The flash went off like lightning—white-hot, blinding—and for a split second the hallway of the Riverside estate looked like a crime scene from a glossy magazine: polished marble, gold-framed portraits, a bride in designer lace… and me standing outside the door like I didn’t belong in my own family.

The photographer’s smile was apologetic but firm, the way people smile when they’re delivering a small cruelty they’ve been paid to carry out.

“I’m sorry, Miss Adelaide,” he said, lowering his camera. “The family requested formal photos without you. Something about… keeping the portrait balanced since you don’t have a date.”

Balanced.

As if I were a crooked picture frame they didn’t want ruining the symmetry.

I stood there in the corridor of a sprawling American estate just outside Charleston—old money architecture, manicured hedges, wedding guests in pastel and pearls, the kind of place that comes with whispered rules about who belongs where. Through the open doorway I watched my brother Thomas stand beside his new wife, Victoria, their hands linked for the cameras. My parents flanked them, glowing. Victoria’s parents stood on the other side, proud and polished.

Everyone paired. Everyone placed.

Everyone except me.

Thomas had warned me that morning, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder like looking at me directly might feel like disloyalty.

“It’s not personal,” he said. “Victoria just has a very specific vision for the photos. You understand?”

What I understood was this: for six months, I’d been carefully positioned as the family’s quiet embarrassment.

The unmarried sister. The one who “travels a lot.” The one who never stays long enough to be normal, never explains her job, never posts anything on Instagram worth bragging about. At the engagement party, Mom had introduced me to Victoria’s family like I was an awkward fact she couldn’t edit out.

“This is Adelaide,” she’d said too brightly. “She travels a lot.”

Translation: aimless. Unsettled. Possibly failing in a way we’re too polite to name.

Victoria had leaned in with false sympathy and a voice sweet enough to rot teeth. “Must be lonely,” she’d said, as if she were offering comfort instead of a verdict.

They gave me a single seat at Table 12.

Not near the head table.

Not even near the “family” tables.

Table 12 was where you put coworkers, distant cousins, and people you’re not sure you’ll ever see again. I sat among accountants from Thomas’s firm while they made polite small talk about quarterly projections and tax code changes. I smiled at the right places, pushed salmon around my plate, and let their harmless conversations roll past me like background noise.

“So what do you do, Adelaide?” asked Martin, a senior auditor with kind eyes, the only person at the table who looked like he’d notice if I disappeared.

“I work in international relations,” I said.

“Oh,” he brightened. “Which company?”

“It’s… more government liaison work,” I replied carefully. “Coordinating diplomatic initiatives.”

“That sounds fascinating,” Martin said, but his attention drifted back to his wife before I could offer anything else.

No one ever asked for details.

How could they?

Half my life was non-disclosure agreements. The other half was encrypted calls from hotel rooms in foreign capitals. My work wasn’t something you “kept up with” on Facebook. It wasn’t something you explained over wedding cake. It wasn’t even something you could safely summarize without turning it into a security risk.

Which made it easy—dangerously easy—for my family to decide I was underachieving.

Because if they couldn’t brag about it, it didn’t count.

I’d learned not to take the bait. I’d learned to smile and let them underestimate me. Underestimation can be a kind of freedom.

But being cut out of your own brother’s wedding photos?

That wasn’t freedom.

That was humiliation—served cold, posed in perfect lighting.

I turned away from the doorway, forcing myself to breathe like I hadn’t just been dismissed as an aesthetic inconvenience. The hallway smelled of fresh flowers and expensive perfume. Somewhere inside, the DJ announced the next dance. Laughter rose and fell like waves.

I told myself to get through the night.

Then I saw the security detail.

Subtle. Professional. Almost invisible to anyone who hadn’t spent years noticing who stands where, who watches what, who never looks at the bar when everyone else is drinking. Three men in dark suits moved into place near the entrances, their posture too alert for wedding guests. Their eyes scanned the room with the calm precision of people who don’t get surprised.

