Chapter Text
Milk's POV:
I was born during a thunderstorm.
They say my mother died before the lightning even stopped. They say she bled out on the floor of a darkened hospital room, screaming my name before anyone even told her what it would be. The nurses cried. The doctors panicked. My father did neither.
He just looked at me. And said, “She died for that thing?”
Yeah, my own father referred me as 'that thing' the time I was born, not 'my daughter' or anything affectionate, or at least something less cruel.
I was four years old the first time he hit me.
I was five when I learned not to cry.
The Vosbein syndicate had been running the underworld long before I took my first breath. My father was its king—untouchable, cunning, and cruel. And I was his heir. Not by choice. Not by merit. Only by blood.
He never let me forget that.
“I lost your mother,” he said once, wiping blood off his ring after slamming my face into the marble floor. “You better be worth it.”
Yeah, he thought I was the reason why the woman he loved the most died. That's why he never let me know what love is or how it was to be loved.
I wasn’t allowed to have toys. Dolls were for weak children. I wasn’t allowed to laugh—it made me sound soft. I wasn’t allowed to scream, because in our world, pain was supposed to be quiet. Hidden. Controlled.
So I stopped making noise.
My lessons were brutal. Guns. Knives. Poison. Politics. At nine, I could disarm a man twice my size. At ten, I slit a traitor’s throat in front of his family because my father said “loyalty must be taught young.” I didn’t even flinch.
I killed someone for the first time at thirteen.
I remember the man’s name. I remember the way he looked at me. Like he was asking for mercy I didn’t know how to give. My father was standing behind me, his eyes were hard, devoid of any warmth. My hands were shaking, as fingers rested in the trigger, only a step away from blowing his head. He noticed my hesitation. "Stop being coward", his cold voice still rang in my ears. "A Vosvein never fear to kill. Be a real Vosbein."
He always gave me that 'Vosvein' excuse.
That man screamed his lungs out, begging for mercy, "PLEASE DON'T KILL ME! YOU ARE JUST A CHILD! HAVE MERCY ON ME!" But I wish I could. I wish I could say I cried for him later. I didn’t.
I still don’t.
I turned eighteen with blood under my fingernails and fire in my lungs.
By then, my father had grown tired. The world was changing. Old kings were falling, and even the mafia had to evolve. I told him I would take the Pansa syndicate to new heights. That I’d make sure no one could ever touch us again.
He handed me a glass of whiskey, raised it, and said, “Make sure you never love anything. Especially not a woman. Especially not a weak one.”
I drank, even though I hated the taste. And then I buried him a year later.
Heart attack, they said.
But I knew better.
The heart doesn’t attack unless it’s already broken.
Love. The word meant nothing to me.
I didn’t know how to receive it. I didn’t know how to give it. I watched the way couples held each other on the street like they weren’t afraid of being seen. I watched girls smile at me and waited for the price tag behind it.
They always wanted something. A favor. A name. A secret.
So I gave them nothing.
My body, sometimes. But never my heart.
My heart had long since been carved into pieces. I gave a slice to my dead mother, a slice to every soldier I buried before they hit twenty.
What’s left isn’t enough to love anyone.
But power? Power was easy.
It didn’t betray. It didn’t die. It didn’t ask you to be soft. Power filled in all the places where love failed. It made the world obey you.
And I had power. Plenty of it.
But there was still one crown left. One golden cage of corruption I hadn’t touched.
The Royal Kingdom of Limpatiyakorn.
Ruled by bloodlines. Bound by laws older than dirt. A throne passed down to girls who never had to earn it, never had to bleed for it. Girls who were protected, worshipped, and waited on.
Girls like Love Pattaranite Limpatiyakorn.
She was everything I wasn’t. Everything I was taught to hate. An omega born to rule, with silk on her skin and flowers in her hair. The kind of girl who would have sobbed over a dead bird, or begged me not to kill that man. The kind of girl I could break in a heartbeat.
"We need that Princess to blackmail the Limpatiyakorns for their throne", View, my best friend and my partner since my birth, says as she hands me over the file, filled with everything I need to know about Love Pattaranite Limpatiyakorn.
"They are still richest and most powerful family in Thailand", I scoff as I flip through the pages. "Impressive."
'Yeah, old money. That's what we exactly need."
"So, they offered me a job—her bodyguard. A perfect position. I’d live by her side. Watch her routines. Learn her weaknesses. Whisper safety into her ear until she fell asleep, too trusting, too blind. And then I’d take her. And with her, the throne", my tone dripping with satisfaction.
"Yup, but it's not as easy it seems", she reminds me.
"I never failed."
"That's why, I have faith in you, boss."
I looked in the mirror the night before I left. Pulled back my hair. Buttoned up the black suit they said made me look like a soldier. But I wasn’t going to war. I was becoming a ghost. And, I am going to expand the Vosvein's power all over the country, just like my father and my dead mother wanted me to.
Notes:
💬 This is my first fic on AO3!
— English isn’t my first language, so please be kind 🌸
— Updates may be a little slow 🐌 but I’m passionate about this story.
— I appreciate every single comment and kudos 🥺💗 They keep me going!✨ Welcome to the chaos! 🖤
Leave some love if you enjoy it 💬💘
Chapter Text
Milk's POV:
"May I know your name, Mam?" The guard, probably at his 50's, asks me as I want to get in the palace.
"Milk Pansa Vosbein, the new-", a squeal cuts me off before I even finish my sentence. "Oh My God! You are my new Bodyguard?!!!" A beautiful girl, probably at mid 20's, dressed up elegantly rushes toward me. Yup, I already figured out who she is. The royal Princess Love Pattaranite Limpatiyakorn.
“Here!” she beamed, spinning on her heels as the guards opened the golden double doors. “This is the East Wing garden. I love coming here at sunset.”
I blinked against the flood of sunlight as we stepped outside. Marble pillars. Ivy-wrapped trellises. A koi pond shaped like a crescent moon. Everything screamed wealth. Fragility. Control.
She kept walking. I followed. In a few minutes, I realized, she is what they call sunshine.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she said without looking back. “Are you always like this, Miss… Milk, right?”
I nodded once. “Yes.”
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
“No.”
She giggled. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two.”
Unfortunately, you do, I thought, keeping my expression neutral.
She turned toward me suddenly, hair catching the light like spun gold. “Do you want to know something funny?”
“No.”
“I used to think bodyguards were scary. You know—buzzcut, sunglasses, beefy arms. But you’re actually kind of—”
I raised a brow.
She paused. “…Never mind.”
I wanted to ask kind of what, but I bit my tongue. I was here to study the palace. Not banter with the princess.
“Where to next?” I asked.
She lit up like I’d handed her candy.
“Right this way! You have to see the north wing. There’s a secret hallway with portraits that only move when moonlight hits them. My grandma told me it’s haunted but I think she was just trying to keep me out.”
She reached for my sleeve like she was going to pull me along.
I stepped back.
She blinked at me. “Did I—oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to touch you. You’re just so…”
“What?”
“…stoic. It’s kind of fascinating.”
I said nothing.
As we walked down the hallway, I counted the security cameras tucked into antique sconces. Five so far. One every ten meters. Two of them rotated. A sensor near the floor.
“How many cameras do you think are in the palace?” I asked.
She turned to me, surprised. “Um… I don’t know. A lot?”
“Seventy-two,” I muttered.
“You counted?”
“I remember what matters.”
She tilted her head at me like I was a puzzle she couldn’t solve. “You’re not like the others.”
“Good.”
“I meant that as a compliment.”
“I didn’t.”
We reached the back stairwell—narrow, tucked behind a bookshelf that she pushed with her tiny hand. It creaked open with a whine. No camera here. My heart slowed. I memorized the position of every step.
“This leads to the Queen’s private quarters,” she whispered. “But no one’s used them in years.”
“And yet you know the way.”
She gave me a mischievous little smile. “I used to sneak around here when I was a kid. Got chased by maids once. Thought I was a spy.”
You were playing princess. I was killing men twice my size at that age. I clenched my jaw.
“You really don’t talk about yourself, huh?” she said once we were back in the main corridor. “Where are you from?”
“South district.”
“Oh,” she frowned. “Isn’t that… rough?”
I didn’t answer.
“I wasn’t being rude. I just—never been out there. My father doesn’t let me. He says I wouldn’t survive a day.”
“He’s right.”
She laughed at that. “You’re blunt.”
“I’m honest.”
“I like that,” she said, softly this time.
We stopped at a stained-glass window overlooking the royal courtyard. Below, guards walked in formation. I noted the gap in their rotation. 47-second intervals.
“Do you always study people?” she asked, voice quiet now.
“Yes.”
“And what do you think of me?”
I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t want to.
“…You’re loud. Distracted.”
She turned toward me, eyes wide. But then—she smiled. Not forced. Not fake.
“Thank you for being honest, Miss Milk.”
I hated how she said my name. Like it belonged to someone warm.
“I’m not here to be your friend,” I said coldly.
She tilted her head. “Are you here to protect me?”
I stared down at her. Such a small thing. Petite. Soft. An omega who didn’t even know she was a lamb surrounded by wolves. “I’m here to watch you,” I said.
“…That’s kind of creepy,” she giggled, breaking the tension.
I wanted to walk away. I wanted to shake her. I wanted her to stop looking at me like I wasn’t the threat.
But instead, she turned and led me down another hall.
Talking. Smiling. Pointing at paintings. Rambling about the chefs who sneak her sweets after midnight.
And me? I memorized exits. Counted guards. Mapped blind spots. Plotted. And hated her laugh.
Because it made me feel like I still had a heart.
[Timeskip to two weeks later]
We are now at the biggest jungle of the area. Because, she felt like “Nature Experience” and me, as her good bodyguard, had to accompany her, even if I would kiss a octopus rather than doing this.
“I’m not lost,” she said.
I stared at the mud on her left shoe. “You’re very much lost.”
“I’m exploring. There’s a difference.”
“There’s a vine around your ankle.”
She looked down.
“…Oh.”
She didn’t scream. She gasped dramatically and flailed her arms like a distressed squirrel. I reached forward, grabbed her waist, and yanked her out of the tangled mess with one arm. She clung to me for a second too long.
“You’re so strong,” she said breathlessly. “Do you bench trees for fun?”
“I bench annoying princesses who wander into spider territory.”
Her eyes widened. “Spider—”
Before she could finish, a tiny black dot dropped from a leaf near her shoulder.
And then came the scream.
It echoed. Birds flew. Deer ran. I lost five years of my life.
Ten minutes later, she was still grumbling.
“I’m brave,” she muttered, swatting imaginary bugs. “Royal blood is resilient.”
“You screamed like someone shot you.”
“I thought it was a tarantula! My whole life flashed before my eyes! And it was a good life, by the way. I’ve been adorable since birth.”
“Debatable.”
She turned to me with a mock gasp. “Rude!”
I kept walking. She hurried to catch up.
The jungle trail was narrow, muddy, and a logistical nightmare. Vines, uneven roots, damp leaves that kept slapping me in the face. Royal staff had cleared the basic path this morning for her “Nature Experience” but clearly underestimated how determined she was to wander off it.
She climbed over a fallen log, nearly slipped, caught herself by grabbing my arm again.
“You’re my hero,” she said.
“You’re my headache,” I replied.
Eventually, we reached a small riverbank. Love immediately crouched down and started poking at the water like it owed her money.
“I think I see a crab.”
“That’s a rock.”
“No, I swear it moved!”
I walked over. It was very much a rock. “You’re not good at this,” I said.
“At what?”
“Surviving.”
She huffed, standing back up and dusting off her knees—except instead of dust, it was a smear of jungle mud. Right on her royal thigh.
“Oh no,” she said, staring at the stain. “This is custom silk.”
“It’s brown now.”
“I’m gonna cry.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m gonna—”
“Princess.”
She looked up.
I had already pulled a cloth from my utility belt and crouched beside her. With practiced hands, I wiped the mud from her skin. She stared down at me like I was doing something scandalous.
“You… you’re surprisingly gentle,” she mumbled.
I didn’t look up. “You’re surprisingly messy.”
“…Do you take care of all your clients like this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they don’t fall in creeks.”
Her lips curved. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are! Your ears are red.”
I stood quickly. “It’s hot.”
“It’s 24 degrees.”
“Shut up.”
We continued deeper into the jungle. She whistled as she walked, swinging a stick like it was a sword.
I gave up trying to look intimidating. A grumpy assassin tailing a princess with the survival skills of a baby deer wasn’t exactly scary.
At one point, she stepped into a puddle.
“Oh! Ew! Ew! MILK!”
“Don’t yell—what did you do now—”
She held up her foot. Her entire shoe had been eaten by mud.
“I lost a shoe!” she wailed, hopping on one leg.
“Then walk with one,” I said, deadpan.
“Help me!”
“You’re insane.”
She pouted. “You’re my bodyguard! Body! Guard! Guard this body!”
“I will drop-kick that body into a bush.”
She opened her arms dramatically. “Then you’ll have to carry me.”
I stared at her. She stared back.
Silence.
“…Fine,” I sighed.
I picked her up on my back. She gasped in delight.
“I knew you were secretly soft.”
“Shut up.”
“You can be my hubby.”
I stopped walking.
She was grinning up at me, eyes sparkling like she just said something completely normal.
“Say that again?” I asked flatly.
She hummed instead, then sang under her breath with a smug little smirk:
🎵 That’s why he’s my man—young and fine and tall and handsome… 🎵
I stopped walking again.
“…Are you singing SZA?”
She batted her lashes. “Would you prefer Beyoncé?”
“I’d prefer silence.”
We made it to a clearing where the guards had already set up lunch. She waved like a victorious jungle queen as I finally dropped her onto a seat.
“I survived!” she said proudly.
“You barely survived.”
She leaned toward me, hand cupping her mouth. “Next time, let’s go skydiving.”
“I will literally quit.”
She just laughed. And I hated it.
Because my chest did that stupid tight thing again. The same one it did when she smiled like she trusted me.
And I was already plotting how to betray her.
Notes:
don't forget leave comments and kudos, this will inspire me to write more.
Till then, enjoy!
Chapter Text
Milk's POV:
I memorized every hallway I stepped into.
Carpet fibers. Wall patterns. Guards’ footwork. I could tell you how many seconds it took for the patrol near the West Hall to loop back around.
Fourteen.
I could tell you how long the shift changed in the servant quarters.
Eighty-nine seconds of blind spots.
The palace was beautiful in that arrogant, gold-polished kind of way. Everything screamed royalty—arched ceilings, silk banners, marble cold enough to kill sound. But beneath all that glory were cracks, hidden doors, narrow stairs that snaked into basements no one dared dust.
I had seen three escape routes, two promising hiding spots, and zero clean opportunities.
That annoyed me.
There was no easy way to take her.
Every plan would end in noise, resistance, blood. And for some reason, that bothered me more than it should have.
Damn it.
I walked slower than usual, tracing my steps along the edge of the third floor east wing. The guards there were more relaxed, probably because that side was mostly for guest rooms and art displays.
I passed by one of those unnecessarily tall windows. Morning sun lit the hallway with a quiet warmth. I heard birds, distant laughter from the gardens below.
Then—
“Hey! You!”
I turned.
A girl stood at the end of the corridor, hands on her hips, dressed in royal blue with white detailing that practically screamed nobility.
She had shoulder-length hair pinned to the side, narrow eyes that squinted at me like I was a stain on a painting.
“You,” she repeated, marching over. “Who are you? An exotic? What are you doing in this part of the castle?!”
I tilted my head. “Exotic?”
“You don’t look like you’re from around here. No crest. No uniform. No manners. I’m calling the guards.”
She turned.
“Do it,” I said coldly. “I’d like to see them try.”
She froze mid-step and whirled back around. “Excuse me?”
“Stop, Flim!”
A familiar voice echoed down the hall.
Love came rushing toward us, almost tripping on the hem of her dress. She was out of breath, slightly flustered—and adorable, damn her.
“She’s my bodyguard,” she said, slipping between me and the angry noble like it was nothing. She clung to my arm without hesitation.
Flim’s mouth fell open. “That’s your bodyguard? Love—she looks like she bites people.”
“She does. She bit a man last week. He had it coming.”
I sighed. “I didn’t bite anyone.”
“You wanted to,” she said with a proud smirk.
I looked at Flim, who now wore an expression of deeply offended nobility.
She blinked. “You replaced Lady Wila with her?”
“Lady Wila was boring.”
“She was qualified!"
Love was still gripping my arm. “Don’t be mean. She saved me from a puddle monster yesterday.”
“That was mud,” I corrected.
“She risked her life for me,” Love said dramatically. “Twice.”
“Once,” I said.
“Shh.”
Flim folded her arms. “Unbelievable. I leave for three months and come back to find you frolicking in the jungle with a hired sword.”
“She carried me,” Love added.
I grunted. “She lost her shoe.”
“And she wiped mud off my thigh—so gently. Like a lover.”
Flim gagged.
I stepped back. Why did that word make my jaw tighten?
Love just kept smiling like she hadn’t dropped an emotional grenade.
“Anyway,” Flim said, brushing invisible dust off her shoulder, “I just came to check in before Namtan arrives.”
The room went silent. I noticed the way Love’s arm suddenly tightened on mine.
“…Namtan?” she asked.
Flim nodded, oblivious. “Yes. Princess Namtan. She’s arriving in two days, I think? Her father confirmed this morning. You didn’t know?”
Love didn’t answer.
Flim raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” Love said, too fast.
Her tone had dropped. The light in her face dimmed like a candle cut by wind. I’d seen her bubbly. Annoying. Cute. But never this… quiet.
Flim didn’t seem to notice. “You two can do your weird jungle flirting later. Love, I’ll see you at tea.”
She gave me one last glare, then walked off with the elegance of a trained noble.
We stood in the empty hallway.
Love didn’t move. Her fingers loosened from my arm.
“…Princess?” I said.
She looked up at me. Smile gone. Eyes unreadable.
“Sorry,” she said softly. “I just remembered something.”
“What kind of something?”
She paused.
Then smiled again—but it wasn’t real. It was the polite kind of smile people wear when they’re hiding something they don’t want to show.
“Nothing important,” she said. And just like that, she walked away.
[Timeskip]
Love talked.
God, she talked.
She could spend ten minutes explaining how the palace soap smelled different depending on the servant who delivered it.
She narrated her entire tea selection routine this morning like it was a war strategy.
She talked about pastries. Her plants. The baby deer she saw yesterday. About a tree that “looked like it was judging her.”
But she would not say a single thing about Princess Namtan.
I noticed it the second her smile faltered in the hallway. Not once had she brought up the name. Not even when I baited her with the question, “Do you get many visitors here?”
She had blinked at me and said, “Oh, sometimes,” and then immediately asked me if I liked mangoes. She changed the subject like a trained liar.
And I wasn’t used to people hiding things from me. So if she wouldn’t talk—
I turned down the corridor toward the study hall, where I knew Flim liked to read at this hour.
—I’d get someone else to spill.
The door creaked open to Flim’s usual judgmental glare. “Are you lost?” she asked, flipping a page without looking at me.
“No.”
“Looking for Love? She’s not here.”
“I’m not looking for Love.”
She raised an eyebrow and shut the book.
“Oh? Decided to grace me with your charming presence voluntarily?”
“Got bored,” I said, stepping inside.
Flim scoffed. “How nice. I can feel the warmth radiating off you.”
I pulled a chair backward and straddled it, arms crossed over the back. “What’s your problem with me?”
Flim paused.
Then smirked. “Oh, we’re being honest?”
“Start now or I’ll assume you’re just scared.”
That got her.
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t like your type.”
“My type?”
“Lone wolves with mystery scars and brooding eyes. You’re all the same. Here to play the part of a tragic hero with a hidden blade.”
I tilted my head. “Sounds like you’ve met a few.”
She didn’t answer.
I leaned in a little. “You act like you’re the one protecting her.”
“Someone has to.”
“And what about Princess Namtan?”
Her expression changed. Not much. Just a flicker. But I saw it.
“That’s who’s supposed to be protecting her, right?” I added. “I hear she’s arriving soon.”
Flim closed her book slowly. Too slowly. I waited.
“No comment?” I said.
Flim gave a quiet laugh—but it wasn’t amused. It was tired.
“You’re not subtle,” she muttered.
“Wasn’t trying to be.”
She stared at the spine of the book for a long time.
Then said, “Namtan is… her fiancé.”
I blinked.
“Fiancé?”
“Yes.”
“You mean—”
“They’ve been engaged since they were twelve. Royal obligation,” Flim said with a dry voice. “It’s been decided since birth, practically.”
She turned her eyes to the window.
“She’s perfect, you know? Namtan. She rides horses, wins duels, speaks four languages. Wears a sword like it’s part of her spine.”
