Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 93

POV; Cordelia

I disappear from Henry’s life without ceremony.

There is no confrontation, no final lesson half-finished on a chalk-dusted table. I do not send word. I do not offer explanation. Silence, I’ve learned, is more effective than cruelty—it leaves no surface to push against, no shape to argue with. By the time he realizes I am no longer coming, the absence has already settled into place.

The palace fills that space easily.

Sebastian does not ask me to hide anymore. He does not pretend our connection is theoretical or fragile. His attention is public now—warm, protective, unmistakable. He brings me gifts that are meant to be seen: a ring set with a pale stone that catches light without shouting, a cloak lined with fur that turns heads when I walk through the halls, a suite of rooms closer to his own.

“You should be comfortable,” he says, guiding me through them, pride threading his voice. “You’re carrying the future.”

The word echoes.

Future.

I nod and let him place his hand at my lower back, possessive and gentle all at once. Servants avert their eyes. Courtiers smile too brightly. Whispers follow me like perfume.

“Congratulations,” a noblewoman says, lips tight. “You must be very happy.”

“I’m secure,” I reply.

It is the truth that matters.

Sebastian’s affection grows louder by the day. He seeks my counsel openly now, asks my opinion during dinners, laughs at my observations as if they are revelations rather than confirmations of what he already suspects. He kisses my hand in front of others, his thumb lingering at my pulse like a claim.

“I trust you,” he says one evening, voice low as we sit beside one another at a long table crowded with advisors. “You see things clearly.”

I meet his gaze. “I see outcomes.”

He smiles. “That’s why I need you.”

Need is better than love.

Need is durable.

At night, alone, guilt flickers.

It is small. Manageable. A brief tightening in my chest when I imagine Henry’s table still set with two cups, the chalk left untouched where I last put it down. I acknowledge the feeling the way one acknowledges a distant ache—note it, then move on.

Guilt does not build kingdoms.

I press my palm to my stomach, grounding myself in the weight of what I’ve chosen. The warmth coils protectively, steady and resolute. The child is quiet, present in a way that feels almost observant.

“You’re safe,” I murmur.

That is what is owed.

Not honesty. Not sentiment.

Safety.

Sebastian ensures it thoroughly. He assigns additional guards—not to watch me, but to watch everyone else. He dismisses advisors who question the timeline of my pregnancy. He silences gossip with a smile sharp enough to draw blood.

“She’s under my protection,” he says once, voice cold when a councilman presses too hard. “If you can’t respect that, you can leave.”

The man leaves.

Power responds to certainty.

I feel it in my magic, too—the way it hums lower now, steadier, anchored by proximity to authority. Ambition no longer feels abstract. It has texture. Direction. A seat at the table.

When I walk through the palace, doors open.

I do not see Henry.

Not at the tavern. Not in the streets below the palace. I avoid the old corridors, the underground paths I once navigated without thought. Avoidance is not fear—it is efficiency.

One night, as Sebastian sleeps beside me, his arm heavy across my waist, I stare at the ceiling and allow myself exactly one question.

Did you owe him more?

The answer comes swiftly.

No.

What I owed Henry, I already gave: honesty without promises, intimacy without commitment, truth without obligation. He knew who I was. He chose hope anyway.

That was his debt, not mine.

The thought settles cleanly.

I turn toward Sebastian, fitting myself into the space he leaves open without asking. He murmurs my name in his sleep and pulls me closer, instinctive and possessive.

I let him.

The court adjusts.

Evangeline retreats gracefully, her presence thinning until it becomes a memory rather than a threat. She does not confront me again. She does not need to. Her absence speaks loudly enough.

Sebastian’s gifts become less ornamental and more strategic—introductions to influential houses, private meetings with advisors, access to correspondence I was never meant to see.

“You have a mind for this,” he tells me as I help him draft a response to a bordering kingdom’s envoy. “You should be heard.”

I am.

Whispers shift. My name moves through the palace not as a curiosity now, but as a fixture. Cordelia. The woman carrying the prince’s heir. The woman at his side.

The warmth responds eagerly to the alignment, magic humming in approval, ambition sharpening into something almost serene.

This is the cost, I think.

And it is worth it.

Standing alone at the window, I look out over the city lights, distant and indistinct. Somewhere beyond them, Henry continues his life without me. I do not imagine his grief. I do not need to.

I have chosen a path that does not bend backward.

“What is owed,” I say softly to my reflection in the glass, “is what ensures survival.”

Not love.

Not truth.

Survival.

I rest my hand over the quiet weight inside me and straighten, already turning back toward the light of the palace, toward Sebastian’s waiting presence.

Power feels worth the cost.

And I am done counting what it takes.