My stomach tightened.

No.

He wouldn’t.

We had discussed this.

“Adelaide.”

Marcus appeared at my elbow as if he’d been poured out of the crowd. My handler. My nightmare babysitter. The only person on Earth who could find me in a room of three hundred people without looking like he was trying.

His expression was the closest thing he had to apologetic. “We have a situation.”

My fingers went cold. “He’s coming,” I said.

Marcus gave a small nod. “ETA seven minutes.”

I closed my eyes for a beat, pressing my fingers to my temples like I could physically push the chaos back into the walls.

“Marcus,” I hissed, “this is my brother’s wedding.”

“I’m aware,” he said quietly. “But you know how he is once he’s decided.”

I let out a slow breath. “We agreed not here.”

“He refused to take no for an answer,” Marcus said, and his tone shifted—faintly amused, faintly grim. “Also… for what it’s worth, he’s pretty angry about the seating arrangement and the photos.”

My throat tightened. “How does he even know—”

Marcus’s mouth twitched. “The photographer posted something about ‘keeping the portrait balanced.’ It made the rounds.”

“Oh God,” I whispered.

Marcus didn’t soften his words. “His were more colorful. Something about teaching them what balance actually means.”

My heart kicked hard against my ribs.

I moved toward the nearest window.

Outside, the driveway curved through the estate like a red carpet waiting for disaster. Guests lingered on the veranda, drinks in hand. The air was warm and thick with Southern summer.

And then I saw them.

Three black SUVs turned onto the property in a smooth line, glossy and identical, headlights cutting through twilight. The lead vehicle carried small flags.

Not the U.S. flag.

Something else.

Something with a crest.

The royal standard of Valdora—a small European nation that most Americans couldn’t find on a map, but the kind of country Wall Street watched closely because money has a way of making geography suddenly relevant.

The motorcade rolled up to the entrance like it belonged there.

The estate staff froze in place.

A ripple ran through the guests, that instinctive human reaction to power moving into the room.

The DJ’s voice crackled over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen… uh… we appear to have some unexpected guests arriving.”

Inside the ballroom, my brother’s face drained of color. Victoria’s smile faltered. My mother’s champagne glass paused mid-air like her hand forgot how to function.

The rear door of the middle SUV opened.

And then the air changed.

Crown Prince Alexander Edward Philippe of Valdora stepped onto American soil like he was walking into his own parliament.

Six-foot-two, impeccably tailored navy suit, the kind of stillness that makes people straighten their backs without knowing why. He had the calm authority of someone raised to be watched—trained to make every gesture look effortless.

His security detail moved with him, precise and controlled, but he dismissed them with a subtle motion, preferring to walk alone.

He entered the ballroom.

And for a moment, the wedding became a completely different kind of event.

People turned.

Phones rose.

Whispers ignited like dry paper catching flame.

Is that…? Why are there flags? Are those diplomatic plates? Is this a movie?

Alexander’s gaze swept the room once—once—and landed on me at Table 12 like a guided missile locking onto its target.

His expression softened.

Not for the cameras. Not for the crowd.

For me.

“Adelaide,” he said, and the way he said my name made it sound like music and warning at the same time.

He walked straight to Table 12, ignoring everyone else as if three hundred wedding guests were just furniture.

I stood automatically, because some habits are carved into you by years of protocol.

“Your Highness,” I said under my breath. “You didn’t need to come.”

“I did,” he replied, voice calm, eyes dark with something dangerous. “Actually.”

He took my hand and kissed it—formal, controlled, but intimate enough that half the room audibly inhaled.

Then his gaze dropped.

To the empty space beside me.

The place card that read: NO PLUS ONE REQUIRED.

The chair that was empty because my family had decided I was better seen alone.

Alexander’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t make a scene.

He simply looked around the ballroom, taking in my parents’ shocked faces, my brother’s frozen posture, Victoria’s expression turning from confusion to panic, the photographer hovering nearby with his camera suddenly trembling in his hands.