There was something hollow in her tone.
I didn’t interrupt.
“She’s always so calm. Her hair never frizzes. Her handwriting looks printed. The kind of girl everyone says, ‘I wish I were more like her.’”
A pause.
Then Flim let out a short laugh. “Funny, huh?”
Not really.
The air in the room felt heavier now.
I couldn’t tell why. Maybe it was the way Flim kept talking like her mouth didn’t want to but her heart refused to shut up.
“She was supposed to visit last season,” Flim continued. “Didn’t. Canceled last minute. No explanation. Love was… quiet about it.”
Still, her voice didn’t shift much.
But I heard it anyway.
That kind of sad you try to layer under sarcasm. The kind you throw behind a scoff. The kind that slips into a conversation you didn’t mean to have.
She wasn’t just talking about Love.
Something was personal here.
I leaned back. My stomach twisted—not with anger. With confusion.
Why did I care?
I didn’t.
I shouldn’t.
Love was a mission. An objective. A move on the board.
But suddenly, hearing she belonged to someone else—a perfect someone, someone planned since childhood—
It didn’t sit right in my chest.
“Thanks,” I said finally, standing.
“For what?” Flim asked, looking back down at her book.
“For telling me more than you wanted to.”
She gave me a glance.
“You don’t care,” she said plainly.
“I didn’t say I did.”
“Mm. That’s what makes you dangerous.”
I smiled a little.
Then walked out.
And for the first time since I took this job—
I realized I wasn’t just memorizing hallways anymore.
I was memorizing her.
Notes:
don't forget leave comments and kudos, this will inspire me to write more.
Till then, enjoy!
Chapter Text
Milk’s POV
I’d never seen Love go quiet like this.
She smiled. She did her stupid little dances while walking. She clung to my arm while humming pop songs like the world revolved around her voice.
But tonight, she just looked… still.
It started when the trumpet sounded at the south gate. I watched from the balcony. One silver stallion, two guards behind, and a woman in riding leather—not a gown—dismounted with a fluid motion and handed off her reins without a word.
Princess Namtan. Tall. Athletic. Confident in the way people are when they’ve never had to fight for love, only inherit it.
She was beautiful. But that wasn’t what disturbed me. It was her face. She looked like someone I had tried to forget.
Sharp jaw. That piercing kind of stare that says I already know you. Her mouth moved the same way my mother’s had when she used to bark orders before vanishing into smoke.
It was like watching a ghost I never buried.
I stood by Love’s side when Namtan entered the hall. Love curtsied. Namtan took her hand and kissed the back of it. Love didn’t meet her eyes. Not once.
“Still the softest hands in the kingdom,” Namtan teased. It was charming. Rehearsed. Royal.
Love just smiled politely and looked at the floor.
Something in my jaw tensed.
Dinner was quiet.
I wasn’t allowed inside, but I stood at the far end of the corridor outside the royal dining hall, right near the arch.
From where I was stationed, I could see flickers of silverware clinking, and the occasional burst of laughter—mostly from Namtan. Film sat across her. Love beside her. Everyone acted like the perfect script was unfolding.
Except Love barely ate.
And the whole time, she kept folding and unfolding her napkin in her lap. Even when Namtan placed her hand over hers. Especially then.
I leaned against the cold pillar wall and closed my eyes for a second.
This wasn’t love. This was choreography.
And yet—Film. That bitter sigh. That sadness in her voice when she mentioned Namtan.
Why? I didn’t get it.
But when dinner ended and the guests retreated to their quarters, I took the long route back to my post. I was still thinking about the questions I haven't found. Why does Love seem so quite around Princess Namtan? Why does Lady Film act so odd when she hears Princess Namtan's name like it physically hurt her?
I haven't come here for searching for any questions. But I needed answer, to understand who could be my potential threat. And I mark Princess Namtan as number one here.
Then I passed by Film's door. And that’s when I heard it.
Breathless, soft gasps. A muffled voice. A strained moan.
I froze. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!!!
The corridor was quiet, save for the ornate lanterns flickering against the gold-paneled walls. But behind that door—
I didn’t need confirmation. Something ugly twisted in my stomach. I walked away fast. I don't wanna intervene in someone's personal time. But why lady Film......
Flim’s POV:
She came in like she owned the palace. I didn’t look up from my scroll at first. I had told myself if I ignored her, she’d just leave. But of course not.
“Still reading those boring things?” she said, her voice like silk drenched in smoke.
“Still pretending you care?” I muttered.
She laughed. “Same mouth. Still sharp.”
I slammed the scroll closed. “What do you want, Namtan?”
“To say hello.”
“You already did that. To your fiancée.”
Namtan walked around the room, dragging her fingers across my dresser like she belonged here. “Why so cold?”
“Because I’m not a fool anymore.”
She stopped behind me. “You say that every time,” she whispered against my ear.
I pushed my chair back and stood. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” she asked, eyes glinting.
“Don’t pretend you missed me.”
She tilted her head. “You think I didn’t?”
“Stop.”
“I saw the way you looked at me during dinner.”
I clenched my fists. “I looked because you were making her uncomfortable.”
“She’s always uncomfortable when I’m around,” Namtan said coolly. “Because she knows I’m not here for her.”
“Then why stay engaged?!”
She smirked. “Royal duty.”
I scoffed. “Convenient excuse.”
“She doesn’t even care, Film. You know that. You’ve known it for years.”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
“You’re the only one who ever made me feel real,” Namtan said suddenly, softer now. “Out there I’m perfect. In here, with you, I can be me.”
“You? You drunk, entitled—”
She pulled me into a kiss.
It burned. It hurt.
It reminded me of every mistake I ever let happen in this damn room.
I shoved her away, breathing hard. “Don’t you dare repeat those nights,” I hissed. “I won’t do it again.”
Namtan’s gaze darkened.
And then she said—almost angry now—“Liar.”
And she kissed me again.
Rough. Desperate.
And I—
I let her.
Because I always do.
Because no one else looks at me like I’m the only truth in a world built on pretty lies.
Even if it destroys me every time.
Notes:
don't forget leave comments and kudos, this will inspire me to write more.
Till then, enjoy!
Chapter Text
Love’s POV
They call me “Princess” like it’s a compliment.
As if the word itself isn’t heavy.
As if it doesn’t feel like an iron chain around my throat—gold-plated and polished for public consumption.
I was born in a palace that glittered with marble floors and chandeliers made of stars. And yet no one ever taught me how to feel warm.
Everything I wore was chosen.
Every word I spoke was rehearsed.
Every step I took was watched, corrected, rewritten.
And no one—not even once—asked me what I wanted.
Not my mother. Not the royal tutor. Not even the court.
I was “the future.”
But not their child.
Film was the only one who ever noticed when I was hurting.
She’d hold my hand under the table when I was too anxious to eat.
She’d sneak mango candies into my pockets when I cried in bed at night.
She’d tell me stories that didn’t end in duty or death—just soft ones. About fireflies and frogs and running barefoot in the mud. I used to think she was born to be something brighter. Something freer.
But she chose to stay.
She stayed for me.
And I don’t know if I ever deserved that kind of loyalty.
I remember the first time I saw Milk.
She was quiet. Cold-eyed. Too still, too sharp to be from this world.
I thought she hated me, honestly.
I talk too much. I laugh at everything. I say the wrong thing and then say five more wrong things trying to fix it.
But Milk never once told me to shut up.
She just listened.
To all of it.
She listened when I talked about my favorite books. She didn’t flinch when I admitted I hate royal dinners. She even carried me when I tripped in the jungle. I was sweaty and embarrassing and covered in leaves, and she didn’t laugh at me once.
That’s when I realized—
I feel safe with her.
The kind of safety I’ve never known, not even with Film.
But I can’t feel that way.
Not when I’m engaged.
Not when Film…
God.
Film.
She never told me she was in love with Namtan.
But I’m not an idiot.
I saw the way her voice broke when she said Namtan was coming. I saw the way her hands trembled when she poured wine for her. I saw the anger in her eyes every time when someone mentions Namtan.
She didn’t just give up Namtan for me.
She sacrificed her.
Because it was easier for Namtan to marry a princess than a lady-in-waiting.
Because our titles decided who was worthy of love and who wasn’t.
And now Film pretends to be fine.
Like she’s not breaking in silence. Like she doesn’t hear Namtan’s footsteps at night and flinch.
I know.
I know what they do behind my back.
I’ve heard the sounds. The rushed breaths. The muffled arguments followed by silence.
I’m not stupid.
But I can’t say anything.
Because I’m not a person.
I’m a position.
I’m a chess piece with pretty hair and a fragile smile and a future planned without me.
And if I call them out—
If I ruin it—
Then I become the traitor.
The selfish one.
The princess who couldn’t carry her weight.
And worst of all… I’d be taking her away from the only person she’s ever loved.
Even if that person is cruel.
Even if that person only shows up when she’s drunk and angry and in need of control.
Film deserves better.
But I am not better.
I’m the reason she’s still trapped here.
I hate it.
I hate it so much.
I hate how good it feels when Milk calls me by my name instead of my title.
I hate how much I want to tell her everything.
I hate how much I want to ask her to stay forever.
Because that would mean hurting Film.
And I’ve already taken too much from her.
So I’ll keep wearing the crown.
Keep smiling in gold.
Keep pretending I don’t hear the sounds behind closed doors.
And I’ll keep walking beside Milk like she’s just a bodyguard.
Even though she’s the first person who ever made me feel real.
Even though I want to scream every time she looks at me with those quiet eyes, like she sees a person underneath the silk.
Even though she deserves none of the mess I’m tangled in.
Even though I wish—
God, I wish—
That things were different.
Film's POV:
They all call me her best friend.
Lady Film. Loyal. Poised. Reliable. The shadow beside the sun. And for the most part, they’re right.
I’ve been with Love since we were children. Laughed when she laughed, held her when she cried, stood at her side when no one else dared.
She is more than just my best friend. She is my home. Which is why this hurts so damn much. Because she thinks I love her like a sister. And maybe once I did.
But it’s hard to keep that line clean when you give up the one thing you wanted just to see her happy.
I saw Namtan first.
It wasn’t even a royal event. Just a trade banquet down at the Southern Coast. I had gone with my father, standing stiffly in pearls I didn’t even pick. I remember the salt breeze in my hair. The scent of grilled fish and rum. And then—
Namtan.
Hair slicked back. In a deep navy shirt. Smirking at the world like it belonged to her.
We danced. Laughed. She spun me once and dipped me hard enough that I stumbled. Then, out of nowhere, she kissed me. No warning. No ask. Just lips on mine, salty from the sea air and sweet from pineapple wine.
I don’t remember if I kissed back. I just remember the fire in my chest. God, it was so stupid. So naïve. But I thought it meant something.
We dated. Secretly, of course. Royals don’t marry women like me. But for a moment, I thought I was different. I thought I was her only. She made me feel like it.
Until one night, over tea, I heard it. Two ladies gossiping. The princess and Namtan, engaged. A strategic union. “Perfect match,” they said. “True blue blood. It was bound to happen.”
I didn’t believe it. Not until I asked her. Cornered her in the garden, my voice breaking: “Are you marrying Love?”
She stared at me for a second. Then pulled me close. Kissed me hard. Hands in my hair. And then we were on the bench. Then the floor. Then silence.
That was the answer. She never said the word yes. She just made sure I didn’t ask again.
That was the first time I slept with her. And that’s how it’s been ever since. She visits late. Sometimes drunk. Always in control. She doesn’t call me by my name. She doesn’t ask if I’m okay. She just takes. And I let her.
Because some part of me still wants to believe that maybe… maybe she’ll come back. That maybe when the politics are over, she’ll choose me. But she never does. She never will.
And now Love—my Love—has fallen into this twisted knot, engaged to a woman I know is poison.
She doesn’t know the things I know.
She doesn’t hear Namtan whisper my name behind closed doors. Doesn’t see the bruises she leaves when she grabs too tight. Doesn’t know how she smirks at me when no one else is watching—like she knows she owns both of us.
And I—
I can’t protect Love. Not anymore. Not without destroying the last thread between us. Because if she finds out about me and Namtan… She’ll never forgive me, no matter how she was forced in this marriage.
And the worst part? I wouldn’t blame her.
I don’t know what hurts more. Knowing I lost Namtan to someone she never truly loved. Or knowing I will lose Love one day too, for having an affair with her fiancé.
That bodyguard. Milk. She’s different. Love talks about her like she’s a safe place.
And I’m not blind. I see the way Milk looks at her. Silent. Guarded. Protective. The way her gaze softens when Love rambles about stupid things. The way she stands too close in the hall. The way she clenched her jaw when she met me, like I was a threat she didn’t know yet.
Maybe that’s okay.
At least Milk isn't like a manipulator like Namtan....
Namtan’s POV
People always thought being royalty meant you were born with grace.
No.
You were born with rules. And masks. And the brutal art of silence.
I learned early on that silence gets you more than a scream ever could. I watched ministers fight over lands and titles at the dinner table. Watched my father steal glances at women that weren’t his queen. Watched my mother sip wine like it could drown her rage.
I was eight when I realized: in our world, love is leverage.
So I learned how to smile at people I hated. I learned how to speak sweetly while measuring someone’s throat with my eyes. And I learned how to make people fall in love with me—so I could own them.
Then I met Film.
God. She was all softness and books and stubborn eyes. The kind of girl who had no business being at a royal party in the Southern Coast, but there she was—dragged along by her father, an advisor.
She wore white that night. Had no idea how beautiful she looked. I did. I danced with her just to see if she’d blush. She did. I kissed her to see if she’d flinch. She didn’t. And I fell. Or maybe I tripped on the power of it all—knowing I could bend someone like her, someone so good, into something selfish and mine.
We dated in secret. Midnight letters. Garden meetings. Quiet, breathless kisses behind curtain walls. She thought I loved her.
Maybe I did. In my own way.
But then came the engagement. The Queen herself summoned me and said, “You will marry Love Pattaranite. She is your bloodline’s next treaty.”
Love—the golden girl. Too perfect. A perfect Queen for the Southern Coast. So I said yes. Because I’m the kind of person who says yes to duty before dreams.
And Film… well, she was still there.
She demanded answers. Screamed at me that night. Her voice cracked. Her eyes welled up. And I silenced her the only way I knew how—pushed her up against the wall, kissed her, touched her until she forgot what she was angry about.
That’s when I knew. She’d never say no to me.
I kept her. Like a secret. Like a sin. Even now, when I visit the palace, I go to her first. Even if I’m with Love, I find my way back to Film. Drunk or not, I crawl into her room like a curse. And she always opens the door.
Sometimes she cries after. Sometimes she just stares at the ceiling. But she never asks me to stop.
Maybe that’s the worst part.
And yet, when I sit across from Love at royal dinners, I can feel the burn behind her smile. She knows.
She knows.
She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t laugh quite as freely when I’m near Film.
She knows I’m the villain in this story. And she’s still marrying me.
Why?
Because her name is duty. Just like mine.
Because no one taught us that love was meant to be soft. Not transactional.
And because Film loves her too much to fight it. Just like I love Film too much to set her free.
The three of us—tied in some sick triangle of silence and loyalty and aching.
I’m not a good person.
But neither are they.
We were all just born into crowns.
Notes:
don't forget leave comments and kudos, this will inspire me to write more.
Till then, enjoy!
Chapter Text
Milk’s POV
Meetings in the South Wing always smelled like sweat, steel, and testosterone. It was laughable, really — all these men with their pent-up rage thinking they could survive in my world just by flexing their muscles.
I stood at the edge of the table, arms crossed, eyes scanning the updated layout of the royal palace. The palace is highly secured with guards, it's impossible to kidnap the princess without causing any scene. I can't help but frown in frustration.
"Looks like, we don't have any other way than causing bleed", View, chill as usual, comments while sipping in her wine.
"Don't drink, you are still underaged", I shot. She just rolls her eyes.
The room fell into thoughtful silence — the kind that comes right before someone says something stupid. And right on cue, Pat opened his mouth. He stood up, loud as always. “All this for a princess?”
I didn’t look at him. Not yet.
“She’s just another royal pawn,” he continued. “You know what’d be faster? Hurt her. Threaten her. Send a message. The King will fold like paper.”
I slowly lifted my gaze.
Pat wasn’t finished. “Come on. Her family’s scum. Limpatiyakorn made my brother disappear. You think she’s innocent? They’re all the same.”
He was talking too much. Too loud. About her.
I stepped away from the table — slow, deliberate. The room tensed. View didn’t even glance up. She knew exactly what was coming.
Pat didn’t. He had no idea what he’d just stepped on.
I stopped in front of him.
He was taller than me. Broader, too. But power isn’t in size. It’s in silence. Stillness. The kind that makes a room hold its breath.
“What did you just say?” I asked, voice low.
Pat faltered. “I said… if we scare her—”
I kicked him. Hard. A clean, sharp blow to the gut. He doubled over with a strangled sound, crashing to the floor like a sack of regret. The room froze. No one moved. Pat coughed, trying to breathe, his hand gripping the edge of the chair as if it could save him from me. I stepped closer, pulled my gun from my side holster — not to shoot, just to remind. Cold steel met his forehead. “Don’t. Ever. Suggest that again.”
He trembled beneath me. I wasn’t shouting. I didn’t need to. The threat was in my calm, in the exact way I didn’t blink when I said. “You don’t touch her. You don’t talk about touching her. You don’t even let the idea exist in that little wormbrain of yours. Got it?”
He nodded rapidly, still trying to catch his breath. I straightened, tucked my gun back, and turned around without another word. I didn’t need applause. I needed order.
Back at the table, I picked up the blueprints like nothing happened. Then leave the room. View followed me.
As we are out of room, she waited a moment, then added, “...You know, Princess Love’s not exactly untouchable. She laughs when you’re near. That's rare.”
“She’s bubbly,” I muttered, annoyed.
“Princesses aren’t bubbly unless they trust you.”
“Bad call on her part.”
View smirked. “You’re catching feelings, boss.”
“She has a fiancé,” I snapped. “And she looks like my mother.”
“C’mon. You were raised in an underground world, Milk. You don’t even have a twin.”
“Exactly,” I grumbled. “And yet somehow, the universe gave me an unwanted déjà vu with a royal engagement ring.”
She laughed softly. I didn’t. Because no matter how many times I told myself this was just a job, every time I saw Love’s face…
Every time she smiled at me like I wasn’t a monster…
It became harder to lie. Even to myself.
Third Person's POV:
Pat sat alone in the dim backroom of the mafia headquarters, the muffled voices of the mission meeting still echoing faintly through the thick concrete walls. His knuckles were white from gripping the edge of the worn wooden table, his chest rising and falling unevenly as anger twisted inside him like a coiled serpent.
He replayed the moment in his mind—the moment Milk had stood up and delivered that cold, brutal kick. The sharp sting of humiliation burned deeper than any physical pain. She had taken his defiance, his desperation, and crushed it without hesitation. The gun pressed cold against his forehead was the last image seared into his memory.
But it wasn’t over. It would never be over.
Because Pat wasn’t just angry at Milk. No, his grudge was a wildfire fueled by loss and betrayal—and it extended to Love, the royal princess at the center of it all. He had learned something in the days after that meeting. Milk and Love were planning a trip to South Korea.
A royal diplomatic visit, official and grand, but for Pat, it was a glaring opportunity.
The perfect moment to strike.
Pat’s dark eyes gleamed with bitter resolve. His brother—his blood—had disappeared because of Limpatiyakorn's ruthless orders, and now these two, Milk and Love, danced around power like it was a game. But Pat wasn’t playing.
He would make sure they paid.
He reached for his phone and opened a secure channel, sending a terse message to his closest enforcer, Sarin. The words were simple, cold:
“Meet me at Seoul Warehouse two days later.”
As he put down the phone, Pat leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of leather the only sound in the room. His mind flickered to Milk’s expression during the meeting—icy, controlled, dangerous. But Pat knew better than to underestimate her. He hated her for it.
For everything.
Notes:
Don't forget to leave kudos and comment, fellas!
Chapter Text
Love’s POV
I begged for ten minutes of freedom after the royal meeting, and somehow — somehow! — they approved. Ten glorious minutes of walking without heels or a tiara. But of course, I wasn’t alone.
Milk walked exactly two steps behind me, like a shadow dipped in leather and sarcasm.
She wore that fitted black turtleneck again, sleeves rolled up just enough to flash the veins in her arms, and dark slacks tucked into combat boots. She looked like she walked out of a mafia movie. I, on the other hand, wore a puffy pastel jacket I bought from a tourist shop downstairs and a bunny-eared headband. I was the sun to her storm. The orange cat to her black cat.
Literally.
"You're walking too fast," Milk muttered, not quite scolding, not quite caring.
