For the first time in years, the Crown felt irrelevant.
And the truth was, it always had been.
Stephanie stood alone, the sharp autumn air biting at her skin where the wind slipped past the collar of her cashmere coat. Arielle's words still echoed, unrelenting—each syllable slicing through the polished façade she had worn like armor. Her breath fanned out in small clouds. Somewhere behind her, someone laughed—young, unaware, untouched by the pain wedged between two women once inseparable.
She didn't remember walking to the end of the co-op's gravel path. The crunch of her heels on stone, the subtle weight of her quilted leather handbag—it all blurred together. Her body moved on habit, but her mind stood frozen, replaying the moment Arielle's gaze had gone ice-cold.
Ten years of imagined reunions. Of soft apologies and tearful forgiveness.
What a joke.
She reached Logan's car just as the first raindrops started to fall. They splattered against the windshield like soft drumbeats. He didn't say anything when she slipped inside, just handed her a linen handkerchief she hadn't realized she needed. Her fingers closed around it.
"I ruined it," she whispered.
Logan glanced over as he pulled onto the road. "No. You just saw the truth."
Stephanie stared out the window as Millerdale unfolded in quiet shades of slate and green. The town was old—older than her family's lineage in Avary—and it wore its age without apology. Cracked pavements, ivy-draped storefronts, rusted gates painted over too many times. And yet, there was something grounding in its imperfection. Something painfully real.
"How did you know?" she asked suddenly.
"Know what?"
"That she wouldn't want me back."
Logan sighed through his nose. "Because I wouldn't have, either."
Stephanie winced.
"I mean it," he continued, not unkindly. "You disappeared. You didn't just leave—Stephanie, you vanished. No letters. No calls. Nothing but headlines and photos. And when you finally show up, it's at the co-op she built from scratch, in front of everyone, without warning."
She turned from the window. "I thought—"
"I know what you thought," he interrupted. "You thought your name would be enough. But this town doesn't care about the Crown. They care about who shows up. And for a decade, that wasn't you."
Silence settled between them. A kind of fragile honesty that left no room for pride.
Logan parked in front of the apartment building he'd arranged for her—a sleek brick structure nestled between an old bakery and a flower shop that always smelled like crushed rose petals and soil. Stephanie stepped out slowly, the rain dampening her hairline, her silk blouse clinging to her spine. She barely noticed.
Inside, the apartment greeted her like a stranger. Everything was pristine: polished concrete floors, matte gold fixtures, walls the color of fresh cream. The space had been staged with minimalist furniture and custom art, like it was waiting for a magazine photographer, not a woman unraveling at the seams.
She tossed her coat over a white suede armchair and walked straight to the window, arms crossed tightly. Down below, Millerdale moved on without her—just as it had for ten years. A delivery truck passed. A boy in a red hoodie biked down the sidewalk. A golden retriever barked from a shop doorway.
Life kept happening.
Behind her, Logan moved into the kitchen, the scent of brewing coffee soon chasing away the sterile quiet. She didn't turn when he returned.
"I got you two weeks here," he said, placing the keys on the marble island. "After that, it's yours to figure out."
She nodded.
He hovered a moment longer. "Steph."
Finally, she looked at him.
"You can still fix things. Not with words. But with time."
She didn't speak.
Because deep down, she wasn't sure if she could fix it. Or if she deserved to.
That night, Stephanie couldn't sleep.
The apartment was too still—too untouched. She tried lighting the lavender-sage candle someone had left by the bathroom sink, tried curling under the imported goose-feather duvet in her pale silk slip, but nothing eased the weight in her chest. At the palace, there had always been motion. People. Schedules. Appearances. Even her loneliness had structure.
Here, in the velvet dark of Millerdale, there was only silence.
At 3:17 AM, barefoot and wide-eyed, she padded into the kitchen. Her phone buzzed silently on the island where she'd left it face-down earlier. She picked it up.
23 missed calls.
14 voicemails.
All from the palace.