“It seems,” Alexander said smoothly, loud enough to carry, “there has been confusion about your circumstances.”

Victoria, still gripping Thomas’s arm, hissed loud enough for the nearest tables to hear, “Alexander who is that? Why is she calling him Your Highness?”

Alexander turned toward the head table with slow, deliberate calm.

“You must be Thomas,” he said, extending his hand.

Thomas shook it like a man accepting a dream he couldn’t process. His mouth opened and closed, no words forming.

“And you are Victoria,” Alexander continued. “Congratulations. The wedding is… lovely.”

He paused just long enough for the silence to sharpen.

“Though I notice Adelaide wasn’t included in your formal photographs.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Victoria’s face flickered with the kind of fear people get when they realize their private cruelty has become public.

“I—we didn’t—she didn’t have a date,” Victoria stammered.

“She has a date,” Alexander corrected softly. “She has had one for four years.”

A sound passed through the room—not quite a gasp, not quite a whisper. More like collective disbelief trying to become real.

My mother finally found her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaky. “Who exactly are you?”

Alexander’s security chief materialized at his shoulder and, with the crisp efficiency of someone used to announcing power, opened a leather portfolio.

“Crown Prince Alexander Edward Philippe of Valdora,” he said clearly. “Heir apparent to the Valdorian throne. Special envoy to the United Nations. Current chair of the European Council on Economic Development.”

He handed my mother a card embossed with a royal seal.

“And Adelaide’s partner,” Alexander added, eyes locked on mine, “since we met at the G20 summit in Rome.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

My father looked like someone had unplugged him.

“Adelaide,” he said faintly. “You’re dating a prince?”

“Crown Prince,” Isabelle—Alexander’s personal secretary—corrected, stepping forward with a tablet in hand. “There is a distinction.”

I could’ve laughed if my throat hadn’t been tight.

“I work as his senior diplomatic adviser,” I said, finally finding my voice. “That’s why I travel constantly. That’s why I can’t always explain where I am or what I’m doing.”

My mother blinked, as if her brain couldn’t reconcile the daughter she’d quietly dismissed with the world that had just walked into her ballroom.

Alexander pulled out the chair beside mine and took it like it was his rightful place. His hand rested lightly on my back—protective, possessive, unmistakable.

“Adelaide coordinates Valdora’s foreign policy initiatives,” he said, addressing the room the way a politician addresses a press line. “She has negotiated trade agreements with seventeen nations. She advises on humanitarian crises. Last month, she mediated a border dispute that prevented an armed conflict.”

Thomas stared as if I’d suddenly spoken in another language.

Victoria looked like she might actually faint.

“Her work saves lives,” Alexander continued, his voice turning colder, sharper. “World leaders seek her counsel. And yet somehow she wasn’t important enough to include in your family photographs.”

My mother’s lips parted. “We… didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask,” I said quietly.

The words came out clean, not dramatic. Because the truth didn’t need theatrics.

“For four years I’ve tried to explain what I do,” I continued. “You decided ‘international relations’ meant I was an unemployed wanderer. You decided my travel meant I was running from commitment instead of running toward purpose.”

Alexander’s hand tightened slightly on my back, steadying me.

“Adelaide has kept our relationship private at my request,” he said, and there was something almost regretful in his tone. “A crown prince’s relationship becomes international news. We wanted to build something real before the world tore it apart.”

His gaze flicked to the photographer, who had gone pale.

“But I have grown tired,” Alexander said, voice hardening, “of watching the woman I love treated as an afterthought by people who should know better.”

“The woman you love?” Victoria repeated weakly, like she needed to hear it again to believe it.

Alexander didn’t hesitate.

He reached into his jacket pocket.

And my heart stopped.

A small velvet box.

No.

Alexander—no.

I’d planned this differently. Quietly. Safely. Away from cameras. Away from headlines.

Alexander opened the box.