I grinned over my shoulder. “You’re just too slow. Did you grow up walking like a vampire?”
Her lips twitched — almost a smile, but she wrestled it back into the usual grumpy scowl.
"I walk like someone who checks exits and evaluates threats, not someone chasing cotton candy."
“Oh my god,” I gasped, spinning dramatically, “is this the part where you tell me I’m your threat?”
"You're my job,” she replied coolly, eyes scanning a noodle cart like it might explode.
I pouted. “That’s what all rom-com bodyguards say before they fall for the princess.”
She looked at me, deadpan. “I don’t watch rom-coms.”
I squinted. “That explains... so much.”
We strolled along the narrow street lined with food stalls, the neon lights flickering against the damp pavement. I pointed excitedly at skewers, dumplings, fish cakes — like a kid in a toy store.
Milk paid for everything, muttering, “Royal budget,” even though we both knew she had way too much cash for someone with ‘bodyguard’ on their badge.
As I crunched into a hotteok, I turned to her. “You ever laugh, Miss Mafia?”
“I’m not mafia.”
“Oh. My bad. You’re just mysterious, terrifying, wear all-black, and stare at people like you’ve picked out three ways to kill them. That’s completely different.”
She ignored me.
I poked her arm.
Nothing.
I poked harder. Still nothing.
“Milk?”
“Hm.”
I leaned in, voice teasing. “Do you secretly enjoy my company?”
She blinked slowly, chewing on a fish cake. “You’re loud. And chaotic. And you wore a bunny headband to an international security meeting.”
“You didn’t say no.”
She sighed, and finally — finally — the corner of her mouth curled up. Just a little.
Victory.
We paused at a bridge over the Han River, wind tousling my hair. I leaned against the railing, looking out at the glittering lights. “I always imagined freedom would feel… noisier,” I whispered.
She said nothing for a moment, then joined me at the railing. “Freedom is quiet when you’re not used to it.”
I looked at her then — really looked. Her eyes were distant, soft around the edges. She wasn’t just a bodyguard. She wasn’t just muscle.
She was a storm that forgot how to rain. And me? I was sunshine that learned to be quiet around thunder.
“I like Seoul,” I murmured. “It feels like no one’s watching.”
“They are,” she replied. “But you’re too bright to care.”
I turned toward her, suddenly feeling too warm under my fluffy coat. “You think I’m bright?” She met my eyes. “Blinding.”
My breath caught — but just then, her earpiece buzzed. She stepped back, frowning.
“Time’s up,” she said.
And just like that, the spell broke. We headed back, the world shifting from warm oranges to cool greys.
But I smiled to myself anyway. Because even if she wouldn’t admit it… My black cat liked walking beside an orange one......
The hotel room was stupidly fancy. Gold trims, a chandelier, velvet chairs that looked like they were stolen from a museum. Seoul really knew how to pamper royalty. I twirled once in front of the mirror, then faced Milk with a mock curtsy. “So, how do I look? Princess-y enough for dinner?”
Milk didn’t even glance at me. She was checking the window locks like we were in a war zone. “We’re not late yet. Don’t trip in those heels.”
“Wow. So romantic,” I deadpanned.
“Would you prefer I lie?”
I huffed. She finally looked at me, then blinked once — that very subtle Milk Pansa way of saying you look good but I’m not saying it out loud because that’s illegal in my grumpy dictionary.
Fine. I’ll take it.
Dinner was on the top floor of the hotel — a rotating restaurant with a glittering view of Seoul. The food was fancy, the kind where they gave you three bites of something and charged a hundred dollars. I barely cared. I was too busy watching her.
Milk in a suit? Not fair. Jet-black, perfectly tailored. She looked like she was about to either propose or assassinate someone. Possibly both.
“You’re not eating,” she said, not looking up from her steak.
“I’m admiring.”
“Stop it.”
“No.”
Her jaw clenched. “You're acting weird.”
“You’re acting hot.”
She almost choked on her wine. Worth it.
Back in the room, I kicked off my heels and flopped face-first onto the king-sized bed with a sigh.
Milk stood stiffly near the door, like she’d rather be in a bunker with a ticking bomb than in a suite with me.
“Relax,” I said without looking up. “The bed doesn’t bite.”
“You do.”
I rolled over, grinning. “Only when I like someone.”
She blinked. Then slowly turned toward the door. “I’ll head to my room.”
“Wait! No—stay,” I said, sitting up. “Seriously. You’ve been running around all day. You deserve rest too. This bed is huge, and we’ve both been sleeping like rocks on the road.”
She hesitated.
“I’m not gonna jump you,” I added with a smirk. “Unless you ask nicely.”
She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple like I gave her a migraine.
“Come on,” I said, patting the bed. “We can even draw a line down the middle like kids.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Then be an adult and lie down.”
That earned me a death glare — followed by a resigned shuffle across the room. She kicked off her shoes, carefully laid her blazer over a chair, and sat at the edge of the mattress like I might explode. I reached over with the remote and flicked the TV on. Korean dramas. Perfect.
The sound filled the silence as she slowly eased into the bed, staying exactly on her side. “I’m not gonna talk,” I said. “I know you’re tired.”
“…Good.”
A moment passed. I peeked over.
She had one arm behind her head, eyes closed.
“Hey Milk?” I whispered.
“What?”
“Thanks for staying.”
She didn’t reply.
But after a few minutes, when I accidentally shuffled closer in my sleep — she didn’t move away.
Like it didn’t mean everything.
Milk’s POV
I woke up because something was wrong. Not the "gunshot in the distance" kind of wrong. Worse.
There was heat. Weight. Something soft pressed against my chest, leg, face— I opened one eye. And there she was. The Princess.
Spread across me like an octopus made of lavender-scented chaos.
Her head was tucked under my chin. One arm thrown around my waist. One leg wrapped around mine like we were filming a very inappropriate drama. Her mouth was slightly open. Breathing? Snoring? I couldn’t tell.
I blinked once. Then twice. Then I muttered: “…Princess.”
No response.
“…Princess,” I hissed again, louder this time.
Still nothing. Except now her nose nuzzled into my neck and she murmured, “Mmm… warm…”
I froze. I was the warm. I didn’t train ten years under a mafia warlord, survive gunfire, torture, explosions, and betrayal just to be taken down by a half-asleep royal snuggle monster. “Princess,” I tried again, carefully. “You’re… you’re on top of me.”
She let out a content sigh. Then, I kid you not, she rubbed her cheek against my collarbone like I was a body pillow. I stared at the ceiling. God. If you’re real. Smite me. Now.
“Okay. Okay, this is fine,” I muttered to myself. “This is not compromising. This is not melting my brain. I am composed. I am trained. I am—”
“Milk…” she mumbled sleepily.
I stiffened. She never called me that in this tone.
“You smell nice…”
I nearly levitated off the mattress. “Princess,” I snapped, panic rising, “you’re dreaming. This is a dream. You are hallucinating. I am not a scented plush toy.” She just hummed again and squeezed me tighter. I debated several options.
1. Yeet her off me and risk waking her up.
2. Teleport.
3. Suffer in silence.
I went with the third. For twenty-six more minutes. Eventually, I managed to shimmy out from under her like I was defusing a bomb. I stood at the edge of the bed, breathing heavily like I’d just escaped a bear trap.
She rolled over into my warm spot and murmured, “Hmm… hubby…” I blinked.
Then I walked straight to the bathroom, turned the faucet on, and splashed cold water on my face like I was possessed. “She’s going to kill me,” I muttered to my reflection.
Or worse—
I was going to let her.
[Timeskip]
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream, evaporate, or confess to a priest.
The Princess—no, Love, because calling her “The Princess” after last night made it worse—had assaulted me in her sleep. Okay, maybe “assaulted” was dramatic. But there was definitely unsolicited cuddling. And nuzzling. And murmuring hubby like we were in some high-budget historical omega drama.
I stared into my black coffee like it could bleach the memory from my brain. Love entered the room, dressed in a loose hotel robe, hair damp from her morning shower, cheeks flushed from the heat. She gave me a sunny grin. “Morning~!”
I glared at her. She blinked. “What?”
“You molested me in your sleep.”
She laughed. Loud and shameless. “Oh my god, Milk.”
“I’m serious.”
“I was asleep!”
“You also wrapped yourself around me like a python.”
“That’s not even anatomically possible.”
“It was. I was there.”
She couldn’t stop laughing. Her face scrunched, eyes tearing up. “You should’ve pushed me off.”
“I tried,” I said flatly. “But I was afraid you’d cry.”
That made her wheeze. I took a sip of my coffee to hide the ridiculous warmth blooming in my chest. She was still giggling when she sat beside me. “You know… I haven’t laughed like that in years.”
I looked at her.
She smiled at her tea cup, fingers curled around it. “I always laugh with Film, but it’s… different. I feel like I have to keep things light for her. I’m the princess. She’s always worrying. I don’t want to add more.”
“You don’t have to laugh for me,” I muttered. “You laugh at me.”
“That’s because you’re funny, Milk. Without even trying.”
I sighed. “That’s not a compliment.”
She gave me a small, warm look. “It is from me.”
For a moment, it was just the sound of clinking porcelain and the hum of city traffic from the hotel window. Then she set her cup down gently. “When I was little,” she began, “people didn’t really hold me. My mom died when I was eight, and my father… well, I was his legacy, not his daughter. Film was my only real person. She used to sneak into my room during storms and sleep in my bed like I was her little sister. We were each other’s comfort.”
I listened, arms crossed, but my gaze stayed fixed on her.
“She met Namtan at a southern banquet when we were fifteen. She came back to the palace glowing. I knew immediately. And of course Namtan, being the royal Princess of Southern Coast and all, could do anything.”
Her fingers curled slightly on the tablecloth.
“They dated secretly. Or… as secretly as a castle allows. But one day, Father called me into his study and announced I’d be marrying Namtan. As a political match. Strengthen the throne. Keep the bloodline clean.”
I didn’t speak.
She laughed softly. “I looked over at Film and her face was unreadable. Perfect, even. But her fingers were white from clenching her skirt.”
I stared at her. “She didn’t fight it?”
“She didn’t have the power. Neither of us did.”
Silence.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, cautiously.
“Because you… listen.” She smiled at me, sad but gentle. “You don’t interrupt. You don’t comfort me with lies. You just stay.”
That got me. I looked away. Then she added, “Also, you clearly eavesdrop.”
I choked. “What?”
“You were going to mention the noises from Flim’s room, weren’t you?”
I hesitated. She sighed. “It’s okay. You’re not wrong. They… sleep together. When Namtan’s in the palace.”
I clenched my jaw. “So she cheats on you. With your best friend.”
“It’s not cheating if I never wanted her.”
That stunned me. “I never consented to this engagement,” she added. “It was forced. Just like everything else.” Another silence. Then she gave a bitter smile. “But I guess Film gave up Namtan for me. That’s why I can’t hate her.”
I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t trained for this. My job was to infiltrate kingdoms, dismantle empires. Not… sit across from a beautiful omega and talk about betrayal and loyalty over lukewarm tea.
I cleared my throat. “You don’t want to marry Namtan?”
“Hell no.” Her eyes met mine. “If I could, I’d run away. With someone who makes me laugh, who doesn’t lie. Someone who holds me when I’m scared.”
My heart slammed in my chest. But I stayed still. “You don’t have to be strong all the time,” I said quietly.
“Neither do you,” she whispered.
I looked at her. She was staring at me, eyes so full of something that felt dangerous. Something that made my walls crack.
I stood abruptly. “You need to get dressed. We have a tour in thirty.”
She smiled, knowing exactly what I was doing.
“Of course, Bodyguard.”
And just before she walked to the bathroom, she leaned toward my ear and whispered—
“Thanks for surviving my cuddles, hubby.”
She disappeared into the bathroom with a soft giggle.
I buried my face in my hands.
God help me.
Notes:
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Chapter Text
Third Person POV:
The air in the dim Seoul warehouse was damp with sweat, rust, and bad ideas. A single bulb flickered overhead, throwing shadows that twisted and danced across the concrete walls.
Pat leaned over the metal table, fingers clenched around a dull pocketknife. The blade had no edge anymore, but he didn’t need it to cut anything physical—it was something to hold while rage boiled under his skin.
Across from him stood his handler—Sarin. Calm, slick, manipulative. A voice like silk hiding razors.
“Still having second thoughts?” Sarin asked, brushing off his black gloves.
“No.” Pat’s voice was gravel. “I know what I saw. Limpatiyakorn—he’s behind my brother’s disappearance. And she’s his daughter. It’s the same blood.”
Sarin tilted his head. “Then you know what has to be done.”
Pat didn’t reply. His jaw was tight. His temple pulsed.
“She sits there like some holy figure,” Sarin continued, circling the room like a panther. “Dresses in silk, smiles for cameras. Everyone calls her ‘hope’ and ‘purity.’” He spat the word like poison. “But hope doesn’t build on bones.”
“Milk’s with her,” Pat muttered. “She’ll never let anyone near.”
Sarin smiled. “And yet… your precious Mafia Prince won’t be with her at the royal dinner.”
Pat looked up sharply.
“Yes,” Sarin said, tapping a document onto the table—event roster. Dinner location. Security details. Everything he needed to know. “They’re splitting for that night. Milk isn't allowed in Royal Dinner.”
Pat’s heart thundered.
“Just you, me, a sharp tool,” Sarin continued, “and a waiter’s uniform.”
He pulled out two crisp uniforms from a bag—pressed black shirts, tailored slacks, golden service pins. Pat stared. “I’ll do it,” he muttered.
Sarin arched a brow. “Are you sure?”
Pat’s hand tightened on the dull knife again. “She’s part of the family that stole my brother. The royal blood that lives while my family dies. And now Milk defends her? She forgot who she is. She forgot what they did to us.”
Sarin smiled thinly. “Good. Then remember this, too—cut below the ribcage, on the left. Fast. Deep. Clean.”
Pat’s pulse raced. “She won’t be wearing a corset at the table,” Sarin added. “They stopped making her wear them after Milk arrived. Softening her. Weakening her.” Pat’s eyes burned.
“She trusts Milk,” Sarin said, voice dripping with disgust. “She won’t expect betrayal.”
He walked to Pat and gently set a small, slick blade in his palm.
“Don’t hesitate.” Pat looked at the weapon. “She dies that night.”
Milk's POV:
I knew today would suck.
It started with the tailored suit Love forced into my hand at 7 a.m. “It’s designer,” she said. “You’ll look hot.” I didn’t care. All I cared about was that the damn pants were tight and the jacket made me itch.
But Love looked at me once when I wore it and went, “Wow,” so… I wore it again. And now I regret everything.
Because the moment I step into the lounge, Love is pacing, wearing a sky-blue gown that sparkled like the sea—and talking like she drank five cups of coffee and inhaled glitter.
“I’m so nervous, what if they don’t like me, what if I spill wine again, oh my god what if I burp during the toast—”
“You won’t,” I muttered, folding my arms.
“But what if I do?!”
“Then they’ll get a royal shock,” I deadpanned.
Love squinted at me. “Not funny.”
I raised a brow. “I wasn’t joking.”
She groaned and threw herself on the couch like she was dying. “Can’t you come with me tonight?”
I blinked. “What?”
“To the dinner! It’s just one evening, please. Sit next to me, glare at everyone, and whisper snarky things in my ear—come on, you’re good at that.”
My head tilted. “That’s not my job.”
“It should be!”
I opened my mouth—but then she arrived.
Like a storm in four-inch heels.
“Excuse me,” Film’s voice cut through the room like a cold wind. “Did I just hear you invite your bodyguard to a royal diplomatic dinner?”
I groaned internally. Film. Love’s best friend since childhood. Known me for exactly three weeks. Already hates me like we went to rival high schools.
“Morning to you, too,” I said, voice flat.
Film didn’t even look at me. Her eyes were on Love, hand on her hip, judgment radiating from her pores. “You know the dinner is only for nobility, right? Not for people who lurk around the palace like grumpy shadows?”
I stared. “You sound jealous.”
Film snapped her head toward me. “Of what? The black hoodie aura you carry like a trophy?”
“She’s not wearing a hoodie today,” Love offered helpfully. “She’s wearing that nice suit I like.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Film said dryly. “Then she’ll fit right in with the Seoul dignitaries and maybe stab someone with a butter knife.”
“I’ve only stabbed people I was supposed to,” I replied calmly.
“That’s not helping,” Love hissed at me.
Film crossed her arms. “This dinner is for royalty and their associates. Not for mafia guards with hero complexes.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Hero? Since when do villains get mistaken for heroes?”
“Since they flirt with princesses they’re supposed to protect,” Film shot back.
I stepped forward. “Are you accusing me of—”
“STOP!” Love screamed, arms flailing.
We both paused. She looked at us like we were toddlers fighting over crayons.
“I just want one night,” Love said, almost pleading. “One nice dinner, no fighting, no drama. Can you guys at least pretend to like each other for two seconds?”
I looked at Film. Film looked at me. We both said, at the exact same time: “...No.”
Love flopped dramatically onto the couch again. Another silence.
“I’ll be five minutes away,” I said. “At the diplomatic security summit. I’ll have my phone. You sneeze, I show up with a rocket launcher.”
She giggled.
Film muttered, “Why does that sound like an actual possibility…”
I walked to the door. “Just don’t spill anything, Princess.”
Love grinned. “And don’t get kidnapped at your own dinner, Mister Mafia.”
As I left, I heard Film whisper: “You could do better than her, you know.”
Love replied, just loud enough for me to catch— “Maybe I don’t want to.”
And I had to fight the smile that almost betrayed me.
As I walk to the dinner hall, I take out a small camera. I need to hide it there. Actually, I never liked these kinds of dinners. But something in my chest hadn’t felt right since this morning. A weird weight. The kind that doesn’t go away, no matter how many times you try to rationalize it. So, no—I wasn’t going far.
I stood by the hallway near the banquet doors, arms crossed, leaning on a cold marble pillar like some statue. The guards gave me weird looks, but no one said anything. Being a bodyguard came with a free pass to “intimidating silence.”
And I wasn’t just standing around.
I'd installed a discreet pin-sized camera in the chandelier above the main table. And now, I watched the feed from my wristwatch screen—low light mode on, sound off. Love sat at the center of the table, dressed in royal lavender, laughing at something someone said. Sunshine incarnate. I had no idea how she still had the energy to smile after the week we’d had. I watched her. I don’t know why. Maybe it made me feel calmer.
That was until I felt a shift. Footsteps. Quiet. Too precise. A waiter passed by me with a tray of wine. Normal. Almost.
But his face—
It wasn’t nervous, or distracted like the others. It was blank. Cold. Intent.
My gut twisted. I turned my head just slightly, watching as he passed. He didn’t look at me, not once.
But I saw it.
Pat.
His side profile gave him away. I’d worked with him too long to miss it, even under a wig and makeup. Why the hell would he—
My eyes dropped to his hands. The tray sat steady in his right. But his left arm… Was tucked oddly behind him.
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, tapping my watch to zoom in on the feed.
The camera above the chandelier gave me a partial view. I focused in— And my blood ran cold.
He was hiding a blade. Slim. Silver. Deadly. Everything inside me screamed at once. No protocol. No backup.
Just run.
I didn’t think. I launched forward. The guards blinked, startled, but I didn’t stop for explanations. My boots hit the red carpet in heavy strides, heart hammering in my ears. Inside the hall, dignitaries laughed, clinked glasses, complimented sauces.
I spotted Pat. He was already at her side.
“LOVE!” I yelled.
She looked up—confused. Her eyes met mine. And in the next half second, Pat’s arm swung.
I leapt. Not at him—at her. I tackled Love out of her chair and to the floor, crashing into the side of the table, just as Pat’s knife slashed downward. A sharp, hot pain burned across my side.
I gasped—but stayed up, shielding her. Screams erupted. Guards ran in. Chaos exploded like a grenade. I blinked. Blood soaked through my shirt. My own. Love stared up at me, her eyes wide, trembling.
“Milk?” she whispered, touching my arm. “MILK!”
I gritted my teeth. “Stay down, Princess.” Guards grabbed Pat—slammed him to the floor. He screamed something about his brother and vengeance, but I wasn’t listening anymore.
My knees gave way. Love caught me before I hit the floor.
“You—why did you—why—” she couldn’t finish her sentence. Her hands were shaking.
I gave a weak chuckle. “Couldn’t let you die before we go to Busan, right?”
She looked at me like I’d lost my mind.
I probably had.
Notes:
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Chapter Text
Milk’s POV
Pain feels different when it’s for someone else.
It’s quieter.
It doesn’t scream or claw at your lungs like it does when you’re hurting for yourself. It just... burns steadily in the background, like a stove left on in an empty room. That’s what I felt when I woke up. That low, ever-present heat curling in my side. A slow pulse of agony that told me I was alive — and also, that I was dumb enough to be alive after taking a knife to the ribs.
