Henry’s POV
The parchment burns against my fingers like a brand. I stare at Helena’s handwriting—that stubborn slant I’ve memorized from watching her take notes, the way her pen lingers on certain letters like she’s afraid to let them go.
But these aren’t notes. These are confessions.
“Sometimes I wonder if he sees me when he looks my way, or if he’s simply cataloging another disappointment…”
My jaw locks. The words slice through me like a blade finding flesh.
“I know I’m not what princes choose. I know I take up too much space in rooms made for delicate things…”
“Your Highness?” A first-year appears at my elbow, voice trembling. “Practice begins in—”
“Get out.”
He scatters like leaves before a storm.
The west garden glitters with calculated perfection as I approach. Calla holds court beneath the marble pavilion, her face a masterpiece of cosmetics and breeding—cheekbones razor-sharp, lips painted blood-red, every feature arranged for maximum impact.
“Well, well,” she purrs as I emerge from the shadows. “The conquering hero arrives.”
“You stole something that wasn’t yours.”
Her laugh tinkles like breaking crystal. “Oh, darling. Nothing in this place truly belongs to anyone. We’re all just borrowing until someone stronger takes it away.”
I step closer, close enough to see the tiny imperfections her powder can’t quite hide. “You think this is amusing?”
“I think it’s illuminating.” She rises with fluid grace, her court of sycophants watching like vultures. “Tell me, Your Highness, how does it feel to read her pathetic little fantasies?”
The letter crumples in my fist. “Pathetic?”
“All those desperate lines about wanting someone who’d never want her back.” Calla circles me like a predator scenting weakness. “Though I suppose you should be flattered. Not every prince inspires such… fervent delusion.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Her voice drops to a whisper sharp as poison. “She wrote about you, Henry. Pages and pages of hopeless longing for someone so far above her station she might as well wish for the moon.”
I reach out and smear her perfect lipstick with my thumb, leaving a crimson streak across her porcelain cheek. “There. Now you look human.”
“You bastard!” she snarls, her composure finally cracking. “Do you have any idea how long that took to apply?”
“About as long as it took you to steal Helena’s journal, I’d imagine.”
“Did I?” She steps closer, unafraid despite her ruined makeup. “Or did I simply reveal what we all already knew? That you’re slumming with unsuitable company?”
“Careful, Calla.”
“Why? Because the truth stings?” Her smile turns vicious. “She’s beneath you in every conceivable way. Too common, too large, too desperately grateful for any scrap of attention—”
“Stop.”
“—and the most delicious part is that she knows it. Every word in that letter screams her own inadequacy. She’s doing our work for us.”
I grab her wrist, my grip iron-tight. “You want to know what I read in that letter?”
Fear flickers in her eyes for the first time. “Henry—”
“Courage.” The word comes out rough as gravel. “I read about a girl brave enough to write down her fears. Honest enough to confront her own doubts. Strong enough to keep fighting even when everything inside her whispers that she’s not enough.”
“That’s not—”
“And you know what the most beautiful part was?” I lean closer, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “She wasn’t writing about the prince. She was writing about me.”
Calla goes perfectly still.
“Not the crown. Not the title. Not the performance I put on for people like you.” I release her wrist and step back. “She saw through all of it to whatever’s left underneath. And somehow, impossibly, she wanted that instead.”
“You’re deluding yourself,” Calla breathes, but her voice wavers.
“Am I? Then why did reading her words feel like coming home?”
The question hangs between us like a challenge. Around us, her court shifts uncomfortably, sensing the battle’s tide turning.
“She’ll destroy you,” Calla says finally. “Girls like that always do. They cling too tight, demand too much, expect you to be better than you are.”
“Maybe I want to be better than I am.”
“You can’t change what you are, Henry. You’re a prince. She’s nothing.”
“She’s everything.” The words escape before I can stop them, raw and unguarded.
Calla’s face crumples like paper in flame. “You’re throwing away your future for a girl who—”
“Who what? Who challenges me? Who makes me question whether the life I’ve been handed is worth living?” I laugh, bitter as winter wind. “Maybe that’s exactly what I need.”
I turn to leave, but her voice stops me cold.
“She’ll never be enough for them. The nobles, the court, your parents—they’ll tear her apart.”
“Then they’ll have to tear through me first.”
The promise hangs in the night air like a vow written in blood. I walk away without looking back, Helena’s letter still burning against my palm.
For the first time in my life, I know exactly what I’m willing to fight for.
And it isn’t the crown.