the blame.”

“I wouldn’t,” I argue.

“You already are,” she says. “If you walk away, they’ll say it was for me.”

I hesitate. “So what?”

“So I refuse,” she says firmly.

The word echoes.

“You don’t get to refuse my future,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her eyes go cold. “Listen to yourself.”

I breathe hard. “I’m trying to love you.”

“Then respect my no,” she says. “If you can’t do that, leave me alone.”

The finality in her voice shakes me.

“I can’t,” I admit.

She straightens, resolve set. “Then you’re proving my point.”

She turns back to her work, conversation over.

I stand there, heart pounding, watching her move with purpose that does not include me.

I don’t leave.

I can’t.

And in that moment—standing too close, wanting too much—I understand something I don’t yet know how to fix:

Love, when it stops listening, becomes need.

And need does not ask.

It takes.