“...Milk?”
That voice. So light. Like sunshine tapping on the window when you’re trying to sleep in. I cracked one eye open. She was there. Love. And she looked like hell.
Hair in a messy bun, eyes red-rimmed like she hadn't slept in days, wearing what looked like one of my hoodies — one I definitely never gave her — with her knees tucked to her chest on the armchair beside the bed. She blinked when she saw me, then bolted upright like I’d just come back from the dead.
“Oh my god—you’re awake.”
She was on me before I could breathe. One hand on my face, the other fumbling for the call button. “I’ll get the nurse. Do you want water? Are you cold? Oh my god, you’re pale. I mean, you’re always pale, but this is—this is scary-pale.”
“Princess.”
Her hand froze on my cheek. I smirked weakly. “You’re loud.”
She sniffled. “You almost died.”
“You’re still loud.”
She huffed a laugh, then bit her lip and sat back. Her eyes scanned my face like she couldn’t believe I was real. “You scared the life out of me.”
“Couldn’t let someone skewer you like a royal kebab,” I muttered.
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m a little funny.”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she just... looked at me.
And it hit me then — how different she looked. Not in the physical sense. But in the way she carried herself. Heavier. Sadder. As if she’d been holding something up on her own since that night.
“How long was I out?” I asked.
“Almost three days.” Her voice cracked. “You had surgery. Twice. Lost a lot of blood.”
I nodded faintly, then winced. “Not my best performance.”
“It was your stupidest.”
“Still heroic.”
She gave a soft laugh. And then, because she was her, she reached forward and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear like I was fragile porcelain and not a bodyguard with stab wounds.
“Thanks for not dying,” she said quietly.
“I promised, didn’t I?”
Before she could answer, the door opened.
And Namtan stepped in.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe — not from pain, but from sheer disbelief. She was radiant, like always. Perfect posture. Perfect smirk. Her suit looked like it cost more than the entire wing of this hospital. And yet—
My mind flashed. To her hand against Flim’s throat. To that breathy moan I’d heard through the hallway. To that familiar face that looked too much like my mother’s. Namtan walked up to the bed, eyes scanning me with a cold kind of calculation.
“Milk, is it?” she said smoothly. “I owe you.”
“Not interested in collecting favors.”
She smiled like that amused her. “Still. You saved a royal life. You deserve gratitude.”
Love stood up a bit straighter, stepping protectively toward the bed. “She did it because she cares. Not for thanks.”
Namtan’s eyes flicked to her, unreadable.
“Of course,” she said.
They stood there in silence, the kind that screamed. I looked between them and sighed. “I feel like I’m in a really bad soap opera.” Love snorted. Namtan just smirked and stepped back. “Well. I’ll leave you two alone. Love, we should talk soon. About the engagement.”
Love didn’t even flinch. “Later.”
With one last glance at me — sharp, unreadable — Namtan turned and left.
As soon as the door shut, I groaned, grabbing my side. “God, she gives me a rash.”
Love laughed. A real laugh. The first one in a while.
“She’s the rash of my life,” she said.
We both paused. Stared at each other. And then she came closer, sat on the edge of the bed, and took my hand without asking.
“You’re the only one who’s ever stood in front of me like that,” she whispered.
I didn’t answer. I just held her hand back. Because that’s the only answer that mattered.
Notes:
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Chapter 10: Exile
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Flim’s POV
I sat just outside the hospital room. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. My knees bounced in restless rhythm, but I didn’t know if it was nerves or resentment anymore.
The muffled voices from inside—Love’s laugh, Milk’s husky, dry reply—it made my stomach churn. That sound used to belong to me. Not the laugh. The warmth. The care. The feeling of being chosen. Now I was just... outside. Like I always am.
The door creaked open. Of course. Her.
Namtan strolled out, as if she hadn't just waltzed in there to thank the woman who literally threw herself into a knife for her fiancée.
Her polished boots clicked against the hospital floor as she stopped in front of me. The lighting made her cheekbones sharper, crueler. I didn’t bother standing. “Well,” I said dryly, “playing the dutiful lover now?”
Her lips curled into that half-smirk that always managed to make me want to scream or kiss her—or both.
“And you’re still pretending to be the selfless best friend,” she said.
I stood slowly. Not because she intimidated me. But because I hated fighting while sitting down. “You’re here for your princess, aren’t you?” I snapped.
Namtan's smile dropped. Her fingers twitched. Then she grabbed my arm—rough, no warning—and yanked me up so fast I nearly lost my balance. “Stop portraying me as the villain all the time,” she hissed. Her eyes were fire. Unblinking. Dangerous.
“Who’s manipulating two girls at the same time?” I shot back, shoving her hand off. “Who’s smiling at Love like she means the world, then crawling into my bed behind her back?”
She flinched. Just slightly. But I saw it. “And who,” she said, stepping closer, “is fucking her best friend’s fiancée?”
My heart cracked at the sound of it. It wasn’t the insult that hurt. It was the truth. I didn’t have a retort. I just... looked at her. My voice cracked when I said it. “I met you first.”
There was silence. Her breath caught. Her lips parted just slightly, as if those words hit her deeper than she’d expected. But instead of apology—redemption—she just let out a bitter chuckle. “You met me first,” she echoed. “Still, you’re just a royal. She’s a princess.”
The words sliced sharper than her tongue ever had. The reality I’d always known, but never let myself believe, now stood in front of me with a silver blade and a smirk. My knees nearly buckled. I turned my face away. My chest felt tight—too tight.
I hated crying in front of her. I hated crying at all. But it came out anyway. Unstoppable. Tears trailed down my cheeks in angry silence. Namtan stepped forward. Not out of guilt. But to silence me, like she always did.
Her fingers brushed my face—gently, infuriatingly gently—wiping the tear away as if she had the right. And then her lips pressed against my neck. Soft. Familiar. Poison. My head fell back. My fists gripped her blazer like a lifeline.
I hated her. I loved her. I hated that I loved her. I hated how much she could still unravel me with one touch. “You always do this,” I whispered. She kissed lower.
"I can’t stop.”
Her hands slid to my waist. I didn’t stop her. I never did. And then—
A sharp voice behind us. “I get the appeal of forbidden love,” Mim, Namtan’s assistant, said dryly. “But maybe try not to make out in front of the princess’s hospital room.” Namtan froze. I stepped back like I’d been burned. Mim raised an unimpressed brow, arms crossed, holding a tablet like it was more important than both of us. “At least for now,” she said, sighing, “keep it in your pants.”
Namtan cleared her throat, brushing her hair back like the chaos hadn’t just happened. I just turned her face to the wall and wiped her tears. “Keep the drama behind palace doors next time,” Mim muttered as she walked away.
But I didn’t move. Because I knew that no matter how far we walked... There were no palace doors big enough to hide this kind of mess.
Namtan’s POV
Mim's heels clicked sharply against the marble as she strode down the hallway. I knew that sound. The clipped rhythm. The judgment in every step. I groaned, dragging a hand down my face and jogging up after her.
“Hey, hey!” I called out, lowering my voice to a hiss as I caught her shoulder. “You won’t tell anyone, right?”
She stopped. Turned. Deadpan eyes. Cold as ever. “No,” she said flatly. “Why would I? It’s not like your sex life is national news. Just morally disgusting.” I scowled. “Mim.”
She raised a brow. “Don’t ‘Mim’ me. You just nearly had sex with your fiancée’s best friend outside her hospital room.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shoved my hands into my pockets and leaned back against the wall. “Mim…” I tried again, softer this time. “It’s not what you think.” “Oh, it’s exactly what I think,” she said, folding her arms.
“She—” I hesitated. The words came out before I could filter them. “She just… feels so good. Okay? When I’m with Film, everything’s quiet. Everything makes sense.” Mim blinked, unimpressed. “Oh, yeah. Nothing screams mental clarity like betrayal.”
I ignored the jab. “You don’t get it,” I said. “It’s not just about sex. With her, it’s—” I paused, searching for the word. “Real. Like her soul’s soft. And warm. Like it wraps around me.”
Mim didn’t flinch. But her silence cut deeper than a thousand accusations.
I looked down at the floor, biting my tongue.
“She’s not a power move,” I muttered. “She’s comfort.”
Mim’s voice was still ice. “And Love?”
I shut my eyes. Exhaled. “I need Love.”
“For what?” she snapped. “Your soul? Your heart?”
“For the throne.”
The words hung heavy in the air. I didn’t even whisper them. “I marry Love, I get Limpatiyakorn. The power, the land, the army, the crown. It’s all written. I don’t even have to fight for it.”
Mim stared at me for a long time. Her jaw clenched. I could almost hear her inner monologue loading a thousand insults.
Finally, she stepped closer. Closer than comfort.
So close her voice dropped to a dead whisper.
“You’re spineless.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Spineless,” she said again, firmer this time. “You’re a coward, Namtan. You love someone who deserves better. You want someone who doesn’t want you. And you’re hurting both of them just so you can sit on a damn chair that’ll rot your soul.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“Do you even want to rule?” she asked. “Or are you just hungry because it was the only thing you were ever told to chase?”
I stared at her. I didn’t know what to say. Mim didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and walked away.
No drama. No yelling. No explosion.
Just that sentence, cold and final:
“Spineless.”
I stood there for what felt like hours. And for the first time in years… I wasn’t sure who I was chasing anymore.
Mim’s POV
She followed me.
Of course she did.
Namtan always chased confrontation like it was a sport. “Say it again,” she called from behind.
I stopped mid-step, rolled my eyes to the heavens, and sighed.
“Say what again?” I turned slowly. “That you’re spineless? Or that you’re ruining two lives because of your own identity crisis?”
She didn’t answer. Her jaw was tight. Her hand twitched—like she didn’t know whether to punch the wall or fix her hair.
I took a step closer. “Love doesn’t want you. Hell, you don’t even want Love. Why are you stuck with her?”
She opened her mouth, and I didn’t let her speak. “Don’t you dare say it’s for duty,” I hissed. “We’ve known each other since we were nine, Namtan. You’re not a martyr. You’re not broken. You’re just selfish.”
Her nostrils flared.
I stepped even closer. “I get it. Love is the Princess. The heir. The key to the throne. But let’s not pretend you’re stuck in some tragic royal romance. You don’t love her.”
Silence. Still no denial.
“Meanwhile,” I said, voice quieter now, “Film—the girl who’s been beside Love her whole life—she loves you. Not because you’re royal. Not because you’re powerful. She loves the idiot who stole peaches from the Southern coast kitchen and fell asleep drunk at a banquet.”
Her eyes flicked to the side. “Don’t deny you love her too.”
That made her blink. The first sign of a crack.
For a second, I saw it—her walls tremble. Her hands drop loose by her sides. A flicker of guilt. Or maybe grief. Then it was gone. Wiped away by that icy calm Namtan always wore like armor. She lifted her chin, and her voice dropped to a whisper so cold it could shatter glass:
“No. I need both of them.”
I didn’t breathe.
She kept going. “Film for my pleasure,” she said, blunt and brutal. “And Love for the throne.”
The air sucked out of the corridor. I stared at her like I didn’t even know her. And maybe… I didn’t. Maybe none of us ever did.
Namtan’s POV
They always called me ruthless.
But no one ever asked why.
I was five when my mother brought me to the palace. My hands were too small to hold the sword the tutors gave me. My shoulders slumped under fabric too heavy for a child. I didn’t understand what duty meant. I just wanted to be loved.
“She’s adopted,” the servants whispered behind fans. “The Queen brought her in so the King wouldn’t replace her.”
My father—the King of Weerawatnodoms—looked at me like I was a favor owed to him. Like I was a bargain chip in their marriage. His eyes never softened when he looked at me.
He never hit me. No—he was far too polished for that. But he trained me like a soldier. Honor, obedience, silence.
There were no lullabies. No bedtime kisses. No warmth. Only discipline. Only ambition. And the day my mother died, I stopped being a daughter. I became an investment. I don’t know when exactly it happened, but somewhere between the palace gates and my first political training, I lost my soul.
I wanted power because it was the only thing that didn’t abandon me. I wanted Love because she was the throne. And I wanted Film…
God.
I wanted Film because she made me feel human—and I hated it. It was late when I stepped into her room.
Her face was turned toward the window, bathed in silver moonlight, her cheeks still flushed from crying earlier. That always made her look younger. Too young for the scars I’d carved into her.
She stirred a little in her sleep, mumbling something I couldn’t hear. I knelt beside her bed. I don’t remember the last time I knelt for anyone. But tonight… I didn’t care.
I watched her chest rise and fall. I remembered the way her lips trembled every time I kissed her like it was a punishment. I remembered the first time she touched my face with wonder, not want.
And I broke.
Silent tears slid down my cheeks before I even realized I was crying.
I touched her hand, barely grazing her knuckles with mine. And I whispered, voice hoarse:
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry for making you fall in love with a monster.”
She didn’t stir. Of course she didn’t. Only monsters come to say sorry when no one’s awake to hear them.
Notes:
I realized I am making Namtan too cruel and red flag, that's why I gave a flashback of her childhood. Y'all my girl isn't a villain, she's just a broken hero 😔😔😔
don't forget to leave kudos and comment guys
Chapter 11: 22
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
[Three weeks later]
Milk’s POV
I knew something was up the moment Love smiled at me.
Too wide. Too innocent. Too sunshine.
She raised the spoon like it was a royal scepter and held it out to me across the breakfast table. “Here,” she said, eyes sparkling, “open your mouth.” I stared at the suspiciously pale-green paste she was offering like it had insulted my entire bloodline.
“No.”
“Come on,” she said, voice sugary. “You said you wanted to try local food.”
“Yeah, I meant dessert, not… whatever this is.”
Love leaned forward, pouting. “You always say I don’t share things with you. Now I am. Don’t be a coward.”
I scowled. “Princess, I have put my body in front of knives, bullets, and angry uncles for you. But I will not eat this poison.”
“It’s wasabi paste mixed with durian,” she said proudly.
My soul briefly left my body. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“Just taste it!” she insisted, practically bouncing. I leaned forward, wary. “If I die, you better cry pretty at my funeral.”
“I’ll wear black lace and throw myself on your coffin dramatically.”
“Fair.”
I opened my mouth. The moment the spoon touched my tongue, regret hit me like a truck.
“Oh my god, what the hell—” I sputtered, hacking as I grabbed a napkin, trying not to spit it all over the silk tablecloth. “That is so wrong on so many levels!”
Love was dying across from me, laughing so hard she almost fell off her chair. “You looked like you tasted betrayal!”
“I did! That was the culinary version of heartbreak!”
She reached over to try and feed me another spoonful, and I ducked away, covering my face like a wounded cat. “No! No more trauma! I have rights!”
“You’re such a baby.”
“Says the woman who thinks fruit and mustard go together.”
We wrestled like kids for a moment, her trying to feed me again, me dodging behind my hand like she was holding a weapon. For once, the palace didn’t feel cold and formal. It felt like a home.
Just her and me. And a table full of bitterness and laughter.
Then the door creaked open.
“Lady Milk.”
I straightened immediately, dropping the napkin and wiping my mouth. Love stood too, face shifting from giggly to graceful. The King entered with a slow, careful gait—King Limpatiyakorn himself. Two guards trailed behind him, but his eyes were warm as they landed on me.
“You saved my daughter,” he said simply.
“I did my job,” I replied, bowing slightly.
“No,” he said. “You did more than that. You acted with instinct, courage, and loyalty. You risked your life. For that, the kingdom owes you.”
I didn’t really like praise. Especially not from politicians. But I nodded respectfully. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“I want to know,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly, “what we can do to prevent something like this again. Tell me—how can I improve the palace’s security?” I paused for a beat.
Then offered a perfectly calm, calculated smile.
“The southern gates,” I said. “They’re old. Rusty. A pain to open and slower in emergencies. Replace them with automated laser security. Heat-sensing. Motion-activated.”
He considered it. “Interesting.”
I kept my voice neutral, steady.
“They’re easier to control from a central system. Less room for error.”
And also easier to turn off, I didn’t say out loud. The King nodded. “Done. I’ll make the call today.” Love blinked at me, impressed. “You’re so good at this.”
But in the back of my mind, the plan was already forming. Laser gates could be cut from the control center. Rusty gates? No matter how old, they resisted. They were stubborn. Unpredictable. But tech? Tech followed orders. And if the day ever came when I needed to get her out—when I had to kidnap her not out of violence but to protect her—I’d already cleared the path.
All with one suggestion.
So I smiled and bowed again as the King walked away, none the wiser. Love looked at me, still laughing softly. “You’re really something, you know.”
I turned to her, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear before I realized what I was doing. “Yeah,” I murmured. “I am.”
And if this mission went the way it was supposed to, I’d have to betray everything—including her trust. But for now… I let myself enjoy the sweetness left on her lips, even if it had started with something bitter.
[Timeskip]
I was finally starting to relax.
A rare moment of peace. The palace was quiet, my ribs hurt a little less, and I was enjoying the sweet victory of surviving a royal stabbing without having to actually stab anyone myself.
Then it happened. Knock knock.
“Milk?” came Love’s muffled voice from the bathroom.
I blinked, mid-bite of a fruit tart. “Yeah?”
“I forgot my towel.”
I stared at the door. “You… what?”
“My towel! I forgot it on the bed. Can you pass it under the door?”
Oh my god. I got up with the weight of someone about to perform a dangerous hostage exchange, grabbed the ridiculously fluffy towel—embroidered with gold threading, of course—and approached the door like it might explode.
“You owe me,” I muttered.
I slid the towel in without daring to open the door more than a crack. She giggled on the other side, and I walked away quickly before I started imagining things I shouldn’t. I sat back down, determined to focus on literally anything else.
Two minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open.
I made the mistake of looking up. Love stepped out with a grin, steam curling around her like she belonged in a fantasy novel. Her towel was wrapped around her like a lazy hug, damp hair dripping down her collarbone. Smooth legs. Smooth skin. Divine neck.
My breath caught like a traitor. She wiggled her brows. “How do I look?”
“Like a—like a wet cat,” I blurted, louder than I meant to.
She snorted, hands on her hips. “A sexy wet cat?”
“Stop talking.”
But she was laughing and twirling like she was walking a royal runway, teasing me, her towel slightly too loose.
“Don’t—” I warned, eyes wide. “Princess, don’t you da—”
The towel slipped. Dropped. Thud. Silence.
Her eyes went wide. My mouth dropped open.
Both of us: “AHHHHHHHHH!” I spun around so fast I heard something crack in my spine. “I didn’t see anything!” I shouted, hands in the air.
“OH MY GOD!” she shrieked, grabbing the towel and stumbling to wrap it back around her. “DON’T LOOK!”
“I’M NOT!”
I tried to escape. Only to smack straight into the dresser like an idiot. “OW! Why is that there?!”
“DON’T LOOK!”
“I’M SEEING STARS, NOT YOU!”
“STOP TALKING!”
“I’M TRYING!”
I staggered out of the room like I’d just survived a war zone, clutching my side and tripping over a rug. Somewhere behind me, Love was still shrieking and laughing, possibly at the same time. I finally slammed the door shut behind me and collapsed on the hallway bench.
This mission was going to kill me.
Not from bullets.
Not from knives.
But from one damn princess who couldn’t remember a towel.
I leaned my head back, groaning.
“Wet cat,” I muttered. “She knows what she’s doing.”
Notes:
I couldn't help but add the iconic 23.5 towel scene 🤭🤭🤭
don't forget to leave kudos and comments guys
Chapter 12: Red
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Namtan’s POV:
The party was lavish, glowing with royal opulence and the scent of political perfume. The Southern Coast Palace always did things over the top—diamond chandeliers, long velvet curtains, servants holding trays of glimmering wine like their lives depended on it. It was a gathering of advisors, nobles, and eligible royals. I should’ve fit right in. I usually did.
But tonight? Tonight, I couldn't focus on the glass in my hand. Not when my eyes were locked on her.
Film.
She looked stunning. Poised. Perfect. She had always been quieter than most—head held high, voice gentle, but fierce beneath. I had loved her once. Maybe I still did. Maybe I didn’t know what love was, only the hunger of power and control and someone who made me feel seen. I was about to walk over to her when someone else did it first.
A young royal prince—my step-brother— Prince Nawin, stepped beside her. And smiled. She smiled back. That was enough.
No.
She laughed at something he said.
No.
Then she touched his forearm. Lightly. Nothing scandalous. But it burned like hellfire in my chest. My nails curled into the glass in my hand. Did I already lose her? Before I knew it, my feet were walking me away. Past the murmurs and gold and chandeliers. Past the tables of sparkling wine and royals who pretended to like me but feared me more. I kept walking until I reached my private quarters. Slammed the door. And punched the wall.