Inside was a ring that belonged in a museum: an emerald-cut sapphire framed by diamonds, the kind of stone people write stories about. The kind of ring that would be recognized from across the room even by people who didn’t know a thing about jewelry—because wealth has a certain glow.

A woman near the dance floor actually squeaked.

Alexander took my hand.

“Adelaide Margaret Harrison,” he said, voice low enough that it felt like it was meant for me but loud enough that the entire room still heard every word, “you are the most brilliant, compassionate, infuriating woman I have ever known.”

My throat tightened.

“You have taught me more about diplomacy in four years than I learned in a lifetime of royal training,” he continued. “You make me want to be a better leader. A better man.”

His security chief stepped forward, urgent. “Your Highness—”

“Let them take photos,” Alexander cut in without looking away from me. “Let the whole world see. I am done hiding how I feel.”

Phones clicked. A chorus of camera shutters. A wave of people realizing they were witnessing a moment they’d be telling their friends about for the rest of their lives.

This would go viral in the U.S. within minutes. Americans love a fairytale. Americans love a scandal. Americans love anything that makes an ordinary wedding feel like a headline.

Crown Prince proposes at American wedding to secret adviser girlfriend.

The tabloids would have a field day. And the internet would do what the internet does.

“You’re sure?” I whispered.

Alexander smiled, and for once it wasn’t polished. It was him.

“I have never been more sure of anything,” he said softly. “Besides… someone needed to show your family what ‘balanced’ actually looks like.”

Despite everything, a laugh escaped me—small, incredulous.

“That is the worst proposal reasoning I’ve ever heard from a royal,” I whispered.

His mouth curved. “Is that a yes?”

I looked at the ring.

Then at him.

Then at my family’s faces—my brother, who’d let me be cut from the frame; Victoria, who’d called me lonely with a smile; my mother, who’d seated me like a distant acquaintance.

And I felt something hot and clean inside my chest.

Not revenge.

Not triumph.

Clarity.

“Yes,” I said.

Then I lifted a finger slightly, because if I was saying yes to a crown prince in the middle of a U.S. wedding reception, I was at least going to keep my dignity.

“But we’re going to have a very long conversation about appropriate venues for proposals.”

Alexander laughed—actually laughed—then slid the ring onto my finger.

Perfect fit, of course.

Because Alexander never did anything without planning.

He kissed me properly—thoroughly—without caring who watched. His security detail stiffened. Cameras exploded. The ballroom erupted in applause—confused, delighted, chaotic applause.

When he pulled back, his forehead brushed mine.

“Your mother looks like she might faint,” he murmured.

“My father is going to have a heart attack,” I whispered back.

“This wasn’t protocol,” he said, eyes amused.

“My father will be delighted I’m ‘settling down,’” I murmured. “He’s been hinting about grandchildren for years.”

Alexander’s smile turned wicked. “Secret relationships don’t produce succession-securing heirs.”

I gave him a look. “You are impossible.”

“You love it,” he murmured, and I hated that he was right.

Across the room, Victoria started crying—loud, messy sobs that didn’t look flattering on camera. Thomas tried to comfort her, but he kept staring at me like I’d sprouted wings.

My mother approached slowly, as if she were walking toward a wild animal.

“Adelaide,” she said shakily. “You’re… marrying a prince.”

“Crown Prince,” Isabelle corrected again, deadpan, like she’d been born to ruin people’s misconceptions.

Dad’s eyes were wide. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

I looked at him for a long moment.

“I tried,” I said. “You never wanted to listen. Every time I mentioned my job, you brushed it off. Every time I missed something, you said I was avoiding the family.”

My voice softened, because it still hurt, even now.

“You never asked what my life was actually like.”

Alexander squeezed my hand.

“Adelaide has given everything to her work,” he said to them, calm but unflinching. “Holidays. Birthdays. Family time. She has earned honors you will never read about because she doesn’t do what she does for applause.”

