21. Alexander

The lack of response from Nessa weighs heavily on me. I understand the magnitude of what I've asked of her—to uproot her life and step into mine, a world that's not just filled with love but also with obligation and scrutiny. It's a lot for anyone to take in, let alone make a snap decision about.

Yet, I can't shake the disappointment that clings to the edges of my heart. After the incredible connection we shared, a part of me had hoped for an immediate, resounding yes. But silence has its own language, filled with doubts and considerations I can't ignore.

She's going to say yes. She loves me, I think as I look through the rule books to make sure that there is nothing at all that stops me from making Nessa officially my live-in girlfriend.

The knock at the door sends a jolt of anticipation through me, my heart hitching at the thought that it's Nessa, ready to say yes. I quickly stand, moving to open the door, my mind racing with possibilities.

But instead of Nessa, I'm greeted by my mother. "Mother, hello." I can't hide my initial disappointment, my gaze flicking past her before she gently closes the door.

"You were expecting someone else. I'm sorry to disappoint," she says with an understanding smile.

I shake off my reaction, shifting into a more formal tone. "What brings you here, Mother?"

Her next question catches me off guard. "When are your friends returning to the US?" Her hands are clasped tightly together, a sure sign she's broaching a delicate subject.

"They're leaving tomorrow. Why do you ask?" I lean back against my desk, curiosity piqued.

She hesitates before continuing. "I thought it might be nice to have dinner with them. I haven't really had the chance to speak with them."

My suspicion narrows into focus. "With them or with Vanessa?" I can't help but ask, wondering how much she knows.

"Alexander," she sighs, the weight of her concern evident. "You can't seriously be considering—" Her words trail off as her eyes land on the documents scattered across my desk. "Alexander, is this what I think it is?" she asks, her tone shifting.

I quickly gather the papers, wanting to shield my plans from further scrutiny. "It's my decision to make, Mother."

"But your father's legacy—that's my concern as well," she counters, her voice firm. "Involving yourself with someone like her is going to complicate things for you."

"I'm prepared to handle complications," I assert, my resolve hardening.

Her eyebrow arches, challenging my conviction. "Are you ready to risk the support of the nation, though? The parliament backs you because the people support us. That goodwill is crucial for initiatives like your environmental plans. If public opinion shifts against you, you'll find it impossible to achieve any of your goals. Is that a consequence you're willing to accept?"

Her words strike at the heart of the dilemma—balancing personal happiness against the responsibilities of the crown. The decision I'm facing isn't just about love; it's about weighing the impact of that love against the broader implications for my reign and the causes I'm passionate about.

But the decision is made for me in an instant. I can't imagine killing Liam, the part of me that belongs to Nessa. Liam is the passionate side, the one who has the courage to fight for everything he believes in.

I shake my head. "I'm ready to sacrifice a lot for my people; I already did. Spending all these years under scrutiny following all these rules, but I will not sacrifice my heart."

My mother seems taken aback by the intensity of my comment.

"For you and the public, she's wrong for the king, wrong for the crown, but what about me? Not my title or what I represent—I mean the real me." I tap my finger to my chest. "But with Nessa, it's different. With her, there's no scheme, no need for pretense. It's just her and me in our little bubble of authenticity. She loves me for me. Despite the facades I've maintained, the perfect veneer crafted for public consumption, she saw through it all. She saw the real me, not the version adorned with accolades and expectations." I sigh, feeling so much love for the woman it's almost like having coal in my chest. "In her eyes, I'm not Alexander, the title bearer or the public figure. I'm just Liam, flaws and all. And that's terrifyingly new to me. To be seen, truly seen, without the layers of my identity that have always defined me, it's both liberating and daunting. I've spent so long behind the mask of perfection that to step out from it feels like stepping off a cliff, exhilarating yet frightening."

"Alexander, you must consider—" my mother starts, but I'm already lost in my thoughts, pacing, trying to articulate this maelstrom of emotions.

"But with Nessa, the fall doesn't seem so daunting. She's my parachute, my safety net. She offers a love unencumbered by the weight of my crown, a sanctuary where I can simply be. And in this world where genuine connections are as rare as they are precious, I've found one with her. It's just us, no gimmicks, nothing forced. And maybe, just maybe, that's all I've ever needed." I stop and turn toward my mother again. "Don't you want that for me? Don't I deserve this?"