Once. Twice. Three times. The fourth time, I think I felt the bone shift. But I didn’t stop.
“You’re an idiot,” I muttered to myself.
Another punch.
“She was never yours.”
Another punch.
“You broke her heart.”
I slumped against the wall, blood dripping from my knuckles like ink spilling on silk. I deserved it.
I
wanted both. I wanted Film, the only one who had ever held me when I had nightmares about my father. And I wanted Love—because with her came the crown, and with the crown came the respect that had been denied to me since birth.
I had no real bloodline. I was the adopted one, the king's second choice after his real queen couldn't bear children. My mother raised me like a soldier—disciplined, merciless, perfect. When she died, I was still a child. But Father didn’t raise children. He raised tools.
That’s why I turned out like this. I never learned how to love. Only how to win. But when I saw Film smile at someone else—look at someone else with that warmth that used to be mine—I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Fear.
I had thought she’d wait forever. But maybe even Film had a limit.
“Damn it,” I hissed, pressing my forehead against the wall, tears threatening but never falling. I don’t cry. Monsters don’t cry. But the cracks in the wall weren’t just in the plaster anymore. They were in me.
Flim's POV:
I noticed it the moment she walked in. The stiffness in her shoulders. The way her eyes flicked past everyone, barely blinking. Namtan was unusually quiet—no sly remarks, no sarcastic smirks. Just cold silence. That wasn't normal. Not for her.
After the party ended, I slipped out early and went to her room. Something told me I'd find her there.
The door was unlocked. I pushed it open. "Namtan?"
She was sitting on the floor, hands balled into fists, breathing heavy. The wall beside her was smeared with blood. Her knuckles were raw—still bleeding. My chest tightened.
"Goddammit," I muttered, rushing to her. "You’re hurting yourself again?"
She didn’t respond. Just kept staring ahead like I wasn’t even there. I dropped to my knees in front of her, tore a piece of cloth from my sash, and gently took her hand. She let me. Her skin was warm, shaking slightly. "Let me bandage this."
Still no words. But her gaze finally landed on me—and something flickered in her eyes. Not pain. Not guilt.
Jealousy?
“You like that boy, don’t you?”
I blinked. “What?”
Her grip tightened around my wrist and in one swift pull, she yanked me toward her. I gasped, finding myself suddenly straddling her lap. My hands instinctively went to her shoulders to steady myself. “You like him,” she said again, voice low, like a growl trapped in her throat.
I stared at her, heart thudding. “What if I am?” I challenged, raising my chin.
Her eyes darkened. “You belong to me.” My breath caught. I hated how easily she could do this—how quickly she could unravel me. But I wasn’t the same girl she kept hidden anymore.
“Then grow a spine, Namtan,” I snapped. “Marry me. Stop treating me like a dirty secret.”
She froze. Something shifted in her face—shock? Hurt? Anger? I didn’t have time to read it. She grabbed me again, rougher this time. Her hands gripped my waist, pulling me close until her breath ghosted along my neck.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I want power. I need Love for that.” I hated her for saying it. But more than that… I hated how my body still ached for her. When I didn’t answer, she bit my neck. Hard. I gasped, my head falling back, hands fisting the fabric of her robe.
“Namtan,” I whispered, trembling. “This isn’t love.”
But I didn’t move. I never did. And she knew it.
The sting on my neck was sharp.
I winced, pulling back, brushing my fingers over the fresh bite she left on my skin.
“Don’t leave marks,” I muttered, not meeting her eyes. “I have a meeting with Love today.”
Namtan just stared at me, unfazed. “I don’t care.” Her voice was colder than usual. Possessive. It made my skin crawl, not because I feared her—but because I hated that part of me still melted into her touch, even after everything.
I shook my head, stood up slowly. “You can’t do this anymore.”
Namtan’s eyes followed me, narrow and burning. “Do what?”
“This.” I gestured between us. “Whatever this is. I’m marrying Prince Nawin.”
Her face twisted in disbelief. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“You love me.”
I sighed. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact. And she wasn’t wrong.
“Yes,” I admitted quietly. “Then marry me.”
“You know I can’t!”
“Then let me go.”
The room fell dead silent. Namtan stood up in a flash, closing the distance between us in two strides. Her hand grabbed my arm, not roughly—but tight enough to let me know she wasn’t letting me leave. Her jaw clenched. Her lips parted.
Her voice came out low and furious.
“I was your first.”
The words hit harder than a slap. She wasn’t done. “I was the one you trusted, the one you gave everything to. I was the one you—”
“Don’t,” I whispered.
“I’ve fucked you, Film,” she said, almost shaking. “I was your first. You gave your virginity to me. You don’t get to turn around and choose someone else now.”
I flinched at her words—not because of their harshness, but because of the brokenness buried deep within them. She was lashing out. Like always. When she didn’t know how to process pain, she turned it into fury.
Still, I had to stay strong.
“Sorry,” I said, straightening my spine, “but duty’s heavier.”
I saw the flicker of pain in her eyes. The way her breath caught. I used her own line against her—and we both knew it cut deeper than any wound. She looked away for a second. Her fists were shaking.
“You’re choosing the throne over me,” she whispered.
“You did it first,” I replied.
Her face twisted again, this time not in anger—but defeat. And I hated it. I hated seeing her like that. Because for all her cruelty, I knew she was still just a girl who was never taught how to love properly. Who was told power mattered more than people. And who probably, deep down, believed it too.
But I couldn’t be the one she bled dry anymore.
“You have Love,” I said softly. “She has the crown. Go win her.”
“I don’t want Love the way I want you,” she hissed.
“And yet,” I said with a bitter smile, “you’ll marry her anyway.”
She didn’t answer.
I stepped toward the door, my hand already on the knob when she spoke again—barely audible.
“I wish I had met you in another terms in another life.”
I paused. For a second, I let myself believe in that fantasy.
Then I opened the door and walked out.
Notes:
Hey guys, I won't be able to update until 4 July, as my exams are staring from tomorrow. See ya' soon.
Don't forget to leave kudos and comments
Chapter 13: Labyrinth
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Milk’s POV:
The room was dark, colder than usual.
We always held high-level meetings in the lower wing of headquarters—a wide, cement-floored chamber sealed with steel. Barebones. Unforgiving. The kind of room where decisions got made in quiet cruelty and no one dared question orders.
I stood still, arms folded behind me, gaze locked on the figure seated at the center: The Godfather—a title more symbolic than real, but no one ever addressed him by name. You didn’t survive long in this life without learning to bite your tongue.
The others flanked him—advisors, strategists, veterans in black. View was there too, her eyes shifting toward me with a hint of concern. She always knew when something was off.
The Godfather’s voice broke the silence like a dagger through glass.
“Milk. It’s time.”
I didn’t blink. “Time for what?”
His gaze turned sharp.
“We’ve received confirmation. The Southern Kingdom’s internal council is wavering. If the crown princess—Love—were to fall, the bloodline would fracture. The throne will be up for grabs.”
My jaw tightened.
“So?” I asked.
“So,” he said calmly, “you’re to eliminate her.”
The words didn’t land right. Like something bitter sliding down my throat.
“She’s the last heir,” someone chimed in. “No one left in line. Kill her, and we don’t even need to wage war.”
“She trusts you already,” another added. “Perfect setup.”
I felt my fingers curl into fists behind my back.
Before I could speak, View leaned forward, casually throwing one leg over the other.
“Or,” she said slowly, “we could try a smarter approach.”
The room paused.
“Make her fall in love with Milk.”
I turned to her, startled. “What?”
“Think about it,” she continued, sipping her water like it was whiskey. “If the princess loves Milk—enough to marry her, that means no bloodshed. No international outrage. Milk could kidnap her easily.”
A few murmurs rippled across the room. She had their attention.
“You’re saying seduce her?” one of the older men snorted.
“No,” View replied, cool and flat. “I’m saying make her trust you so deeply, she’d risk the kingdom for you.”
“She’s already halfway there,” another added. “Bodyguard bonds are stronger than most.”
I looked down at the floor.
They were playing with lives like pieces on a board again.
"But I heard she has a fiancé-"
"It was forced", View cuts him off.
I didn’t answer right away. Because I was still stuck on what they hadn’t said. At least… they weren’t killing her. Not yet. I nodded stiffly.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
The meeting ended in shadows and fading murmurs. Orders delivered. Eyes watching.
But I was somewhere else already.
------
Back at the palace, I moved through the halls like a ghost. My mind was racing, weighed down by the reality of what I was asked to do—and what I already feared I couldn’t resist doing.
She was in the reading room when I found her, curled up in her silk robe, head resting against the velvet armchair.
She looked up and smiled. God help me.
“Milk?” she asked softly.
I didn’t respond. I just walked over, crouched in front of her, and hugged her.
Tightly.
She stiffened for a second, surprised, then slowly, gently, wrapped her arms around me too.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
I buried my face in her shoulder, inhaling the scent of jasmine and safety I couldn’t admit I craved.
“I just… needed to hold you,” I said.
I wasn’t lying.
Because deep down, I already knew— The plan was no longer to make her fall in love. I was terrified she already had. And worse...so had I.
---
Her arms were still around me. Soft. Warm. Real. It should’ve been an easy lie—pretending to care. I’d done worse, said worse, acted colder.
But this wasn’t that.
I sat there, on the velvet carpet of the royal reading room, holding the crown princess like she was something fragile I’d stolen from fate.
Because in a way, I had.
And now I was being told to own her—to turn that fragile trust into a weapon sharp enough to win a throne.
I couldn’t breathe.
Her hand moved up, gently brushing the back of my hair. “You okay?” she asked again, voice barely above a whisper.
I pulled back just enough to see her eyes. Those stupidly clear, wide, trusting eyes.
“Yeah,” I lied.
No. No, I’m not okay. Because I was supposed to break her. I was supposed to make her love me.
I let out a slow breath, dragging my thoughts back into place. My brain was shouting calculations. Maps. Risks. Loyalties.
But my heart—it was somewhere else entirely.
Still, I remembered what View had said. Make her fall in love. That’s the mission. That’s what saves her life.
But the problem is… I can’t just act around her.
I’m too far in.
Too gone.
I sat back on my heels, my voice tight in my throat. She was watching me now, concern flickering in the lines of her soft brows.
“Princess…” I began.
She blinked. “You’re calling me that again.”
I ignored her tease.
“You don’t have to marry Namtan,” I said, carefully.
She went still.
“Because you’re told to,” I continued, forcing myself not to look away. “You can… make your own decisions.”
She blinked at me, silent.
So I kept going.
“I know what it’s like,” I said. “To be born into something that was decided before you even opened your eyes. To be built like a tool instead of a person. To have people tell you that love is a distraction, and loyalty is weakness.”
Her lips parted slightly.
“I know what it’s like,” I repeated, quieter this time, “to not be allowed to want things.”
The silence between us stretched and deepened, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was thick with everything we couldn’t say.
She leaned forward, her forehead almost touching mine. “So what do you want?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Because if I said it out loud, I’d never be able to let her go.
Instead, I stood up and reached a hand out.
“Come on,” I said gruffly, hiding the crack in my voice. “You’ll catch a cold if you sleep in here.”
She took my hand.
She always did.
And as we walked back through the long, golden corridors of the palace, our fingers still loosely laced, I realized something dangerous.
She didn’t need to fall in love with me.
She already had the power to ruin me.
Love’s POV
Milk hugged me. Out of nowhere.
No smart remark. No stiff nod. No sigh of reluctant tolerance. Just—warm arms. Tight. Like if she didn’t hold on now, something would slip away forever.
And I didn’t know what to do with that.
Because Milk never does that. She avoids touch like it might burn her, like it’s dangerous to need anyone.
But tonight, she did need someone. She needed me.
And I wanted to pretend I didn’t like it. That it didn’t soften my chest in ways I wasn’t prepared for. That I didn’t stay still longer than I should’ve just to let her hold on.
But the truth is, I liked it more than I should.
And when she pulled away and said, “You don’t have to marry Namtan because you’re told to… you can make your own decisions,” I froze.
Not because she was wrong. But because she was right. Why was she right?
She always scoffs at my world. Calls the palace a golden prison. Treats my silk gowns like jokes. So why now? Why care now?
I stared at her as she walked me back to my room, hand loosely holding mine like she’d forget if she held too tightly.
And my thoughts kept spinning. Why did she hug me? Why did she say that? I’m not used to people saying things for me.
Not my mother, who insists duty is everything.
Not my father, the King—Limpatiyakorn—whose voice alone can turn my spine to stone.
And certainly not Namtan, who never even asked what I wanted.
But Milk… She didn’t ask. She told me.
She told me I didn’t have to do this.
And suddenly, that made the decision feel real. Tangible. Like it was mine to take. Like I could maybe—maybe—say no and not be disowned for it.
But then reality creeped back in.
I’m the Crown Princess. Not a girl in a fairy tale. Not some commoner choosing love in a bakery.
I’m the face of the Limpatiyakorn lineage. The next to wear the crown. The pawn born to sit quietly and marry who they pick.
And the only person I’m truly afraid of… is my father.
Even more than Namtan’s calculating charm or the council’s cold, forced smiles.
He made me. He raised me in silence and sharpened stares. He showed me that approval is conditional, and love comes in the form of responsibility.
When I was little, I used to think the reason he never smiled at me was because I hadn’t earned it yet.
Now I know it’s because he never learned how.
He doesn’t believe in softness.
Only power.
So I wear my smiles like armor. I laugh like sunshine, because someone has to. I giggle through banquets and walk gracefully through jungle trips because that’s what a good princess does.
And when I cry? I don’t. Or I don’t let anyone see it. But tonight…
When Milk said I could choose, for a moment, I almost believed her.
For a second, I imagined it.
A life where I didn’t have to marry someone who didn’t want me. Where I didn’t have to pretend I couldn’t hear Film crying behind her doors. Where I could pick someone like Milk.
Someone who guards me like I’m more than a crown.
Someone who looks at me like I’m not just Princess Love Pattaranite.
Just… Love.
And now I can’t stop thinking about that version of me.
Namtan’s POV
The sun was setting over the Southern Coast, bleeding gold across the stone arches of the palace as I stepped out of the meeting hall. My shoes echoed softly against the polished marble, every step calm and deliberate—because that's how they expected me to be.
Poised. Diplomatic. Collected. Inside, I was none of those things.
The meeting had been a bore—advisors talking in circles about land disputes, oil trades, and ceremony preparations. I hadn’t heard a single sentence that mattered. My mind was elsewhere.
Restless. Tired. Unquiet. And then I saw it. Her.
Film.
Standing under one of the courtyards, hair tied up in that simple elegant way that made her look too soft for the war zone we were raised in. And next to her?
Prince Nawin.
His hand was resting lazily on the wall beside her, and she was laughing at something he said—head tilted, eyes squinting, like he’d just shared the best joke in the world.
And him?
He was watching her like she was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
I stopped walking.
Something clenched in my chest. Not pain. Not jealousy.
Possession.
They looked… good together.
No. They looked real.
Like they were made for quiet breakfasts and late-night arguments. Like they could dance at balls and talk about books and walk through life with the kind of ease Film and I never had.
My jaw tightened.
She was smiling too much.
She never smiled like that with me.
She moaned, yes. She cried. She clung. She whispered I love you with shaking hands and swollen lips. But this—this ease—this lightness—it didn’t exist between us.
I made her feel everything too hard, too fast, too much.
And yet…
I turned and walked back the way I came.
My vision blurred as the sunlight cut through the corridor like a blade.
---
Back in my quarters, the silence rang louder than any voice.
I unbuttoned my uniform jacket slowly, tossed it on the chair. The curtains fluttered with ocean breeze, mocking me with their calmness.
She had no right to laugh like that with him.
Not after everything.
Not after that night in the Southern coast, years ago, when she gave herself to me completely.
I walked over to the wall. Stared at my reflection in the tall mirror.
Then I punched it.
A loud crack, the glass shattering like my control.
Blood rushed from my knuckles, dripping down my palm. I didn’t care. I barely felt it.
All I could see was Film’s smile.
His hand brushing her arm.
Her soft laugh.
And suddenly, I hated her for choosing ease. For considering someone safe. For forgetting I still owned her heart.
Or maybe I hated myself for not being enough.
I leaned forward, breathing heavy.
“You said you loved me,” I whispered to my reflection.
“You said I was your first.”
My voice cracked.
I hated that too.
Notes:
Hey guys i am back, exams were hectice as hell, i dunno what I wrote, but at least it ended 🤧🤧🤧
Leave kudos and comments guys!
Chapter 14: Blank Space
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Love's POV:
The meeting ended like they always do — with half-truths, stiff bows, and a smile I had to glue on.
I didn’t speak much. I let Namtan take the floor, play her role as the poised royal commander, her voice as smooth and shallow as a wine glass. I sat there, staring at my own hands, thinking how much easier things would be if I could just disappear. After the meeting, I stepped outside. I needed air. The kind of air that didn't taste like politics or the pressure of generations.
And there she was.
Namtan.
Standing in the garden court, under the shade of that ivory archway. The wind tugged at her cloak, golden embroidery catching the light like fire. I hated how composed she looked. How clean. I hated her even more when I noticed the faint white bandage wrapped around her right hand.
Again.
“Your hands,” I said flatly. “They’re always wrapped.”
Namtan raised a brow. Her lips curled into that same charming smile that used to make even the queen fall for her word. “Oh, this?” she lifted her hand lazily, almost teasing. “You know me, clumsy in corridors.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “Not clumsy. Just angry.” I folded my arms. “You’re not slick, Namtan. I know what this is about. You think if you hit enough walls, it’ll bruise away how much you still want her.”
Her smile faltered. Only for a moment. But I saw it. That crack in her mask.
She leaned against the stone railing. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels, Your Highness.”
“Don’t you dare play coy with me.” I took another step. I didn’t care if someone was watching from the windows. Let them. “You’re possessive over Film. That’s why you hurt yourself. And her.”
She went quiet. So I pressed.
“Let her go,” I said. “She doesn’t deserve this. And she definitely doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by you.”
Namtan’s gaze hardened, her voice dropping an octave. “I never dragged her.”
“She cries over you. You fuck her and vanish like she’s disposable. You want her to rot in silence while you play the perfect royal princess on my arm. That is dragging her, Namtan.”
She pushed off the rail, walking toward me now. “And what?” she hissed. “You’re going to protect her now? Going to be some savior in silk?”
I didn’t flinch. “I’m telling you to stay away from her. Don’t you dare let it slip you two slept together. Nawin may not care—but his family?” I laughed dryly. “They’ll burn her for it. I won’t let you ruin her just because you couldn’t choose.”
Namtan scoffed. “So you're still going to marry the woman who fucked your best friend?”
I stared at her. Jaw clenched so tight it ached. And then I said it.
“I wouldn’t have looked at your filthy, selfish face unless my stupid family and my blind best friend weren’t so in love with you.”
Her smirk dropped entirely now. Eyes narrow. Voice venom.
“So who’s your saint, huh?” she sneered. “That little bodyguard of yours?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I didn’t yell. I didn’t need to. My voice came out quiet, but sharp enough to slice skin. We stood there, two royal heirs in a garden full of roses and rotting trust.
She laughed bitterly. “You think she’s any different than me? You think Milk’s not after something?”
“I think,” I whispered, stepping forward, “that Milk has more honor in the way she looks at me than you ever had while you were inside the woman you call a 'friend'.”
That landed. Namtan blinked.
Once.
And for the first time in years, she looked… wounded.
I didn’t wait for her to respond. I walked away, my heels clacking sharply against the stone tiles.
---
The garden was quieter now.
After Namtan left, I found myself sitting by the fountain, where the water barely bubbled over stone. It felt like even the wind didn’t dare rustle too loudly around me—as if it, too, didn’t know what to say anymore.
I pulled the engagement document from my lap and stared at it. Again. A perfectly penned, gold-stamped contract. Namtan’s name next to mine like it was always supposed to be there. It was written with such certainty, as though love was ever that easy.
I traced my finger over the edges, looking for a loophole. Anything.
A law, a clause, a condition—anything that could excuse me from marrying someone who made my best friend cry into her pillow for years. Someone who mocked the one person who made me feel safe. Someone who made me feel like I was a bargaining chip dressed in lace.
But there was nothing.
Nothing that wouldn’t cause chaos, or insult both our kingdoms, or make my father’s blood pressure hit dangerous heights. And deep down, I feared him more than I hated this. I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to my knees, hugging them tight.
“I don’t want this,” I whispered to no one.
“You don’t have to.”
My breath caught. I looked up.