Thomas frowned, still trying to catch up. “But you never said—”

“I signed NDAs,” I cut in. “A lot of what I do can’t be discussed. But you could have asked about what I could share.”

Victoria wiped at her ruined mascara. “I called you lonely,” she whispered. “I pitied you.”

“You did,” I said.

Then I let the truth land, because sometimes the only mercy is honesty.

“Meanwhile,” I added, “I was helping him prepare UN remarks and planning our trip to the French Riviera.”

Victoria made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I married an accountant,” she said weakly. “You’re marrying… that.”

“Both are good men,” I said quietly. “And both marriages matter.”

The photographer hovered nearby, camera clutched like a lifeline. His voice trembled.

“Would… would the Crown Prince like to be in the family photos?”

Alexander’s gaze slid to him, and his smile returned—smooth, controlled.

“Adelaide goes first,” he said. “She is the family.”

So we took the photos.

Me in the center this time, not cut out for “balance.” My parents stiff as statues. Thomas looking shell-shocked. Victoria red-eyed and shaken. Alexander beside me, hand warm and steady on mine, his presence turning the entire image into something else entirely.

He leaned in, murmuring near my ear, “Your parents look terrified.”

“They just realized their daughter outranks them now,” I whispered back.

Alexander’s mouth twitched. “You already did. Diplomatically.”

The reception buzzed with whispers and frantic Googling. Guests stared openly now. People who’d ignored me all evening suddenly looked like they were seeing me for the first time.

Later, my mother grabbed my arm, her grip too tight.

“Adelaide,” she said, voice shaking. “I’m sorry. I should have listened.”

“You should have,” I agreed gently.

Then I softened, because I wasn’t doing this to destroy them. I was doing this to stop shrinking.

“But I’m still your daughter,” I added quietly. “I still wanted you in my life.”

My mother’s face crumpled. She hugged me like she was trying to hold onto a version of me she’d never bothered to learn.

“My baby is going to be a princess,” she whispered, half awe, half panic.

“If I survive royal training,” I muttered.

Alexander leaned in, amused. “You will,” he said. “You terrify my cabinet already.”

“I do not—”

“You do,” Isabelle cut in, scrolling her tablet. “Also, Your Highness, the press has found the photos. It’s global now.”

Alexander didn’t flinch. “Release a statement,” he said calmly. “We’re engaged.”

Then he looked at my family again, his expression controlled but firm.

“I apologize for interrupting your wedding,” he said. “But I will not apologize for showing how important Adelaide is.”

Victoria, still trembling, let out a weak laugh. “This is your day now,” she said, sounding both broken and oddly relieved. “You married into… a headline.”

I touched her hand briefly. “You married into this family,” I said. “That’s dramatic enough.”

Alexander’s security moved in again, quietly guiding us toward a side exit because once the internet knows something, privacy becomes a myth.

“We should leave,” I whispered to Alexander.

He nodded, then brushed his lips against my temple. “Early flight,” he murmured. “Geneva.”

“UN meeting,” I said to my mother, who still looked dazed.

Mom blinked at me. “My daughter helps run the world,” she whispered, stunned. “And I never noticed.”

“Not run,” I corrected softly. “Just guide.”

In the car heading toward the airport, the adrenaline finally began to drain. My hands started to shake. Not fear—just the delayed impact of emotion I’d been holding back for months.

“That was dramatic,” I said, staring at the ring on my finger like it might evaporate.

“You’re marrying royalty,” Alexander replied, settling beside me. “Drama comes free.”

“Any regrets?” he asked.

I looked out at the dark American road, the estate shrinking behind us, the life I’d had for my family cracking and reforming into something new.

“No regrets,” I said honestly. “But maybe next time… propose somewhere not public.”

Alexander laughed, low and warm. “Where is the fun in that?”

My phone buzzed.

A text from Thomas: I’m sorry. You deserved better from us. Congratulations. He looks like he really loves you.