Her fingers hovered above the screen. Her stomach clenched.
A few messages were from Michael. The rest were from Claudia—his mother, the Queen Mother of Avary. Each voicemail became a time bomb. Each ping reminded her that while she tried to feel human again, the monarchy still owned her time, her voice, her future.
She poured a glass of water, her nails clicking softly against the crystal. From the corner of her eye, she saw it—the envelope.
It hadn't been there earlier. Tucked beneath the fruit bowl, thin and matte white with no postage. Just her name.
Stephanie.
Nothing else.
She opened it slowly, fingers trembling.
Inside was a single handwritten line on thick parchment.
"You're not the only one who remembers."
No signature. No flourish. Just the slanted loops of someone's confident hand.
Stephanie's pulse quickened. She scanned the windows. The hallway. The front door. All locked. But still.
She picked up the envelope again. Smelled the paper. No perfume. No crest. Just a note that shouldn't have been there.
And suddenly, she remembered—ten years ago, she and Arielle used to pass notes that way. Folded slips of paper in their lockers, behind bookshelves, once even tucked into a potted plant outside the student council room. The handwriting was similar. But not identical. Different weight. Slightly sharper tilt.
She brought the note to her chest.
If Arielle hadn't sent it… who had?
By morning, the question had carved itself into her mind like scripture. She dressed mechanically—charcoal trousers, a navy silk blouse, a structured trench in muted sand—and tied her hair back in a low twist. Her reflection in the mirror looked elegant. Capable.
Lying.
She stepped out into a town that no longer felt quaint. It felt watchful.
Downstairs, Logan was waiting beside his car. His expression unreadable.
"You're early," she said.
"You didn't sleep," he replied.
She slid into the passenger seat without protest.
Their destination was quiet today—less bustle than the day before. The co-op hadn't opened yet, but lights flickered inside. Stephanie didn't ask to go in. Not yet.
Instead, they drove past the outskirts of Millerdale, down winding roads flanked by tall oaks and weather-beaten fences. The town's scars were subtle. Foreclosures. Boarded shops. Faded murals. Places Stephanie had helped abandon.
Logan pulled into a gravel lot. An empty community center, long since shut down.
"They used to host weekend classes here," he said, voice low. "Arielle tried to keep it going for a while. You remember?"
Stephanie nodded, throat tight.
"I'm bringing you here because you need to understand what this town lost when you left. Not just a friend. A future."
She didn't speak. She didn't trust her voice.
"But it's not too late," he added, eyes meeting hers. "If you're willing to do the work. Show up. Actually care. This place might forgive you."
Stephanie's hands curled into fists in her lap.
Forgiveness.
She'd spent so long chasing ambition, crafting a life polished for the world stage, that she hadn't noticed what she'd trampled to get there.
"Let me out," she whispered.
Logan blinked. "Here?"
She nodded.
He hesitated, then unlocked the door. Stephanie stepped out into the sharp, earthy air and walked up the stone steps of the abandoned center. She touched the handle. It didn't move. Still locked.
But something inside her shifted.
For the first time since arriving, she didn't feel like a princess out of place. She felt like a woman standing at the edge of her past, finally brave enough to look down.
The door remained locked, and Stephanie's hand hovered for a moment longer before she pulled away. She didn't know what she was looking for—an apology, an understanding, or simply a way to prove she wasn't the same person who had abandoned this place. Abandoned Arielle.
But the truth was, she didn't even know who she was anymore.
The thought was both terrifying and strangely freeing.
Turning, she walked away from the door, away from the idea that this could be fixed in a moment of closure. Whatever the town had become in her absence, it was no longer her story to control.
Logan watched her from the car as she descended the stone steps, and she didn't look back. She didn't need him to tell her what to do next. She knew what was expected of her—what the world expected.
But in that quiet moment, as the morning mist began to lift and the sun pierced through the overcast skies, Stephanie made a choice. It wasn't the choice everyone would want her to make. It wasn't what her family expected. But it was the only one that mattered.