Milk stood a few feet away—still in her dark uniform, still with her hands shoved in her pockets like she wasn’t standing in the middle of royal crisis. Her hair was messy from the wind, her sleeves rolled halfway up. She always looked like she walked out of a storm. And somehow, that always made me feel calmer.
“What do you mean I don’t have to?” I asked, my voice dry.
She walked closer. Sat on the edge of the fountain, her thigh brushing mine like it wasn’t anything. But I felt it. Every inch.
Milk didn’t speak right away. She looked at the papers in my hand, then turned to me slowly.
“There’s only one way out of this kind of mess without burning everything,” she said, voice low. “You tell the king... you’re already in love.”
I blinked. “What?”
“If he thinks you’ve already got a lover,” Milk said, turning her gaze away, “he might back off. At least enough to delay the engagement. Maybe even cancel it.”
I stared at her. “That’s insane. Do you know what that would do to my image?”
Milk shrugged. “Do you want to keep the image or your freedom?”
I opened my mouth, closed it.
“But I don’t have a lover,” I muttered, almost bitterly.
Milk turned to look at me. Her dark eyes studied me. Quiet. Still. Then:
“You can pretend.”
My heart slammed.
“You want me to lie to the king?”
“I want you to be free,” she said, with a sharpness I didn’t expect. “Even if it means pretending for a while.”
I looked down. At my hands. At the document still burning like fire in my lap. “What kind of person would agree to pretend to be my lover?” I said, laughing hollowly.
There was a pause.
Then Milk leaned back, resting her arms behind her casually, staring at the sky like it wasn’t a big deal.
“I’ve played worse roles.”
I turned sharply. “What?”
She didn’t look at me. Just gave a little shrug.
“If it helps,” she said, still calm, “I don’t like seeing you look like this. So if pretending to love you gets you out of marrying Namtan, I’ll play the part.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know what I was feeling.
But when I looked at her again, Milk was still watching the clouds. And for the first time since that contract was handed to me, I didn’t feel completely powerless.
Milk’s POV:
It was supposed to be just a plan. Simple. Clean. Manipulative. Make her fall for me. Earn her trust. Get close enough that she hands me the kingdom with a kiss and a crown. Or at the very least, a title.
I’ve done worse. I’ve used people before—twisted their wants until they served mine. That’s how I survived the mafia world. That’s how I became the leader at eighteen. So when I told her, “You can pretend,” it should’ve been cold strategy.
But it didn’t feel like that. Not when she looked at me with those stupid, wide, sad eyes like I had just thrown her a lifeline in the middle of a storm. Not when she nodded slowly, biting her lip, like she was actually… relieved.
Not when she said, “Okay. Let’s do it,” with a voice so small it didn’t sound like a royal at all.
Now I’m stuck.
---
“I think we should spend more time together.”
I nearly choked on my coffee.
Love was sitting across from me in her room, legs tucked beneath her like a cat, arms folded as she declared it like we were signing a treaty.
“What?” I asked flatly.
“We’re fake lovers now,” she said, tilting her head, “we should make it believable.”
I blinked.
Then took a long sip of my drink to hide the smirk tugging at my lips. “You want me to go around holding your hand and braiding your hair?”
“I mean—” she paused, “the hand part sounds doable.”
I leaned back. “Princess, we’re not in a romcom.”
“We could be,” she teased, reaching out to nudge my knee with her toe. “You’re broody enough.”
I gave her a deadpan stare. “And you’re clingy.”
“Exactly. Perfect chemistry.”
I should’ve shut her down. Told her to focus on her duties. Told her this was all for survival, not playtime. But instead, I found myself writing out a mental list:
* Eat breakfast with her.
* Walk with her in the garden.
* Be seen together in public.
* Smile a little more.
* Maybe touch her shoulder when she’s laughing.
“Okay,” I said finally.
She blinked. “Okay?”
“We’ll spend more time together,” I muttered. “I’ll… act more like your ‘lover.’”
Her grin could’ve blinded me. “Great. I have a list.”
Of course she did.
---
Later that night, I stared at the ceiling in my room.
I told myself this was working. The closer I got, the more she'd trust me. The more she’d lean on me. Eventually, when the time came, she’d follow me anywhere—even into a trap she didn’t see coming.
But the way she looked at me when I said 'yes' to being her fake lover?
It didn’t look like a trap. It looked like safety.
And I hated how I wanted to keep giving that to her. This is dangerous. Because the longer this goes on, the more I forget what’s real.
And worse? I think I want her to fall for me.
For real.
Film’s POV:
The room was quiet, too quiet for what was happening. His fingers traced my arm, light as air, patient as ever. I sat still. The kind of still that screamed.
Nawin was warm—always had been. His laughter filled silent corridors. His presence was easy, like sunlight pouring into a room. And when he leaned in tonight, all soft breath and velvet voice, he didn’t feel like danger.
He felt like safety. That was the problem.
Because my heart had never chased safety. It chased chaos. It chased her.
His lips brushed mine. Gentle. Warm. Kind. I let it happen.
Not because I wanted to—but because I 'wanted to want' it.
His hand slid to my waist, drawing me closer. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. His lips trailed to my jawline, then lower. His breath fanned over the skin of my neck.
I didn’t move. He kissed there. Softly. Again. My skin shivered. And then his fingers reached the back of my gown. A soft tug at the zipper.
That’s when I moved.
Not a scream. Not a dramatic push. Just… stillness. The kind that speaks louder than any rejection. I reached behind, gently catching his hand. His lips froze against my skin. His body stilled. I didn’t say a word.
I just looked at him—eyes heavy, lips parted, chest rising and falling like I’d run a marathon without moving.
Nawin pulled back slowly, confused. Hurt. But respectful. He studied my face. “You okay?”
I nodded once.
His brows furrowed. “Did I—cross a line?”
I shook my head, silent.
His voice was a murmur. “Then what is it?”
Everything.
But I didn’t say that.
I couldn’t tell him that my body only reacted to hands that hurt me and healed me in the same breath. I couldn’t explain that no kiss would ever feel like hers—like the first time, the last time, and the thousand times in between.
I didn’t tell him how broken I was. How loyal my body still was to a woman who never chose me in daylight.
I just forced a smile. “Not tonight.”
His face fell slightly, but he covered it with grace. “Of course.”
He sat beside me for a few minutes more. Didn’t leave right away. Didn't pressure. Just stayed.
And when he finally left with a soft goodnight, I turned away—
—and let the tears fall.
Not for Nawin.
But for the ghost still touching my skin. The one I couldn’t forget, no matter how much I tried.
Notes:
😭 Did you guys watch Whale Store XOXO today?! That kiss straight up rewired my brain. I'm not the same person anymore. Not after that. 💔💋
So while we're all emotionally unstable...
👉 Leave a kudos. Drop a comment.
Let’s cry and obsess together 🖤
Chapter 15: London Girl
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Milk’s POV:
“This is a date.”
“That’s not what this is,” I deadpanned, adjusting my blazer for the fourth time in front of the café window.
Love smirked. “But we’re dressed nice. Sitting at a rooftop restaurant. Drinking overpriced juice. What else could it be?”
I narrowed my eyes at her, then at the glass of sparkly pink nonsense in front of me. “This is 'diplomatic visibility'. Your words, not mine.”
“Diplomatic visibility,” she echoed dramatically, hand to her chest like I wounded her, “with a side of romantic tension.”
I blinked. “There is no tension.”
“There 'so' is.”
I muttered a prayer for patience and took a sip of whatever strawberry nightmare she ordered for me. Too sweet. Too bright. Just like her.
I glanced around. We weren’t exactly hiding—her royal crest was on her sleeve, and people were definitely watching. That was the point. Appear close. Convince the public. Sow the seeds of scandal. Stall the engagement with Namtan.
This was the job. Just the job. So why did it feel like my collar was choking me?
---
Fifteen minutes in, I realized two things.
One: Love had zero chill.
Two: I was going to have a migraine by the end of this “date.”
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning like a devil in silk.
“So, babe—”
“No.”
“Darling?”
I choked on air. “Absolutely not.”
“Sweetheart—”
I slapped my palm on the table. “I will jump off this rooftop.”
“You’re so dramatic,” she giggled.
I looked at the security guard stationed ten feet away. He was trying not to laugh. I was seconds away from making him *disappear*.
“I’m just saying,” she said, poking at her cake with a spoon, “if we’re faking it, we should 'commit'. Like, maybe put your arm around me? Feed me a strawberry? Gaze into my eyes like I’m your whole world?”
“Do you want me to get us kicked out?”
“No, but I 'do' want to make that couple over there whisper about us.”
I followed her gaze. Two older women in formal attire were definitely watching. One of them nudged the other and raised a brow. I swore under my breath.
Love beamed at me and suddenly, out of nowhere, grabbed my hand.
I froze. My brain stopped working for a second. Her fingers were soft. Warm. Clingy. I tried to pull away—tried being the key word—but she interlocked our fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Princess—”
“Don’t break character, hubby,” she whispered with a wink.
I think my soul left my body for a moment.
---
By the time dessert came, I was leaning into the role just enough to survive. Smiling stiffly. Nodding at people who waved. Letting her steal bites from my plate without stabbing her fork.
But inside? Total chaos.
Because every time she laughed at something I said—something stupid like “this water tastes like regret”—I felt something twist in my chest.
Every time she bumped my shoulder or leaned into me when it got windy, I wanted to wrap my arm around her. Not for show. Just to keep her close. Dangerous. This was dangerous.
And she knew it. Because by the time we stood up to leave, she clung to my arm with that smug, sunny smile and whispered:
“You’re getting better at pretending.”
I leaned down, lips dangerously close to her ear, and said:
“I’ve had lots of practice surviving loud people like you.”
“Oh?” she smirked, “Does that mean you’ll survive our next date?”
I didn’t answer. Mostly because I wasn’t sure anymore if I wanted to survive it—or get swallowed whole by whatever this ridiculous, brilliant mess was becoming.
---
The rooftop emptied out after dessert. Most of the guests left for the ballroom inside, drunk on champagne and status.
But Love stayed. And, against all logic and training, I did too. The city of Bangkok glimmered below us like a spilled box of jewels. Cool breeze, night sky, and Love—standing dangerously close to the edge, arms stretched like she could fly.
“You’re gonna fall,” I said flatly.
She grinned over her shoulder. “Then catch me.”
My jaw tightened. I hated how natural this was getting. How easy it was to talk to her like we weren’t on opposite sides of a chessboard. How her smile felt like it was meant for me, not the cameras, not the court.
She lowered her arms and looked up. “Five minutes.”
“Huh?”
“Until the fireworks,” she said, settling on the bench beside me.
Of course there were fireworks. Royals love flashy things. I didn’t realize I was watching her more than the sky—until the first burst exploded, red and gold, blooming across her eyes. She clapped, childlike. The colors flickered on her cheeks, her hair glowing soft in the light.
“What?” she asked when she caught me staring.
I looked away. “Nothing. You’re loud even when you’re quiet.”
“Poetic,” she said. “You’re changing.”
“No. I’m adapting.”
She leaned in, a little too close. “Adapting to what?”
“To chaos.”
She laughed. And that laugh—God—it shook something loose in me. Another firework cracked above us. Louder this time. I heard the click too late.
A camera shutter. Somewhere from the shadows.
I stood immediately, scanning the perimeter. A flicker on the next rooftop—movement, then gone. Too far to catch.
“What’s wrong?” Love asked, half-standing.
“Nothing,” I lied. “Just thought I saw someone.”
She didn’t press. That’s the problem. She trusted me too much. But I knew what happened. Someone just got a perfect shot:
Me and the crowned princess. Alone. At night. Watching fireworks. Too close. Too comfortable. And if that photo lands where I think it will…
---
-Somewhere in the Royal Palace-
A message alert blinked on the King’s tablet. An anonymous delivery. No name. No sender. Just a single image: Princess Love, tucked into the shoulder of her bodyguard. A firework blooming behind them. Her eyes closed. A smile on her lips. And Milk—looking at her like the world had stopped moving.
Attached was a caption.
"Your daughter has already chosen her Duke."
Namtan’s POV:
I was lighting a cigarette when I heard footsteps.
Click. Click. Click.
And then he appeared — golden boy Nawin, walking out of the East Wing with that faint wrinkle between his brows. His hands were shoved in his pockets. His tie was loose. His shoulders hunched.
Pathetic.
I let out a slow drag and exhaled the smoke toward the cold night air. “Why so sad, little brother?”
He stopped, looked up. Those brown eyes of his — always so damn polite. So full of softness. He tried to cover it, but his voice cracked a little.
“Don’t know,” he said. “I’m trying. I’ve been so patient with her. So careful. But it’s like she’s somewhere else. Every time I think I’m getting close, she just... vanishes.”
I tilted my head.
“You’re talking about Film?”
He gave a slow nod. Poor boy. I flicked the ash off my cigarette and leaned against the stone column, watching him like prey. “And you thought you could fix her with tenderness?”
He frowned, confused by my tone.
I chuckled. Low and bitter. “She’s not the kind of girl you fix with flowers and poems, Nawin.”
“Then what is she?” he asked, like I wasn’t about to rip his heart open.
I took a final drag. Let it burn. Then I crushed it beneath my heel and said, too casually, “She’s the kind who still remembers how it felt to have my fingers on her throat and my name on her lips.”
He stiffened. I smiled.
“Don’t look so shocked. You’ve seen the way she avoids looking at me in public, haven’t you? The way she talks about everything but the truth?” I stepped closer. “That’s guilt, little prince. Not innocence.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Film can’t give herself to you,” I continued, voice sharper now, “because she already gave herself to me. Her firsts. Her worsts. Her secrets.”
I paused, tilting my head with faux curiosity. “Did she tell you how she cried when I kissed her the first time? How she said she felt like she finally belonged somewhere?”
“Namtan,” he said quietly, his voice edged with a warning.
But I was already too far gone.
“Did she tell you how she used to beg me not to leave after I fucked her senseless? That I knew every inch of her before she ever said your name out loud?”
I saw it—the flinch. The betrayal. Not of me, no.
Of Film.
Because even he knew now… whatever she had with me wasn’t a rumor.
I took a step back, suddenly feeling… empty. I looked at him again—this boy I never chose as a brother. The perfect heir. The golden child of the wife my father actually loved after my mother died.
“You always thought I was the broken one,” I murmured. “The bitter one. The one who hurt everyone to feel something.”
He didn’t argue. I sneered. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am.”
I turned away. “But at least she remembers me.”
And that was the only thing I had left.
Notes:
🖤 Kudos if you liked it.
💬 Comment if it destroyed you.
I’m watching from the shadows, hehehehehe 👁️👁️
Chapter 16: Mastermind
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Namtan’s POV:
He walked away without another word.
No anger. No shouting. No accusations. Just silence.
And somehow… that was worse.
I stood there, breathless, like I’d just been punched and didn’t feel it until after it landed. The cold wind blew through the corridor, brushing past me like a ghost of everything I used to be — proud, untouchable, cruel by design.
Now? Now I just felt… stupidly hollow. I watched Nawin’s retreating back. His fists clenched. His pace fast. His shoulders trembling just enough to give away what I knew too well: I broke something tonight. Not just his illusion.
But the part of him that hoped.
And that’s when it hit me — hard, sharp, gut-punch real: He’s going to try and marry her. Not out of love. But out of revenge. He’ll propose sooner than planned. He’ll want to prove something. To Film. To me. To the crown.
Because Nawin’s always been like that. Soft on the outside, but cold where it matters. The kind of cold that smiles at you in front of others while twisting a knife behind closed doors. Just like his mother. Just like our father wanted him to be.
That boy was never taught how to bleed. Just how to make others do it.
I swallowed the sick feeling bubbling in my throat. I leaned back against the wall, suddenly exhausted. My fingers twitched — a reflex, a habit. I wanted a cigarette. I wanted a drink. I wanted… Her.
My eyes stung as I looked up at the darkening sky. A flicker of light in one of the palace towers caught my eye.
Film’s window.
God.
I never meant to fall for her. I never meant to ruin her life. And yet— I always do, don’t I? I ruin things. Because I never learned how to love without hurting.
And now that golden boy’s going to put a ring on her finger, and she'll probably say yes, because unlike me, he can be shown off in public. He can be introduced to royal families. He won’t mark her with bruises and shame. He’ll be everything I could never be. But he’ll never love her like I did.
He’ll never taste the way her voice shakes when she says my name in the dark. He’ll never see the fire in her eyes when she pushes me away and still comes back. He’ll never know what it feels like to be hated and needed all at once by someone you can’t let go.
And Film… she’ll look happy. She’ll walk down that aisle. Wear the dress. Smile for the world.
But I’ll know. Deep down, I’ll know—
She’s still mine. Even if she chooses not to be.
And that will be my punishment.
Forever.
---
Love’s POV:
I knew something was up when the guard at the royal suite knocked and said, “His Majesty requests your presence in his study.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t fumble my teacup. Didn’t blink twice. But inside? Yeah—my stomach definitely did a somersault. I smoothed down my blouse, touched up my lips, and left the suite like a good little princess summoned for yet another polite scolding.
Except I knew. I knew exactly what this was about. He’d seen the photo.
---
The King sat in his favorite chair. That old, dark oak throne-like seat with carved lions and an air of judgment thicker than the carpet. His tablet was resting on his lap, screen still lit. And on it?
Me. Me smiling under Bangkok’s night sky. Me tucked into Milk’s shoulder like it was mine. Me looking… happy.
“Close the door,” he said. I did.
He waited. Then he turned the screen toward me. “Explain.”
I didn’t look surprised. I even let out a soft breath, like I was tired of this conversation already.
“She’s my bodyguard,” I said. “It’s her job to be close.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That close?”
“She caught me off balance during the fireworks,” I said with a small smile. “I was about to trip. You know how clumsy I am, Father.”
He didn’t look convinced.
I tilted my head. “Are you saying I shouldn’t be safe around the woman you assigned to protect me?”
“Don’t twist my words, Love.”
“I’m not twisting. I’m clarifying.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “This is dangerous. You’re the heir. Being photographed like this… people talk.”
“Let them talk,” I said gently. “I am still engaged, am I not?”
He stiffened.
I let the silence stretch just long enough. Then I offered the softest smile I could. “She’s just a bodyguard. Nothing more.” A lie so polished it glimmered.
---
When I left the study, I didn’t smile too wide. I waited until the hallway.
And then—when I was out of sight—I grinned. It worked. The image was perfect. A little too warm. A little too close. Just enough to shake things, not enough to collapse the world.
And the King? Oh, he was rattled. He wouldn’t admit it. But I saw it in the tightness of his jaw. The way he pressed his tablet screen like it insulted him.
Let him stew. Because every second he doubted Namtan… every second he questioned this arranged mess… was a win for me and Milk.
I pulled out my phone and texted her:
“You’re better at fake dating than I thought.”
Three dots. Then her reply:
“Not fake. Strategic.”
I smiled.
Strategic, huh?
Then why did it feel so real when she held me that night?
View’s POV:
Paperwork is boring. It always has been. But running an empire — especially under Milk’s name — means you deal with boring shit more often than bullets.
I was knee-deep in documents. Financial logs. Birth records. Medical clearance. Stuff no one ever wants to look at unless a mission goes sideways or someone ends up bleeding on royal carpet. I flipped another page, balancing a pen between my teeth. The AC hummed above me. I barely noticed.
Until I reached her file.
Milk Pansa Vosvein.
Standard. Sealed. Stamped. Confidential.
I’d seen it before, obviously. But something made me open it again. Absentminded curiosity. Maybe instinct. Maybe boredom. Who knows? The pages crinkled softly as I turned to the birth certificate.
Milk’s name. Date. Hospital. Ward: Maternity. Room: 301.
I almost turned the page—until my brain caught up with my eyes.
Number of live births: 2
I froze. What?
My eyes shot back to the document. Room 301. Hospital: Prakanong General. Date: July 31. Time: 03:12 AM.
Milk was born here. And someone else. Same room. Same mother. Two babies.
Twins?
I flipped to the bottom. There it was. Barely legible. Almost like someone tried to blur it out.
Infant B: unnamed at time of registration. Transferred: confidential custody, Royal Order.
Royal Order?
My pulse skipped. The fuck? I leaned back in my chair, the pen falling out of my mouth.
Milk has a twin. And no one ever told her.
But why?
Why would someone hide something like that? Why would only one child be raised in the mafia, and the other… taken? By the royals? My mind went cold.
No. No fucking way. I grabbed my phone, hands trembling slightly. I didn’t even realize I’d stood up.
Room 301. Two babies. Same blood.
Could it be…
No. It’s impossible. There’s no way— But if it is true… Then everything — the mission, the crown, Milk’s purpose — everything’s about to turn upside down. I stared at the document again, and a quiet chill ran down my spine. Room 301 just opened a door we might never be able to close.