I stared at the screen for a beat, then typed: He does. Enjoy your honeymoon. We’ll talk when you’re back.

Another buzz—Victoria: You’re going to be a much more interesting in-law than I expected. Please teach me royal protocol so I don’t embarrass myself at your wedding.

Despite everything, a smile pulled at my mouth.

Alexander glanced over. “Good news?”

“Just my family realizing I’m not who they thought I was,” I said quietly.

“Good,” he replied. “It’s about time.”

He pulled me closer, the way he always did when the world got too loud.

Then his voice shifted—work mode, focused and calm.

“About tomorrow’s presentation,” he said. “I have thoughts on the aid distribution framework.”

And just like that, we were back to us. Back to the partnership that had defined four years across three continents. Back to the strange, steady life we’d built behind sealed doors and encrypted calls.

Except now the whole world knew.

No more hiding. No more being dismissed. No more lonely sister at Table 12.

Just me, Alexander, and the future we’d build—one negotiation, one state dinner, one hard-earned piece of dignity at a time.

And somewhere back at Riverside, a photographer was probably deleting a caption about “portrait balance,” realizing too late that he’d mistaken quiet for small.

He wasn’t the first.

He wouldn’t be the last.

But he was the last person who’d ever cut me out of the frame.

The first alert hit the internet before we’d even reached the highway.

A shaky video—shot from the back of the ballroom, half blocked by a man’s shoulder—captured the exact moment Crown Prince Alexander of Valdora lifted a velvet box in the middle of an American wedding reception. Within minutes, the clip was everywhere: TikTok stitches, X threads, Instagram reels with captions screaming like tabloid headlines.

PRINCE PROPOSES AT STRANGER’S WEDDING.

WHO IS SHE?

WHY WAS SHE SITTING ALONE?

And because it was the U.S., because Americans have a talent for turning any public moment into a sport, the comments came fast and vicious. People argued about etiquette. People argued about romance. People argued about whether Victoria deserved it.

No one argued about me being included in family photos anymore.

Now they were arguing about whether I was real.

My phone buzzed again, this time with an incoming call from Marcus.

Not my Marcus. Not my handler.

My brother’s best man, Marcus—who had spent the night watching me like I was a loose thread he didn’t want to pull.

I didn’t answer.

I let it go to voicemail.

I wasn’t ready to hear my family’s voices yet. I wasn’t ready for apologies that would arrive only after the world decided I was worth respecting.

Alexander watched me from the corner of his eye, reading every small change in my face the way he read negotiating partners across a table.

“Do you want me to shut it down?” he asked quietly.

I stared out the window at the American highway signs blurring past—Interstate numbers, neon gas stations, the casual, familiar reality of a country that didn’t understand what it meant to be a public story overnight.

“You can’t shut down the internet,” I said.

“I can make it expensive,” he replied with a faint smile.

That was Alexander. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t tantrum. He made consequences appear politely.

I exhaled slowly. “No,” I said. “Let it run.”

He turned slightly toward me. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve spent years being invisible when it suited people,” I said. “If I’m going to be visible now, I’m not going to apologize for it.”

Alexander’s hand covered mine. Warm. Steady.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because we don’t apologize for existing.”

That line—simple, almost careless—hit me harder than the proposal itself.

We’d only made it ten miles from the estate when Isabelle’s tablet chimed again and again, like a machine alarm.

“Your Highness,” she said from the opposite seat, eyes scanning headlines with the speed of someone used to cleaning up public disasters. “The press is requesting confirmation. Major U.S. outlets are calling it an international incident.”

Alexander didn’t even blink. “It is not an incident,” he said calmly. “It is an engagement.”

Isabelle’s mouth tightened. “They’re saying you ‘crashed’ an American wedding.”

“I attended a family event,” he corrected. “With my partner.”

“Your partner’s family,” Isabelle clarified gently.

“My family now,” Alexander said without hesitation.