She wasn't going back to the palace today. Or tomorrow. Not until she had the answers she needed.
By the time she returned to the apartment, the rain had stopped. The streets shimmered with the remnants of a storm, each puddle reflecting the world with a clarity that was almost unnerving. It was a stark contrast to the blur of thoughts rushing through her mind.
She shut the door behind her and immediately crossed to the desk in the corner. Her phone lay there, still flashing with notifications she had ignored. Among them, another message from Michael. She hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen before she swiped it open.
Michael: We need to talk.
Stephanie's throat tightened. She should have known it would come to this. The moment she stepped off that plane, the whispers would start, the expectations would rise. Her relationship with Michael had always been a balancing act—one foot in the world of duty and power, the other in something she couldn't name but couldn't escape either.
Her fingers moved, faster now, to type out a reply, but as she began, a knock echoed from the door.
She froze.
The sound repeated—sharp, quick, a rhythmic urgency that struck her chest like a drumbeat. A visitor, unexpected.
For a moment, she considered ignoring it. Perhaps it would go away. But that thought was quickly squashed. Someone knew she was here, and they weren't leaving without speaking to her. She glanced at the phone in her hand. Michael's message was still there, flashing up like a warning.
Reluctantly, she stood, smoothing down her blouse as she approached the door. Her heart rate quickened, and when she opened it, her breath caught in her throat.
It wasn't Logan. It wasn't even anyone from the palace.
It was Arielle.
Her eyes locked with Stephanie's. There was no softness in her gaze—just the raw edge of someone who had been hurt, betrayed, and yet still stood firm in front of her.
"Arielle…" Stephanie whispered, unsure of what else to say.
Arielle stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her presence commanding in a way that only years of shared history could allow. She looked different. Tired. Her eyes were shadowed, and her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, strands falling loosely around her face. The same familiar scent of lavender and cinnamon lingered in the air as she passed.
She shut the door behind her.
"I came here because I need you to understand something," Arielle said, her voice low but firm. "You left me, Stephanie. You left me without a word. Without any warning. And while you were off in that gilded cage of yours, I was here—fighting for everything we dreamed of." Her voice faltered briefly, but she quickly regained composure. "But now… now I need you to choose. You're not the same person who left this place ten years ago, and neither am I. So if you're staying, you need to make it count."
Stephanie's heart ached with each word. There was so much unsaid between them. So many years of hurt, of missed moments and missteps. She opened her mouth to respond but found no words. Arielle had said everything that needed to be said.
The silence between them was thick, pressing down on her chest. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Stephanie let her guard down. She didn't try to hide behind a polished mask, didn't bury her emotions in the relentless demands of the Crown. She just stood there, vulnerable.
"I'm sorry," Stephanie said quietly. "I never meant to hurt you."
Arielle didn't respond immediately. Instead, she crossed the room to the window, staring out at the gray sky beyond. The silence stretched between them like an unspoken truce, both women grappling with what could be rebuilt, and what had been lost forever.
After a long pause, Arielle spoke again, her voice quieter now. "Do you remember what we said, that night on the terrace?"
Stephanie's mind flashed back to the night of their graduation, the two of them sitting on the stone balcony overlooking the palace gardens. It had been a rare moment of peace. No cameras. No expectations. Just the stars above and their whispered dreams.
"We promised we'd never leave each other," Arielle continued, her voice breaking slightly. "No matter what happened, we'd always come back."
Stephanie felt a lump form in her throat.
"I know," she whispered. "I know we did."
Arielle turned to face her, her expression softening just slightly. "Then you need to decide. Stay, or go. But don't make the same mistake again. Because I won't wait forever."
Stephanie looked at her, the weight of the decision pressing down on her shoulders. She couldn't deny that she had already made her choice. The real question now was whether she had the courage to face it, and the strength to rebuild what she had broken.
For the first time in years, the Crown no longer seemed like a symbol of power. It felt like a chain.
And the truth was, Stephanie wasn't sure if she was willing to wear it anymore.