Her silence stretches, filling the room as I try to catch my breath, surprised by the force of my convictions laid bare.

Finally, she speaks, her voice softer, tinged with understanding. "I didn't realize how deeply you felt for her."

"I do," is all I can say, simple yet profound.

"Okay," she exhales, visibly processing everything I've said. "What now?"

"I've asked her to stay. I'm hoping for a yes. After that, we'll face whatever comes together," I say, a sense of peace settling over me despite the uncertainty of our future.

Her nod is slow, thoughtful. "It won't be easy," she cautions, yet there's a hint of support in her tone now, a recognition of the depth of my feelings.

"No, it rarely is when it's worth it," I agree, feeling a bit more buoyed by her implied acceptance. "But I'm ready for it, for all of it, as long as I have her by my side."

"I would like to meet her, Alexander, to have dinner with her tonight if possible," my mother adds, a statement that feels more like a request now than the command it might once have been.

"That can be arranged," I reply, a small wave of relief washing over me at her willingness to extend an olive branch.

Her next words are gentle, filled with sincerity. "I only want your happiness, son. Truly, I do."

"I know that, Mother." In response, I gather the university pamphlets I've been collecting, a tangible sign of the life I'm hoping Nessa and I can build together here.

As we leave the library, I send a quick message to Nessa, asking where she is. The reply comes swiftly—she's on the panoramic roof. I can't help but smile, imagining her up there, possibly falling even more in love with Copenhagen from that breathtaking vantage point. It feels like another sign that we're moving in the right direction.

My steps quicken with anticipation as I head toward the roof, eager to share the moment with her. To talk about our future. Yet, as I approach, I spot her sitting alone on a bench, and the enthusiasm dims slightly at the edge of my heart. The expression on her face isn't one of awe or contentment but resignation.

"Are you okay?" I ask as I sit down next to her, trying to read the emotions playing across her face.

She nods, a certain firmness in her posture. "Yes, I've made my decision."

Part of me relaxes, assuming she's about to commit to our shared future, a decision I know wasn't easy. I'm already thinking of ways to support her, to make sure she feels at home here. "This is great. I actually have this fold?—"

"I'm going home," she interrupts, her voice steady.

Confusion takes hold, and I can't help but think I've misunderstood. "Yes, tomorrow," I echo, thinking of the temporary, the immediate.

The look she gives me is filled with sorrow and resolve. "And I'm not coming back."

The words knock the breath out of me. "You're— What? Why?" Disbelief laces my voice. "But you love me."

"I do." The simplicity of her affirmation makes it all the more devastating.

"What happened yesterday…" I start, my mind racing, trying to find a foothold in the quicksand this conversation has become.

"Was the perfect goodbye," she finishes for me. "Listen, Alexander, this"—she gestures to the city spread out before us—"is not a life for me. I wasn't made for this."

I reach for her hand, desperate to bridge the gap widening between us. "But you can learn; you're perfect for me."

Her next words are a quiet refusal. "Probably, but I don't want to." Gently, she pulls her hand away. "I've just got my freedom back from the oppressive family I have. I'm not ready to dive into another world filled with rules. I want to enjoy my freedom."

The words pierce through me, each one a reminder of the vast gap between our worlds—a gap I had hoped love could bridge. I find myself rubbing my chest as if I could somehow ease the acute ache spreading through it. "I love you," I confess again, the words heavy with a mix of desperation and truth.

Her expression twists, mirroring the turmoil I feel. It's clear this decision is tearing at her too.

"Did something happen? Did anyone say something to make you feel this way?" I'm searching for anything, a reason outside of us that might be swaying her decision.

She simply shakes her head, her resolve firm. "No, it's just me being honest with myself."

A heavy sigh escapes me as I lower my gaze, feeling utterly defeated. Understanding her doesn't make accepting her decision any easier. How can I argue for her to embrace a life I've often struggled with myself? In the end, love isn't about holding someone so tight they can't choose freedom.

Reluctantly, I stand, my movements rigid with the effort of keeping myself composed. "Very well. If that's how you truly feel." The question hangs in the air between us, unspoken but palpable—can she see the heartbreak she's causing?