My stomach tightened with something that wasn’t fear—more like shock that someone could claim me without conditions.

Isabelle swiped again. “There are already think pieces about etiquette. Several American commentators are calling it ‘the most dramatic wedding interruption since celebrity scandals.’”

Alexander leaned back, unbothered. “Americans love drama.”

“Yes,” Isabelle said dryly. “They also love lawsuits.”

“We did not break any laws,” Alexander replied.

“We broke several social rules,” she countered.

Alexander’s gaze flicked to me. “They broke the first one.”

The quiet protectiveness in that sentence made my throat tighten.

Because it wasn’t the proposal that hurt.

It was the months before it—the way my family had slowly trained me to accept a smaller place at the table.

A smaller role in their story.

And I had let them.

Not because I believed them.

Because sometimes it was easier to swallow the disrespect than to start a fight you’d have to abandon the moment your encrypted phone rang.

I watched the glow of my ring catch the passing streetlights. Sapphire. Diamond. Heavy enough that I could feel it with every movement of my hand.

Too real to deny.

Too public to hide.

Isabelle cleared her throat. “We need an official statement immediately. Especially because people are already digging.”

I felt my spine go rigid.

Digging meant what it always meant: strangers tracing your life like a map.

Finding your college friends. Your old photos. Your travel history. Your name in obscure conference documents. Your LinkedIn profile you kept intentionally vague.

“Adelaide,” Alexander said quietly, sensing my shift. “Look at me.”

I did.

He held my gaze until my breathing slowed.

“We will handle it,” he promised. “No one touches you without consequence.”

I swallowed. “This isn’t just about me.”

“It is,” he said firmly. “And it’s about Valdora. And it’s about the work you do. Which means we treat this like any other negotiation.”

He turned to Isabelle. “Release a confirmation. Keep it clean. No details about her assignments. No locations. No timeline.”

Isabelle nodded, fingers already flying across her tablet.

My phone buzzed again.

A message this time.

From my mother.

Just three words.

Call me. Please.

I stared at the screen until the words blurred.

Alexander didn’t speak. He didn’t tell me what to do. He simply stayed close enough to remind me I wasn’t alone.

I typed back: Later. I’m safe.

Then I turned my phone face down like closing a door.

We reached the private terminal outside Charleston under a sky that looked too peaceful for what had just happened. The jet waited on the tarmac like a quiet threat to ordinary life. Security moved around us with smooth efficiency.

As we walked toward the stairs, a small group of airport staff stood frozen, whispering.

One woman’s hand flew to her mouth. Another lifted her phone, trying to pretend she wasn’t recording.

Alexander didn’t look at them.

He only looked at me.

“Last chance,” he murmured. “If you want to step back into the shadows, we can.”

I laughed once, sharp and tired. “And go back to being Table 12?”

His mouth curved. “Never again.”

I climbed the stairs.

Inside the jet, the air smelled like leather and quiet power. The cabin lights were soft, the kind designed to make long flights feel less like captivity.

The second we were airborne, Isabelle handed Alexander a printed report.

“U.S. outlets are running background,” she said. “They found your surname, Adelaide.”

I stiffened.

Harrison.

Common enough in America to disappear in a crowd… until you pair it with a crown prince and suddenly everyone decides it’s suspicious.

“They’re already connecting her to Riverside,” Isabelle added. “And to Thomas’s firm. And to Victoria’s family. Someone will talk.”

Someone will sell the story, she meant.

Someone will cash in.

Alexander’s expression didn’t change, but something sharpened in his eyes. “Then we make sure the story is ours.”

He turned to me. “Do you want to talk to them?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

“Good,” he said. “Then you won’t.”

He looked at Isabelle. “Coordinate with the Valdoran embassy in D.C. and the consulate in New York. If U.S. press wants comment, they go through official channels.”

Isabelle nodded. “And social media?”

Alexander’s gaze flicked to my ring again, then back to my face. “Let them talk.”

