Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 64

POV: Maximilian

They applaud me before I open my mouth.

I stand at the center of the council chamber, spine straight, hands clasped behind my back the way Father taught me, and the sound rolls toward me like a wave—measured, approving, inevitable. The nobles smile. The elders nod. Someone murmurs remarkable composure for his age as if I am not standing right here.

I answer the questions they ask. I recite the histories they expect me to know. I repeat the phrases drilled into me until they sound like my own thoughts. I do not fidget. I do not hesitate. I do not show how my stomach twists every time one of them glances toward the empty space beside the Queen’s chair.

“That will be all,” Father says at last.

The applause rises again, louder this time.

As I step back, one of the elders leans toward another and whispers, “The boy is everything we hoped for.”

I am nine years old, and already I understand that hope can be a weapon.

Celeste is not invited to the afternoon gathering.

I know before anyone tells me. I know because the servants avoid my eyes when I ask where she is. I know because the corridor leading to the small sitting room she usually waits in has been quietly blocked by a pair of guards pretending to examine a tapestry.

I find her anyway.

She is seated alone in the far end of the east gallery, legs tucked beneath her, hands folded too neatly in her lap. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, catching dust motes in the air, but it does not quite reach her face. She looks smaller somehow, folded in on herself like she’s trying to take up less space.

“Why aren’t you with Mother?” I ask.

She glances up, startled, then smiles when she sees me. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “They said it was better if I stayed here.”

“For what?”

“For everything,” she says softly.

I sit beside her, close enough that our shoulders brush. No guards rush forward. No one shouts. The world does not break.

“They’re afraid,” I say, because it feels wrong not to say it.

She nods once. “I know.”

Anger flares hot and sudden in my chest. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I scare them,” she replies. “That’s enough.”

I want to argue. I want to tell her she’s wrong, that adults are supposed to be wiser than this, kinder than this. But I have heard the whispers. I have seen the looks. I know how fear changes people.

A bell rings somewhere down the hall, signaling the start of the gathering she has been excluded from.

Celeste flinches.

“I should go,” I say reluctantly.

She shrugs, a small, careful movement. “It’s fine.”

It isn’t.

***

I don’t go to the gathering right away.

Instead, I slip into the antechamber beside the council room, pressing myself into the shadows behind a heavy curtain. I know I shouldn’t be here. I know Father would be furious if he caught me listening. But the door is ajar, and voices drift through the gap.

“…cannot ignore the signs,” an elder is saying. “The incidents are increasing.”

“She is a child,” another voice counters, softer but no less tense.

“A child with power,” the first snaps. “Power that responds to emotion. To fear. To anger.”

My pulse quickens.

Father speaks next. “We are aware of the risk.”

Risk. The word lands hard.

“And yet,” the elder continues, “she remains within the palace. Among the court. Among the people.”

“There are safeguards,” Father says.

“For now,” someone else interjects. “But the dynasty cannot afford uncertainty. The boy—” A pause. “Prince Maximilian is strong. Disciplined. He inspires confidence.”

I grip the curtain tighter.

“The girl,” the elder continues, lowering his voice, “is a liability.”

Something inside me goes very still.

“We must consider the future,” the elder says. “The stability of the realm. If the curse spreads—”

“It will not,” Father cuts in sharply.

Silence follows.

Then, quietly, “We will monitor her presence. Limit her exposure. Observe her closely.”

Monitor. Limit. Observe. I back away from the door, my heart pounding so loudly I am certain they will hear it. I slip out of the antechamber and into the corridor, my breath coming fast and shallow.

They are talking about my sister like she is a threat to be managed.

Like she is already half gone.

***

That evening, the court gathers for supper without Celeste.

I sit in my usual place, answering questions when asked, nodding at the right moments, smiling when expected. My father watches me with approval. My mother’s gaze flicks to the empty chair across from us more often than she realizes.

No one mentions Celeste by name.

After the meal, I retreat to my room and close the door behind me with more force than necessary.

I need to remember this.

The thought comes suddenly, fully formed.

I need to remember what they say when they think no one is listening. I need to remember how they look at her. I need proof—not for them, but for myself. Because one day, when I am older, when I have more power than a nine-year-old prince should ever have, I will need to know exactly when this began.

I pull open a drawer and retrieve a small, leather-bound book I’ve been saving. It was meant for lessons, for copying maps and decrees. Instead, I open it to the first page and dip my pen into ink.

My hand shakes as I write.

They call her a risk.

The words bleed slightly into the page.

They watch her. They are afraid.

I pause, listening to the quiet beyond my door. Footsteps pass. A servant coughs. The palace settles into its nightly rhythm.

I write everything I can remember—the breakfast, the broken glass, the way the elders’ voices changed when they spoke of her. I write about the empty chair at supper. I write about the word liability.

When I finish, my fingers ache.

***

Later, I sneak down the corridor to Celeste’s chambers.

She is curled on her bed, knees drawn up, staring at the ceiling. She turns her head when I enter, relief flickering across her face.

“You weren’t at dinner,” she says.

“I know,” I reply.

I sit beside her, careful not to startle her, and lean back against the headboard. For a moment, we say nothing.

“Max,” she asks quietly, “am I… bad?”

The question hits me harder than any insult.

“No,” I say immediately. “You’re just different.”

She frowns. “They don’t like different.”

“I do,” I say.

She looks at me then, really looks at me, as if weighing the truth of my words. Finally, she nods and turns her gaze back to the ceiling.

I stay until her breathing slows, until sleep takes her. When I leave, I pause at the door and look back at her small, fragile form.

They see danger.

I see my sister.

I understand that loving her may one day require choosing her over everything else I have been taught to want.