Her affirmation is quiet but final. "It is."

"Your leaving won't change how I feel about you. It doesn't change anything," I confess, though the words taste like ash.

She rises, too, a gesture that feels like the closing of a book. "And yet it needs to," she says before coming close enough to kiss my cheek—a touch so light yet filled with shared grief.

Then, she turns and walks away, leaving the roof, the palace, and my life, but never my heart. Her departure carves a Nessa-shaped void that no duty, no responsibility, can ever fill.

"You seem strangely okay today," Henrick notes, his voice laced with curious concern as we look over documents detailing the various private schools he might attend.

Caught off guard, I pause, pen in hand, unsure how to navigate his probing. "What do you mean?" I ask, hoping to deflect.

He rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat. "Come on. Last night, you were all doom and gloom, looping that depressing song like there's no tomorrow. Like a good little emo."

A flush of embarrassment warms my cheeks at his blunt description. "I'm not emo," I counter defensively, even as I internally acknowledge the truth in his words.

He snorts. "You were totally emo! Takes one to know one."

Reluctantly, I concede on one point. "And Chris Isaac is epic," I admit under my breath, acknowledging my repetitive indulgence in "Wicked Game" as a coping mechanism.

Henrick dismisses my mood shift with a wave. "And now she's gone, and you're acting like everything's fine."

My pen taps rhythmically against the desk as I consider how much to reveal. The plan that emerged from my introspective session last night feels both desperate and hopeful, a strange concoction of emotions that I'm not fully prepared to articulate, even to myself.

My restlessness grows as I try to piece together my thoughts aloud. "Because it just doesn't add up. Vanessa's not one to back down from a challenge. She's a fighter through and through. And for a moment, I doubted that—thought she left because it was too difficult. But that's not her. She wants this, us—I believe that," I assert, clinging to a sliver of hope amid my uncertainty.

Henrick's question cuts straight to the heart of the matter. "Why didn't she stay then?"

"I'm not entirely sure," I admit, the mystery a gaping hole in my understanding. "But what I do know is that she's always stood her ground. If she's stepping back now, it's not without reason. Maybe she believes it's what I need… that we need to fight for this, to prove it's possible against all odds. If she left…" My voice trails off, the logic sounding thinner the more I speak it aloud.

"It's for you," Henrick suggests, piecing the puzzle together faster than I am. "I saw her talking to Hank and…" He doesn't finish, but he doesn't need to.

The mention of Hank sends a ripple of realization through me. "For me?" The idea that Vanessa's departure might have been influenced by a conversation with Hank, of all people, reshapes everything. My frustration boils over—not just at Hank for potentially meddling but at myself for not seeing the signs, for not understanding sooner that Vanessa's decision could stem from a place of deep love, not a lack of it.

The thought that she might sacrifice her own happiness for what she perceives as my benefit ignites feelings of anger and determination inside me. If Hank has indeed swayed her decision, then it's up to me to rectify this misunderstanding, to fight for our chance at happiness together. Vanessa's actions, seen through this new lens, speak volumes of her love and dedication—a love I'm now more determined than ever to honor by standing up for what we both truly want.

"She's in the habit of thinking she's not good enough—lies that have been force-fed by her shitty parents. She is more than enough, and I'm ready to make her—and everyone else—see that." I nod, and a totally crazy plan starts to form in my head. "I'm going to call Hank in here."

Henrick's interest peaks, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, are we going to fire him? Can I film it?"

I dismiss the idea with a wave of my hand. "No, I'm going to give him what he's been after. I've been dodging his requests for a candid interview about my new role as king," I explain, using air quotes to emphasize the expected lack of spontaneity in such an interview.

Henrick looks puzzled. "And how does giving in to something he wants help us?"

I lean forward, my plan taking shape. "Because I'll insist the interview be live. No edits, no scripts. Just the truth."

"King Alexander unplugged, huh?" Henrick says, barely containing his amusement.

A genuine smile breaks through my concern. "Exactly. Something like that."

The idea of going live, of using this platform to not only address the misconceptions but also to openly declare my feelings and intentions feels like the bold move we need. It's a chance to take control of the narrative, to show the world—and Vanessa—the depth of my commitment. I'm gearing up for whatever comes our way. So, Nessa, get ready. Things are about to get interesting.