---
She told me to meet her at this dusty, lowkey café like she always does when she doesn’t want the world to see her soft side. I was already sitting there, tapping my nails on the wood table, when Milk arrived — hoodie up, shades on, acting like she was an underground rapper hiding from fangirls. Drama queen.
She slid into the booth across from me.
“Didn’t peg you for morning meetings,” she muttered, tugging the hoodie down. “What’s wrong? Did someone die?”
My eyes narrowed. “No. But apparently, someone was born.”
That made her look up. Eyebrows pulled together. “What?”
I leaned in and pulled out the paper. The birth certificate. The one that’s been burned into my brain since last night.
“Room 301. Two babies. One mom.”
Her eyes scanned the paper. And then I saw it — that tiny, almost invisible shift in her expression. Like her entire world just tilted sideways but she wasn’t ready to fall off yet. She didn’t speak.
So I did. “You have a twin.”
Silence. A car passed outside. A coffee grinder went off in the back. My heart thudded.
Milk blinked. And then slowly leaned back, arms crossed.
“…That’s not possible. My father never—he would’ve told me. Or—”
“Or he wouldn’t have,” I cut in gently.
Because her father wasn’t exactly Father of the Year. I slid the paper toward her.
“Infant B. Taken under Royal Order. You know what that means?”
Milk stared at it like it might explode.
Then she whispered, “No name… Confidential custody…”
“Why would someone take one twin into royal custody and leave the other in a mafia household?”
Her lips parted. A breath caught. And then—
“…Namtan,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Princess Namtan,” Milk said more clearly this time. Her voice low. “She… she looks like my mom.”
And there it was.
The memory hit both of us like a cold slap. Namtan’s jawline. Her crooked grin. Her eyes when she’s angry. Her cruelty. Her charm. All of it. A distorted reflection of Milk. Or maybe… not so distorted.
“Shit,” I muttered, staring at her. “You really might be sisters.”
Twins. Split by blood and a throne. Before we could go further, the bell above the door jingled.
“Oh, no—”
“Milk~!” Love’s voice rang out like a damn melody.
Milk whipped her head around. “Princess?!”
I sat back with a smirk.
Love skipped over in a flowy dress and sneakers like she owned the sunshine. Her smile bright, her energy at full volume. “What are you doing here all alone, huh?” she said, sliding into the booth beside Milk like she belonged there.
Milk blinked twice, pulled her hoodie back up and muttered, “Not alone. I’m with—”
Love looked at me curiously. “Who’s this?”
I gave my best cool smile. “View. Bestie since diapers.”
Milk groaned. “Stop talking.”
Love just beamed. “You’re cool. Milk never introduces anyone, especially not ones with good hair.”
I leaned forward with a grin. “I’ll take that as a royal seal of approval.”
Milk rubbed her face. “This is going to be a long day.”
Love giggled, plucking a fry off Milk’s plate like she’s done it a thousand times. “So what were you two talking about?”
Milk and I locked eyes. And for once, Milk looked unsure of what to say. Room 301 was sitting between us like a ghost. Love was smiling. And I was already calculating how the hell we were going to unravel this mess without bringing down both the mafia and the monarchy.
But for now?
“Just… stuff,” Milk said, eyes softening as she looked at Love.
Love raised an eyebrow. “That sounded fake.”
“It is,” I said.
Milk kicked me under the table. I bit my tongue and grinned wider.
Notes:
📝 Author’s Note 📝
One day. Three chapters.
Your author is officially unwell 💀💻 — please send help and iced coffee 😭☕
Today was hectic but I really wanted to push the story forward for you all! I hope you're loving the drama, the chaos, and of course... Milk and Love 💘👑
👉 If you enjoyed the chapter, leave a kudos — it takes one second but means the world 🥺
📈 Let’s try to hit 200 kudos before I post the next update! Deal? Pinky promise? 🤞💗💬 And drop your thoughts in the comments! I read every single one of them and scream internally every time 🫠
Thank you for being here. You're the real royalty 👑✨
— with love,
your tired author 🐈⬛
Chapter 17: The Story of Us: Part 1
Notes:
Author's Notes 💌
Hey hey~ 🌙✨
Thank you so much for reading up to this point! The next two chapters will dive into some filler/flashback content — specifically about 'Milk and Namtan's past' 🍼🔥. It's important for their backstories and emotional depth, but if you're just here for the Angst + fluff combo, feel free to skip ahead (I promise I won’t be mad 😌💔).
Please don’t forget to leave a kudos if you're enjoying the drama, and your comments always make my day brighter than Love’s smile ☀️🐱💖
Stay hydrated, stay chaotic, and see you in the next chapter 💃🏽✨
— Your Author-nim 🖤💫
Chapter Text
Third Person's POV:
The air outside the café smelled like rain, though it hadn’t fallen yet.
Inside, the chime of the door rang gently — a familiar sound that barely made her look up. The girl behind the counter wiped a glass clean, humming a tune under her breath. Her hair was pinned back, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, and her lips curled into that kind of quiet smile people wore when life was hard, but kindness came easier.
She was Lalana.
Soft-spoken. Sharp-eyed. Too beautiful for a life so plain.
Every morning, she opened shop before the sun rose, laid fresh lotus flowers in the vase near the window, and filled the tip jar with hope. It never overflowed. Still, she smiled.
“Good morning, Pa,” she said to the old man sweeping outside — her father. He was hunched, frail, his skin thin over his bones, but his eyes still held light.
He grunted in reply, offering her a weak smile. “Another long day.”
“It’ll pass quickly,” she said, almost convincingly. “I’ll sell three lemon cakes today. I feel it.”
He laughed, coughing a little. “You’ll sell five. And I’ll finally retire.”
“Dreamer,” she teased.
He winked. “Like daughter, like father.”
And then, the door opened again. A man stepped in — sharply dressed, tall, with shadows beneath his eyes that said he hadn’t smiled in years. His coat barely brushed the floor, his boots polished to a mirror-black shine.
Arthit Vosvein.
He said nothing at first. Just walked to the counter and sat, folding his hands, his presence like cold wind rushing in behind him. Lalana, unfazed, stepped forward. “What can I get you?”
His eyes met hers. Something flickered. Something unreadable.
“… Tea,” he said at last. “Black. No sugar.”
She turned without hesitation. “Coming right up.”
He came again the next day. And the next. Always silent. Always sitting at the far end, like he wanted to stay invisible — and yet… always watching her.
Not in a way that made her shrink. Not with hunger. But with wonder. Like she was the only thing left in the world that still had warmth.
One evening, it was raining when he walked in, coat soaked at the edges, hair mussed from the wind. Lalana handed him a towel. “You’ll catch a cold.”
He blinked. “Do you always give strangers towels?”
“You’re not a stranger anymore.”
His lips twitched. Not a smile. Not quite. “… Thank you.”
He dried his hands slowly. “Why do you work here?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re… different,” he said. “You don’t belong behind a counter.”
She tilted her head, puzzled but calm. “You don’t know me.”
“I’d like to.”
Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “Rich men don’t usually ask politely.”
“I’m not asking for a night,” he said, voice low. “I’m asking for something else.”
---
A week later, he came back. This time, with a question not meant for her. But for her father. They sat in the back room of the café — a cracked wooden table, two cups of stale tea, and years of desperation thick in the air.
“I will marry her,” Arthit said simply.
Her father’s hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the table. “I… we are poor. We have nothing.”
“I’m not asking for anything.”
“Then why?”
Arthit looked toward the small kitchen window — where Lalana was cleaning trays, smiling to herself.
“Because she’s good,” he said quietly. “And I don’t remember the last time I was near something good.”
Her father hesitated. “She won’t say yes.”
“She doesn’t have to. You’re her guardian.”
“I am her father,” he corrected, proudly. Then, weaker: “… But I cannot give her a future. Not anymore.”
A pause. Arthit placed a check on the table, face down. He didn’t push it forward. Just let it sit there, untouched. “She will be taken care of. She will have a house. Servants. Comfort.”
“And love?” her father asked, suddenly.
Arthit blinked, the question landing like an unexpected punch. “I don’t know how to give that,” he admitted. “But I won’t harm her. Not ever.”
Outside, Lalana was laughing — something the world rarely gave her time to do.
And inside, two men made a decision that would change the course of everything. Her father stood up slowly, shoulders heavy with shame. “I will speak to her.”
---
That night, she sat on the back steps of the café, holding a cup of cold tea, staring at the streetlamp like it might flicker out just to match her mood. Her father joined her, sitting beside her without a word.
After a long silence, he spoke. “He wants to marry you.”
She didn't flinch. Didn’t breathe for a second.
“Why?” she asked softly.
“He said he needs something good.”
She looked down at her hands. “And we need money.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, a sad smile forming. “I knew this day would come. A girl like me doesn’t get to pick.”
He reached out and touched her shoulder — gently, reverently. “You’re not for sale.”
“But I am needed,” she whispered. “And this will help you. Help us.”
He stayed silent.
And she nodded to herself. “Okay.”
She stood. And when she walked inside, she didn’t cry. Because Lalana had already learned:
Soft girls don’t get happy endings. They only get chosen. And sometimes, that has to be enough.
---
The Vosvein estate stood tall, ancient, suffocatingly grand. Gold-trimmed ceilings. Echoes in the hallway. Every corner pristine, polished, and cold. Like a museum where people weren’t meant to live—only behave. Lalana stood in the doorway of her new room. Not “theirs.” Just hers.
A maid showed her in, then left her alone. No fanfare. No “congratulations.” Just quiet. She placed her only suitcase on the ornate bench by the bed and slowly sat down. Her hands folded in her lap like a guest at someone else’s dinner table. There was a knock, polite. Then came Arthit, still in his wedding suit, collar unbuttoned, coat folded over his arm.
She stood quickly. “Sir.”
His brow furrowed. “Don’t call me that.”
“I don’t know what else to call you.”
He stared for a beat too long. “… You can use my name.”
She nodded once, arms stiff at her sides. “Alright… Arthit.”
It sounded strange on her tongue. Foreign. Formal. He stepped inside, careful, as if the space between them might shatter. “I… wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”
Her eyes scanned the room. “It’s lovely.”
“I can have it redecorated. Or moved to another wing. If you don’t like—”
“This is fine.”
Silence. He shifted. “I thought maybe we could… talk.”
She glanced up, the faintest flicker of surprise in her eyes. “About what?”
“I don’t know,” he said, exhaling. “We’re married now. I thought maybe we should know each other.”
She hesitated, then sat back down, hands folded. He didn’t sit. Just stood there, towering in the middle of the room like an awkward statue.
“… I’ve never done this before,” he admitted.
She blinked. “Been married?”
He gave a dry laugh. “No. Spoken to a woman like this.”
Her lips curled slightly. “I can tell.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said suddenly.
“I’m not afraid,” she replied, still calm. “Just unsure.”
“Of what?”
“Of what I am here. A wife? A guest? A… decoration?”
His face tensed. “You’re not a decoration.”
“Then what am I, Arthit?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The truth? He didn’t know either. He only knew that when she smiled, even slightly, it loosened something in his chest. That he wanted to see her smile again. That her voice had a softness he didn’t deserve to hear. But he also knew he was cold. Awkward. His touch didn’t know gentleness. His voice didn’t know warmth. And she was all of that.
He finally spoke, quieter. “I know I don’t feel like a husband.”
She looked at him carefully. “That’s alright. I don’t feel like a wife.”
He nodded. And that night — there was no wedding bed. No consummation. No shared whispers beneath sheets. Only quiet. She lay in her grand bed, staring at the velvet canopy above, listening to the faint ticking of a clock.
He slept down the hall, door closed, still dressed.
---
Days passed.
They shared meals, in silence. Walked past each other, politely. Spoke only when spoken to. He brought her flowers once. She placed them in a vase and said, “Thank you.” Nothing more.
Once, she tried to make him tea. He took a sip and coughed. She looked away, suppressing a laugh.
“I’m not used to sugar,” he muttered.
“I’ll remember next time,” she said.
And she did.
---
One night, maybe a week in, he knocked on her door again. She opened it, night robe modest, eyes curious.
“I… had a question,” he said, standing in the dim corridor. She waited.
“… Do you miss home?”
Lalana’s eyes drifted toward the large window. “… Yes,” she admitted softly. “But it wasn’t much of a home. Just… quieter.”
He stepped inside slowly. “You can speak freely with me. You don’t have to hide things.”
“I’m not hiding. I just don’t know what’s worth saying.”
He stared at her then, longer than he ever had. “You’re very hard to read.”
“That’s because you’re not used to listening.”
That stopped him. “… Fair,” he said.
She looked at him. Not coldly. Not kindly. Just… human. Like two strangers standing at the edge of a bridge, both afraid to cross.
He looked around the room. “You rearranged the furniture.”
“I like the bed by the window. The light’s better.”
“You don’t sleep much, do you?”
She shrugged. “Dreams don’t visit often.”
“Me neither.”
Another silence.
She looked down at her hands. “This isn’t how love starts, is it?”
He exhaled. “No. But I don’t expect you to love me.”
“Then why marry me?”
He didn’t answer at first.
Then: “Because the first time I saw you, I felt like I could be good.”
She blinked.
“And I didn’t think I was capable of that.”
Something in her chest shifted. Not warmth. Not affection. But recognition.
She stepped aside. “You can sit, if you want.”
He did.
And for the first time, they just sat — not as man and wife, but as two quiet people in a too-big house, trying to remember what softness feels like.
---
The house was so quiet, even the chandeliers seemed to sigh. Lalana liked it that way. She’d found a rhythm in the silence of the Vosvein estate. She woke early, earlier than the sun, and took her tea beside the east window where the light came through just right. She read books she didn’t understand just to keep her hands busy. She wrote in a little notebook with no intention of showing it to anyone.
Arthit noticed. He always noticed.
From the end of the hallway, he saw her. Wrapped in soft lilac robes. Hair loosely tied back. A pen tucked behind one ear like a habit from a life before this one. She didn’t know he stood there for minutes sometimes. Watching. Uncertain if he should step closer or walk away.
He chose closer, this time.
“Do you always wake this early?” he asked, voice rough from sleep.
Lalana blinked, turning. “Oh. I didn’t hear you.”
“I was quiet,” he said, awkward. Then quickly added, “Not on purpose.”
She gave a small smile and gestured to the seat across. “Would you like tea?”
“I don’t usually—”
She raised an eyebrow. He sighed. “Yes. Thank you.”
She poured it carefully, placing the cup exactly two inches from his hand like she measured it in her mind. Arthit picked it up. And nearly choked again.
“…There’s sugar.”
“I remember,” she said, not looking up from her notebook.
“…You still added it.”
“I thought maybe you’d like to try it the way I drink it.”
He stared at her. Then sipped again. “It’s not bad.”
She smirked. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“…Horrendous.”
She actually laughed—a small, surprised sound that slipped out before she could stop it. It was the first time he'd heard it. It cracked something inside him.
“Tell me what you’re writing,” he said, nodding at the notebook.
She hesitated, her fingers folding it closed. “Just… thoughts. Names I like. Colors I remember. Nothing useful.”
“I’d still like to know.”
She studied him for a moment. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Because I want to understand what you think about when you're not being silent.”
She glanced down at her lap. “…It’s quiet in my head too,” she said, “most of the time.”
He wanted to say something to that. But couldn’t. So they sat in the quiet, drinking tea that neither of them liked.
---
A few days later, she caught him standing at the entrance to the kitchen, trying to figure out the stove.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
“No,” he said quickly. Then paused. “Yes.”
She stepped beside him and rolled up her sleeves. “What are you trying to do?”
“…Make soup.”
“For?”
“You.”
Her hands paused at the pot. “…Why?”
“You mentioned your throat hurt.”
She blinked. She had. Three days ago. In passing.
He fumbled with the lid. “I’m not good at this.”
“I can teach you,” she said softly.
“I’ll ruin it.”
“I’ll let you ruin it. If you clean.”
“…Deal.”
And that’s how their routine changed. Morning tea. Awkward small talk. Evening soup disasters. Quiet glances. Half-finished sentences.
---
Later that night, she walked past his study and found him asleep at the desk, papers under his hand.
She stepped in, hesitant. For a long moment, she just watched him. His face seemed softer in sleep. Less cold. Less Vosvein. More… just Arthit. She reached forward and gently removed the pen from his fingers.
He stirred slightly.
“…Lalana?”
“Hmm?”
"Nothing...” He looks away.
She blinked. Then whispered, “Go to bed.” And walked away.
Meanwhile.....
The silence after the king’s voice felt louder than the shouting itself. Candles flickered as if frightened. Curtains shifted in the wind like they too were trying to escape. Queen Ariya stood, still as stone, in the middle of the room. Her long robe of indigo and gold pooled around her bare feet. Her hair was half-undone, the pins falling one by one like crumbling pride.
King Pravat was pacing.
“You have given me nothing,” he seethed. “Not an heir. Not a name to carry this kingdom. Not even the promise of one.”
“I’ve tried,” Ariya said quietly.
“Tried?” He turned on her. “Do you think *trying* matters when the throne is at stake?”
Her jaw tightened. “It matters to me.”
Pravat laughed bitterly. “You think this marriage is about you?”
Ariya flinched. But she didn’t look away. “No. But I thought… once… it was about us.”
He scoffed. “Don’t romanticize what was arranged. You were chosen because your father begged for alliance. Because you were quiet, obedient, with a good name and better bloodline. You were never meant to fail me.”
Ariya swallowed hard. “I didn’t choose this failure. You think I don’t feel it every night? You think I don’t hear the whispers in the palace halls? The maids who avoid eye contact? The advisors who look through me like I’m already dead?”
Pravat’s lips tightened, but he said nothing.
Ariya stepped forward, her voice trembling but steady. “Give me one more year.”
“No.”
“One more year, Pravat.”
“For what?”
“For a child.”
“You’ve had years!”
“I know! I know…” Her voice broke. “But please. Just one more. If not for me, then for the dignity of your queen. For the last thread of honor I have left.”
Pravat looked at her for a long time. His stare was sharp, almost cruel, but somewhere in his eyes was a flicker of old memory. Of a nineteen-year-old girl in a silver wedding dress, hands shaking, trying to smile.
He sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“You think I want another wife?” he muttered. “Do you know what the court says already? That I should take a mistress. That it’s your fault. That I’ve been too patient.”
She lowered her head. “Let them talk. I’ll take every insult. Just let me keep trying.”
He looked up. “Why?”
Ariya blinked.
“Why fight for this? I’ve given you cold shoulders. Long nights. No comfort. No softness. So why still beg?”
She stepped closer, and for the first time in years, she reached out and touched his hand. Just lightly. “Because I may not love what we’ve become,” she whispered, “but I remember what we were meant to be. And I… I still want to be the woman who gives you everything.”
Pravat didn’t pull away. But he didn’t return the touch either.
He stared at their hands.
Then stood, walking to the window.
“You have one year,” he said flatly. “Not a day more.”
Ariya exhaled shakily, trying to keep her tears inside.
“Thank you,” she said, voice barely audible.
“Don’t thank me,” he murmured without turning around. “Just succeed. Or I’ll have no choice but to replace you.”
She bowed her head. “Understood, Your Majesty.”
And when he left the room, she stood there alone—under the flickering candlelight, with a cold hand and a colder heart, clutching onto one last year of borrowed time.
Chapter 18: The Story of Us: Part 2
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Third Person POV:
The rain tapped gently against the high windows of the Vosvein estate. Arthit stood by the open cabinet, eyes fixed on the amber liquid he was pouring into a glass. He didn't drink often, but tonight had pressed him in strange ways. A cold night. A colder silence between him and his wife. Again. He turned around. “You sure you want some?” he asked, lifting the second glass.
Lalana didn’t look up right away. She was seated near the fireplace, legs tucked beneath her, fingers slowly braiding the end of her shawl. “I’m not a child,” she said softly. “I can handle one glass.”
He walked over and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed, brief and electric. She didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak. For a few minutes, they sat in that quiet, the warmth of the fire softening the edges of the room.
“You never told me,” Lalana finally murmured.
“Told you what?” Arthit said, swirling the drink in his hand.
“Why me. Out of all the women your family could have chosen. Why the girl behind the café counter?”
He didn’t answer right away. He stared into the fire. “Because… you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster.”
She tilted her head. “You aren’t,” she whispered.
“Don’t say that too quickly.”
Their eyes met. The kind of silence that holds its breath stretched between them. Then, slowly, Arthit moved closer, sitting on the floor across from her. “I’ve never known how to be with someone like you,” he said.
She smiled sadly. “Gentle?”
