The weeks following Jake's return were a rhythmic, suffocating blur of high-collared tunics, state briefings, and the constant, phantom weight of a crown he no longer wanted to wear.
The Royal Palace, once a symbol of his grandeur, now felt like a mausoleum of his freedom. Every time he walked past a mirror, he expected to see the soot-streaked, sleep-deprived version of himself from Manila—the version that felt alive. Instead, he saw a polished statue in gold braid.
The Royal Banquet for the visiting delegation from the Northern Territories was the pinnacle of this curated misery.
The Great Hall was a sea of shimmering silk and clinking crystal, the air thick with the scent of lilies and diplomacy. Jake sat at the head of the table, moving his fork with mechanical precision through a dish of herb-crusted sea bass that tasted like cardboard compared to a bucket of Jollibee.
To his right sat Princess Elena. She was a vision of icy perfection, her dark hair pinned up with diamonds, her expression as unreadable as a frozen lake. They were the centerpieces of this gala—the two halves of a political merger disguised as a romance.
"You've been staring at that fish for five minutes, Jacob," Elena said, her voice a low, melodic hum that barely carried over the string quartet. "It isn't going to apologize for being overcooked."
Jake glanced at her, surprised by the dry wit in her tone. "I was merely wondering if the fish had a choice in being here. I suspect it didn't."
Elena's lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. She took a delicate sip of champagne, her eyes scanning the room with a weary intelligence. "None of us do. We are all just garnishes on the plate of statehood. I hear you went on a... sabbatical. Manila, was it?"
Jake stiffened, his hand tightening around his silver goblet. "How did you—"
"I have my own sources," she interrupted smoothly. "And I have eyes. You didn't just go for the weather. You have the look of a man who tasted a different world and found it hard to swallow the one he came back to."
Jake looked at her properly then, seeing past the diamonds. There was a restless energy in her gaze, a sharp, jagged edges to her posture that mirrored his own.
"I didn't want to come back," Jake admitted, the truth slipping out in a whisper.
"Neither did I," Elena replied, her voice dropping even lower. "I had a life in Paris. A studio. A name that wasn't a title. But my father's health failed, the accords became 'necessary,' and here I am. Wrapped in three layers of tulle and promised to a man I've met four times."
Jake felt a sudden, profound kinship with the woman he was supposed to "own."
"I'm sorry, Elena. I didn't realize we were in the same boat."
"It's a very expensive boat, Jacob, but it's still sinking," she said, her gaze fixed on the King, who was laughing with a minister across the table. "I don't want to marry you. Not because you aren't charming, but because I want a life that belongs to me. I suspect you feel the same."
"I do," Jake whispered. "More than you know."
They sat in a comfortable, shared silence for a moment—two prisoners acknowledging their chains. It didn't solve the problem, but it made the banquet feel less like an execution.
As the weeks dragged on, Jake performed his duties with a grim, flawless efficiency that pleased his father. He attended the ribbon-cuttings, signed the ceremonial documents, and stood for hours at military parades. But in the quiet moments—when the maids left his room and the palace settled into its midnight hush—his mind betrayed him.
He would see his large, luxurious bed and remember the "sacred border" Markus had drawn. He would look at his perfectly manicured hands and miss the blisters from the warehouse. Most of all, he missed the scowl. He missed the way Markus looked at him without the filter of royalty, seeing him only as a "nuisance" or a "brat."
Does he miss me? Jake wondered, night after night. Or has he already filled my side of the bed with another box of electronics?
The opportunity for a second escape came on the 70th birthday of the Queen Dowager—Jake's grandmother.
The Queen Dowager was a force of nature. Even in her eighth decade, she possessed a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind. She was the only person in the kingdom who didn't fear the King, and she made no secret of the fact that Jake was her favorite. To her, the King was just the son who took things too seriously, while Jake was the grandson who still had a spark of his mother's spirit.
The birthday gala was an affair of legendary proportions, but Jake waited until the evening winded down, finding his grandmother in her private sunroom, away from the noise. She was draped in heavy purple velvet, sipping a gin and tonic and looking out at the darkened gardens.
"You've been a very good boy lately, Jacob," she said, not turning around as he entered. "Too good. It's boring. You look like a dog that's been told to 'stay' for too long."
Jake walked over and knelt by her chair, taking her aged, ring-laden hand in his. "Grandmother... I need to ask a favor. A very big one."
She turned her head, her eyes twinkling with a devious light. "A favor? From me? Usually, people ask me for jewels or influence. What does the Prince of the Realm want from an old woman?"
Jake looked up at her, his expression raw and unshielded. "I need to go away. Not forever, but... for a while. A vacation. A real one. Somewhere I am not 'His Highness.' Somewhere I can breathe."
"Your father will never allow it," she said, though she was already smiling. "He thinks you're a flight risk. Which, let's be honest, you are."
"He can't say no to you," Jake said, his voice dropping into a dramatic, pleading register. "You're the Queen Dowager. It's your birthday. He has to grant you a wish.
Tell him that you've seen how hard I've worked. Tell him that even Royals need a vacation before the wedding, or I'll be a miserable husband to poor Elena."
His grandmother let out a cackle that filled the small room. "You are a manipulative little devil, Jacob. Just like your mother." She smoothed his hair back, her gaze softening. "You really found something out there, didn't you? Something that isn't made of gold."
"I found a person, Grandmother," Jake whispered.
The Queen Dowager went silent for a long moment, looking into her grandson's eyes. She saw the desperation, the genuine ache that no palace luxury could soothe. She sighed, her many diamonds catching the moonlight.
"Very well," she said, her voice regaining its royal authority. "I shall speak to your father in the morning. I will tell him that as my birthday gift, I want you to have a month of 'cultural immersion' in the East. He will fume, he will pace, and he will try to send a dozen guards—but I will insist you go with only the barest security. He cannot refuse me on my 70th, not without looking like a tyrant in front of the court."
Jake leaned his forehead against her hand, a shudder of pure relief racking his body. "Thank you, Grandmother. You have no idea what this means."
"Oh, I think I do," she murmured, patting his cheek. "Just make sure this 'person' is worth the trouble I'm about to cause. And Jacob? Don't get caught this time. It makes me look bad at bridge."
The King was livid. As Jake stood in the study the following day, his father paced the length of the room, his face a mask of restrained fury.
"A vacation?" the King spat the word as if it were poison. "Now? When the merger is in its final stages?"
"It was the Queen Dowager's request, Father," Jake said, his voice a picture of calm, practiced humility. "She felt I was looking... peaked. She believes a rested Prince makes for a stronger alliance. And since it is her milestone birthday..."
The King stopped, his jaw tight. He knew he was trapped. To deny his mother's public request for her favorite grandson's well-being would be a PR disaster within the family and the court.
"One month," the King growled, pointing a finger at Jake. "One month in the region of her choosing. You will take a discreet security detail, and you will check in every forty-eight hours. If you vanish again, Jacob, I will not bring you back to a palace. I will bring you back to a dungeon."
"Understood, Father," Jake said, bowing low to hide the triumphant fire in his eyes.
One month. It wasn't forever, but it was thirty days. Thirty days to find a concrete condo in the middle of a crowded city. Thirty days to see if the "sacred border" was still open.
As Jake walked back to his room to pack—this time with the King's reluctant permission but with a heart that had already flown halfway across the world—he felt the first real breath of air in weeks.
He didn't need the silk. He didn't need the lobster. He just needed to know if Markus Saavedra still had a spare canned beer and a very, very loud scowl waiting for him.