He leaned closer, voice low. “They can’t hurt you if you stop needing their approval.”

I stared at him for a long moment.

“You’re really doing this,” I whispered. “Going public. Opening the door.”

He smiled, softer now. “You’ve walked through war zones and negotiated with men who wanted to tear countries apart,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of American wedding gossip.”

I let out a slow breath.

“You’re right,” I murmured.

Isabelle, still reading, cleared her throat. “There’s… another issue.”

Alexander’s gaze sharpened. “Speak.”

She turned her tablet to show me a headline.

VICTORIA RIVERSIDE BRIDE ‘HUMILIATED’ AS PRINCE PROPOSES TO LONELY SISTER.

My jaw tightened.

Lonely sister.

Even now.

Even after the world watched a crown prince choose me, they were still trying to squeeze me into the smallest possible box.

Alexander’s eyes went cold. “That ends,” he said quietly.

He reached for his phone—secure line, not public—and spoke in Valdoran, rapid and precise. Isabelle’s posture shifted as she listened, recognizing the tone: not romance, not drama.

Statecraft.

When he ended the call, he looked at me.

“I have instructed my communications office to correct that narrative,” he said. “You are not a ‘lonely sister.’ You are my senior adviser. My partner. And soon, my wife.”

A lump rose in my throat.

“And your family?” I asked, because it mattered, even if it shouldn’t have.

Alexander’s gaze didn’t soften. “Your family will adjust,” he said. “Or they will be left behind.”

The words were harsh.

But they were true.

Hours later, when we landed in Geneva, the air was colder, cleaner, and the world felt like it snapped back into its usual rhythm—briefings, schedules, meetings, security sweeps.

Work.

Normal.

But my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Finally, in a quiet corridor outside the conference wing, I answered my mother.

Her voice broke immediately. “Adelaide…”

I closed my eyes.

“Mom,” I said, steady.

“We didn’t know,” she whispered, like that explained anything.

“You didn’t ask,” I replied, the same clean truth as before.

There was a sob. “I thought you were… drifting. I thought you didn’t want a family. I thought—”

“You thought what was easiest for you,” I said quietly. “Because the truth required effort.”

Silence.

Then, softer: “I’m sorry.”

I leaned against the wall, staring at the sterile carpet and the UN insignia printed on a door nearby.

“I don’t need you to be sorry because a prince showed up,” I said. “I need you to be sorry because you didn’t believe in me when you thought I was alone.”

My mother’s breath hitched.

“I do believe in you,” she pleaded. “I do. I’m just… I’m your mother. I wanted you to be safe. I wanted you to be normal.”

I laughed once, bitter. “Normal would’ve gotten people killed, Mom.”

Silence again.

“Adelaide,” she whispered. “Can we fix this?”

I wanted to say yes.

I wanted to say no.

What I said was the truth.

“We can try,” I replied. “But it’s going to take more than apologies.”

She sobbed quietly. “I’ll do anything.”

“Then start with this,” I said, voice calm. “Stop treating my life like it’s a mystery you’re entitled to solve. And start treating it like something you respect—even when you don’t understand it.”

On the other end, my mother made a small sound like surrender.

“I will,” she whispered. “I promise.”

When I hung up, my hands shook.

Not fear.

Grief.

Because sometimes the hardest negotiations are the ones with the people who raised you.

Alexander appeared beside me like he always did, silent until I looked at him.

“You did well,” he said.

“I didn’t,” I whispered. “I survived.”

He took my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles, the ring cold against his warmth.

“That is the same thing,” he said.

And then he leaned in, voice low and steady.

“Now,” he murmured, “we go do what you were born to do.”

We walked into the conference hall together.

Not hidden.

Not minimized.

Not excluded for “balance.”

And when the doors closed behind us, the world outside could gossip all it wanted.

Because inside, there were maps and treaties and lives depending on words said carefully in rooms like this.

And I was done letting anyone—family, tabloids, or strangers—decide my worth.