He gave a quiet laugh. “Yes. Gentle. And unafraid to speak truth. You’re not like the noblewomen they lined up before me. You didn’t come draped in silk and expectation. You just… were.”
“And you didn’t even say a word that first week,” she said with a soft chuckle. “I thought you hated me.”
“I didn’t hate you,” he said. “I feared you’d vanish if I got too close.”
A pause. Then, softly, almost cautiously, he reached over and touched her hair — tucking a lock behind her ear.
“Don’t do that unless you mean it,” Lalana whispered.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Arthit replied.
The air thickened. Their eyes searched one another. Then, slowly, they leaned in. Their lips met — soft and unsure, like the first drop of rain before a storm. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his collar. His hand cradled her jaw. When the kiss deepened, it wasn’t out of hunger. It was out of years of silence cracking at the seams. Out of two strangers realizing they had been building a home in the same quiet room. He kissed her neck — gentle, reverent. She trembled, but didn’t pull away.
“You’re warm,” he whispered against her skin.
“You’re late,” she murmured, eyes fluttering shut.
He looked at her for a long moment. “Do you want this?”
She nodded slowly. “Only if you stay after.”
“I will.”
---
[3 hours later]
Lalana lay curled beneath the heavy sheets, facing the window. Arthit was on his side, watching her. Neither spoke for a while. The candle had burned low, casting soft gold light across her bare shoulder.
“You stayed,” she said quietly.
“I told you I would.”
Lalana closed her eyes, exhaling a breath she didn’t realize she had held for years. Outside, the rain finally stopped. Inside, for the first time since their wedding, they slept in the same bed — not as strangers under one roof, but as something beginning to grow. Not yet lovers. Not yet a love story. But maybe, just maybe, the start of one.
---
It began with the smell of roses.
Lalana bent over the garden wall, her face pale, breathing shallow. The morning breeze was warm, laced with floral scents — but instead of welcoming the sweetness, her stomach turned. Again. She pressed a hand to her mouth and sat down slowly on the stone bench beneath the cherry blossom tree. Her fingers trembled. That was the third time this week. And the fifth time she couldn’t finish breakfast.
“Lady Lalana?” a maid asked gently, stepping closer.
“I’m fine,” she managed, swallowing hard. “Please… bring me some ginger tea. And— tell Lord Arthit I may be late to breakfast.”
Later that morning...
The soft knock at the chamber door was followed by a hesitant voice.
“Lalana?”
She looked up from her armchair, bundled in a shawl and cupping a bowl of warm broth. Her skin was pale, but her eyes glowed with quiet clarity. Arthit stepped in, frowning. “You didn’t come downstairs,” he said. “And Mei told me you’ve been… sick?”
Lalana nodded slightly, setting the bowl down. “I think—” She paused. Her throat tightened, eyes searching his. “I think I’m pregnant, Arthit.”
Silence.
Then the sound of his boots against the floor, hurried and graceless, as he reached her side. “Pregnant?” he repeated, his voice low.
“Yes.” A slow breath. “I had the physician come in early. She said… twins.”
He sat down. Not beside her — on the floor, right in front of her, like he used to during their quiet fireside evenings. His gaze lifted to her belly as if it already glowed.
“Twins,” he whispered.
She nodded again. “She said… the signs are strong.”
Arthit blinked a few times. His throat worked silently. Then — a quiet laugh escaped. Not mocking. Not unkind. “Two little people,” he murmured. “Inside you.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
A pause.
“You’re not scared?” she asked softly, wrapping her shawl tighter around her.
“I’m terrified,” he said, eyes flicking to hers. “But I’m… also glad. I didn’t know I could feel this kind of glad.”
Her lips twitched, and something close to a smile bloomed on her face. Her hand reached for his instinctively — and he took it, gently, as though it were the most fragile thing in the world.
---
Weeks passed. Then months...
Her morning sickness worsened before it got better. “Water,” she groaned one morning, curled on her side. “Cold, but not icy. Not the one from the right jug — the other one.”
Arthit, groggy and barefoot, stumbled across the marble tiles and brought the correct one with the care of a man carrying gold.
“Here. Sip slow.”
“I hate your bedsheets.”
“I’ll change them.”
“You breathe too loud.”
“I’ll hold it in.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t be a smartass, Arthit.”
He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”
---
As her belly grew, so did his attentiveness.
He began joining her for every physician visit. Asked questions she didn’t expect from him — about nutrition, symptoms, movements.
When she fell asleep sitting upright because her back ached, he’d quietly place cushions around her, lifting her legs gently.
“You’re different,” she said one evening, watching him arrange her supper plate with suspicious precision.
“How?”
“Gentler. Sweeter. Less… ice king of the Vosvein realm.”
He smirked. “That’s just the lack of sleep.”
She laughed, placing her hand over her stomach. “They move a lot at night. They’re restless.”
“Just like their father.”
“Don’t say that,” she grinned. “They’ll come out brooding and emotionally constipated.”
“Oh, you wound me.”
---
One quiet night, in their shared bedroom....
The rain danced gently on the windows. Lalana lay against his chest, the round curve of her belly warm between them.
“Do you ever think about what they’ll look like?” she murmured.
“All the time,” he said softly.
“Maybe one like me. And one like you.”
He exhaled. “If they’re like you… they’ll change this house. Fill it with softness.”
“And if they’re like you?” she asked.
“They’ll be strong. And better versions of me.”
Lalana was silent for a long while. Then, with a shaky voice, she whispered— “I’m scared they’ll grow up in silence… like we did.”
Arthit kissed her forehead. “They won’t. We’ll give them the words we never had.”
She closed her eyes. And for the first time since the day her father handed her over to this cold nobleman, she believed it. She was not alone. Not anymore.
---
Bangkok | Vosvein Private Hospital | Room 301
It was raining. Not the kind that merely whispered on glass — but the kind that slammed against windows like grief itself had a sound. Room 301 was filled with fluorescent light, sterile scent, and the rawest form of life: a woman in labor, breathless and soaked in pain, and a man holding her hand like it was the only thread tying him to earth.
“Breathe, Lalana. Please… just breathe.”
Arthit’s voice cracked. The nurses moved like ghosts. The doctor’s brows furrowed more each second. Lalana was too pale. “I’m here,” he whispered, brushing her drenched hair from her face. “I’m here. Look at me.”
Her head tilted slightly, eyes fluttering open. “I’m… tired…”
“I know. I know,” he said, kneeling, forehead to her knuckles. “But we’re almost there, you’re doing so well, you—”
Her grip suddenly tightened. A groan tore through her. The room flooded with urgency.
“One last push, Lady Lalana. Just one more.”
She gasped, screamed — and then—
A cry. And another. Twin cries. Two tiny voices slicing through the silence of death.
---
“They’re girls,” the nurse whispered. “Two girls.”
“Let me see—”
But then Lalana’s body fell back. Eyes still open. Lips parted — but no breath.
“Lalana?”
The doctor shouted orders. Nurses swarmed. Machines screamed.
“Lalana, look at them,” Arthit whispered, grabbing her wrist. “Look at them, they’re ours. You did it. You did it.”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. “Don’t do this,” he choked. “You said you'd name them. You promised you'd name them.”
The doctor lowered his head. “She’s gone.”
---
“No,” Arthit said.
The word was soft, stunned. Not disbelief — refusal.
“No,” he said again, louder. “She’s right here, she’s just—she’s just resting. Lalana, wake up. Wake up now, I said—wake up!”
He shook her, not hard, but like a man begging the dead to choose him instead.
“Lalana!”
A nurse reached for his arm. He shoved her away. “Get out!” he shouted. “All of you! Don’t touch her!”
The wails of the twins filled the air again, but he didn’t hear them. Couldn’t. All he saw was the girl he’d met at the café. The girl who never laughed much but listened. The girl who poured coffee with hands that never shook. Now, still. Forever.
---
In the Nursery…
The nurses argued softly. The forms were mismatched. Labels mixed. The thunder outside flickered the lights.
“They both look alike,” one nurse said.
“No… this one has her father’s eyes.”
“And the other?”
The woman hesitated.
“She looks like the mother. Completely.”
The baby in her arms blinked once. Then again. Silent.
“No sound from her?”
“Not yet.”
“She’s just… watching.”
Another nurse glanced in, panicked. “The husband is breaking down. He’s not listening. He won’t even look at the children. I think he’s in shock.”
“We’ll sort the files later,” one sighed. “Just keep them safe for now.”
But in the chaos… One bed was rolled down the wrong hall. One form unsigned. One baby — the quiet one, the one with Lalana’s eyes — was taken to a different wing. To be cleaned. To be checked. And somehow, never returned.
---
Back in Room 301
Arthit sat on the floor, still holding Lalana’s hand, surrounded by silence. A nurse gently placed one baby in a crib beside him. Only one.
The one with his eyes. Tiny fists clenched. Brows furrowed, like she already carried her father’s anger. He didn’t look at her. He looked at the empty doorway, his mind splintering. He had lost his wife. He had lost his heart. And though he didn’t know it—
He had already lost one daughter too.......
---
The train had been late. Not by much. Just enough for the skies to shift from dusk to that ghostly shade of blue — the one where even the stars seem hesitant to shine. But Queen Ariya didn’t mind waiting. She stood at the private station under a golden umbrella held by one of her handmaidens, her silk cloak unmoving despite the wind. Her eyes were fixed ahead — on the carriage that arrived in secret.
A woman stepped down. Not nobility. Not even a servant of the court. Just a nurse. Her face pale. Her arms trembling. But in her arms… was everything.
“Is that her?” Ariya asked quietly.
The nurse nodded, loosening the cloth. The baby — tiny, pink-skinned, tightly bundled — blinked up at her with brown eyes far too calm for a newborn. A silence hung in the air. Not sleepy. Not confused. Observing. Just like a predator.
The Queen inhaled, eyes wide. “She’s perfect.”
The nurse looked around nervously. “I… I don’t know how long until someone notices. There was chaos at the hospital. The Vosvein child’s mother died during labor. They were too distracted. Her twin is still with the father.”
“Good,” Ariya whispered. “That means she was born to power.”
The nurse hesitated. “And the… the name?”
Ariya’s lips curved into a smile so still it hurt to look at. “Namtan. Namtan Tipnaree Weerawatnodom.”
She reached out and took the child. The weight of the baby surprised her. Heavy, like fate itself. Heavy, like her crown had never been. Ariya looked down at the infant — this stolen child, this daughter of a mafia— and for the first time in a long time…She felt victorious.
“She’ll save my marriage,” she whispered, brushing the baby’s cheek. “She’ll become the heir my body failed to give. She will be everything.”
The baby blinked slowly — once, then twice.
---
Inside the Southern Throne Hall:
The King, Pravat Weerawatnodom, sat upon his grand seat — built of marbled steel and tigerwood. His mood was short. Always had been, ever since the third priest declared Ariya barren. His advisors whispered already. His enemies smiled in shadows.
The Queen entered. Alone. Then she lifted her arms — the baby held high, swaddled in silk dyed in royal maroon. “My King,” she called, her voice ringing like a hymn, “our prayers have been answered.”
Pravat’s eyes narrowed. “What game is this, Ariya?”
“No game,” she whispered, stepping closer, “a gift. A blessing.”
He stood, suddenly tense.
“Not mine,” she whispered, holding the baby to her chest. “But mine in spirit. Mine in sacrifice.”
He blinked. “What—”
“She is the child of noble blood. The daughter of a powerful man, born of a mother who died to bring her into this world.”
The King’s jaw tightened. “This is treason.”
“This is survival,” Ariya snapped. “This is legacy. Look at her.”
He didn’t want to. But he did. And his breath caught. The girl wasn’t even a month old, yet her features held a gravity that turned silence into submission. Her brows furrowed with some silent instinct. Her fingers clenched, not in infant twitching, but purpose.
“She is born for the crown,” Ariya said softly. “We will raise her in royal blood. No one will ever know. She will be ours.”
The King looked down at the baby, reluctantly approving her.....
Later That Night.....
The baby lay beside her now — freshly bathed, hair brushed. Her name was embroidered into her silk blankets. Namtan.
A name with sweetness. A name with deception. A name that erased all truth.
The Queen leaned close and whispered against the child’s ear. “You will never know the street your mother died on. You will never know the twin you were born beside. You will never know what blood runs in your veins.”
A pause. Then: “But you will know the weight of a throne. And you will make it yours.”
The baby stared at her. Still not crying. Not once since arriving.
---
Milk was born with a storm between her ribs. She looked like her father. Sharp brows. Cold lips. Eyes that didn’t blink for anyone. Even as a newborn, she seemed to stare through the world — as if life had already told her what it would take from her. But inside her tiny chest… a pulse beat soft as lullabies. Her mother’s gentleness, trapped in her father’s unforgiving mold. The world didn't ask if she wanted to be steel. It just forged her.
And Namtan — born only minutes before — had her mother’s face. Soft. Heart-shaped. A mouth that looked like it was made to smile. But her soul... Her soul was born in a kingdom of cold chandeliers and colder duty. She cried less. Slept harder. And when the Queen first held her, she didn’t coo — she stared. Like a blade waiting to be drawn. No one whispered lullabies in her ears. No one tucked warmth into her bedtime. So the heart that could’ve bloomed like Lalana’s…curled instead.
Two sisters. Two sides of the same wound. One was forced to become a villain, and the other was crowned as one.
---
Milk walks like thunder in silence. She pretends her body is a fortress. She forgets that sometimes the walls don’t keep people out —they just keep you in. But Love… Love with her silly jokes and sunflower eyes. Love with her giggles in the palace halls and questions that never end. Love with her kindness sharp enough to cut through steel…She is cracking Milk open. Not with war — but with warmth.
Milk has learned how to shoot without flinching, how to lie without blinking, how to lead without feeling. But Love — the little omega who hums SZA songs, who calls her “hubby” just to see her ears turn red — she’s bringing out the Lalana in her. The part of her that once smiled at sunlight. The part of her that once reached for warmth. She’s remembering. And it’s breaking her.
---
Namtan bleeds in silence. Not the dramatic kind — no. She bleeds like a frozen river in spring, cracking under the surface, not seen…but felt. Film, with her tired eyes and quiet sacrifice. Film, who should hate her —but kisses her anyway. Film, who leaves the lights on in the room, so Namtan has somewhere to return to. Even when she doesn’t deserve it.
“You feel so real,” Namtan once whispered with her lips buried in Film’s neck. And what she meant was: “I don’t know how to love without ruining it.” But Film never asked her to be gentle. Only to be honest. And that's what terrifies her more.
---
And maybe… just maybe…they are not villains at all.
Maybe Milk is a rose that learned to grow teeth. And Namtan is a dagger that just wanted to be held.
Maybe all they needed was someone brave enough to stay.
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Chapter 19: Style: Part 1
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Love's POV:
They say the stars will fall in three nights. A rare celestial event — a trail of silver flames streaking across the sky like gods weeping. Poets have already started whispering verses about it. The palace astrologer says it's an omen for those who dare wish. I say it's the perfect excuse.
I stand before my father in the royal study, fingers laced in front of me, heart thudding against my ribs like a guilty knock. I wear the silk of diplomacy, the smile of obedience, and the voice of a girl too clever for her own good. “I want to go camping,” I say.
The room freezes. My father does not look up from his scroll at first. His quill scrapes once more against parchment, slow and deliberate, before he finally lifts his eyes to mine. “Camping?” he repeats, as if I’ve asked to bathe in lava.
I nod. “Yes. Just for two nights. Maybe three. Before the stars fall.”
He arches a brow. “You, who can’t sleep without warmed milk and silk sheets, want to sleep on rocks under bugs?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to hide a smile. “I’ve changed.”
“You’ve "aged,” he corrects. “You haven’t changed.”
“I’m going to be Queen soon.” I tilt my head, letting that fact soften my tone. “There won’t be any time after the coronation. No freedom. No—” I glance out the window at the horizon — wide, golden, aching. “No sky.”
“You have a palace ceiling painted like one.”
“It doesn’t move,” I whisper.
There’s a pause. A dangerous one. He folds his hands over the scroll and leans back in his chair. “You never asked for this before.”
Because before, I didn’t have Milk. Because before, I didn’t want to disappear with anyone.
“I want to know how the rest of the world feels. Outside these walls. I want to feel it before I carry the crown.”
He hums — that low, rumbling sound that means he’s circling the idea like a wolf around fresh meat. “And who will you take with you?” he asks, too casually.
I meet his gaze. "Milk."
The temperature in the room drops like an arrow hitting ice. He says nothing for a long time. Just studies me, then slowly sets his quill aside.
“You’ve grown fond of her.”
“She’s my bodyguard,” I reply, voice steady. “I trust her.”
“She’s an alpha,” he says. “And you’re an omega. Don’t insult me by pretending you don’t understand what that means when you ask for nights away.”
I step closer to the desk. “I do understand. And I still trust her.”
He narrows his eyes. “Does she trust herself?”
The question stuns me — not because I didn’t expect it, but because it’s the one I’ve been asking in silence every time Milk looks at me with something like restraint, something like fear of herself. I answer the only way I know how: “She will.”
Another pause.
He studies me one last time — something unreadable in his eyes. “Very well, Your Grace,” he says, quiet now. “Let the princess chase stars before the kingdom chases her.”
Milk’s POV:
You know what’s worse than being an alpha? Being a mentally stable, well-trained, absolutely-in-control alpha…
…with an omega princess stripping naked ten feet away in a foggy hot spring.
“Come on,” Love calls, water up to her shoulders now, steam curling around her like silk. “It’s perfect.”
I am standing behind a rock with the towel clenched in both fists like it owes me money. “I’m fine,” I croak.
She flicks a handful of water toward me. “You smell like repressed feelings. Get in.”
My grip tightens. “You’re an omega.”
Her brow lifts. “Observant.”
“And I’m an alpha.”
“Even more observant.”
“We shouldn’t be naked. Together. In water.” I say the last part very carefully, like I’m delivering a royal decree about not seeing her breasts through the mist.
She tilts her head. “So?”
“So I have a—” I gesture vaguely to my lower half like a traumatized nun. “—that thing.”
She bursts out laughing. Of course she does.
“Oh my gods,” she says. “That thing? You sound like a boy caught in a church fountain.”
I grit my teeth. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
“Oh, I am,” she says, and leans back with a sigh. Her collarbone surfaces, gleaming like moonlight. “I just trust you won’t try to claim me in a mineral bath.”
I shut my eyes. Regret is a flavor, and it tastes like steam and salt.
“Milk,” she calls, voice softening. “You said you’d protect me, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then protect me from dirt,” she says. “Get your stubborn alpha ass in here.”
I crack one eye open. She’s smiling. So I do the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I drop the towel. I march into the water like a martyr. I pray to every deity that the temperature will kill me instantly. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
The water’s warm. And she’s closer than I realized. “So,” she says after a moment of blissful silence, “have you ever bathed with an omega before?”
My body turns to stone. I look up — mistake. Love is staring at me with that ridiculous omega innocence that is never, ever innocent. “No,” I say, too fast.
“Hm.” She stretches a leg lazily through the water. I catch a glimpse of her thigh and immediately look away like it’s a solar eclipse.
“Why?” she purrs. “Are you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s the steam.”
“You’ve been red since I said come on.”
I clear my throat. “Have you gotten into a bath like this with any other alphas?”
Her lips curl, sly and lethal. “Why? Are you jealous?”
I stare at the rock across from me like it’s a life raft.
“I don’t do jealousy.”
“Mm,” she says. “You do something.”
I pretend I’m deaf. Then she shifts a little closer and murmurs, “But if you were jealous… would you bite?”
I explode out of the water so fast I nearly slip on the edge. “I’m done,” I announce, wrapping the towel around my waist like a chastity belt. “Bathing complete. I am clean. Goodbye.”
Behind me, she’s laughing — not mockingly, not cruelly. Just… freely. Like she hasn’t laughed in a long time. And damn it, I almost turn around.
---
Love’s POV:
The car was nothing special. Just one of the standard off-road palace vehicles with matte paint and a royal seal so small it might as well say “Don’t talk to us, we’re important.” But then Milk slid into the driver’s seat…
…and suddenly it became a chariot of tension and sin.
I’m not even being dramatic. Okay, maybe a little. But who told her to grip the wheel like that? Veiny, forearm flex, left hand only, elbow perched lazily out the window like she’s starring in an illegal alpha street racing movie? Who gave her permission?
Not me. Not the gods. Not my poor, flailing omega instincts.
“Buckle up,” she said, voice neutral, gaze ahead like I was some assignment and not currently melting into the passenger seat.
“Already did,” I replied cheerfully, even though my hands were still halfway through fumbling with the clip.
She side-eyed me. Just for a second. That second shortened my life expectancy by at least five years.
Then the engine started. It was a low growl, smooth but guttural, and when she shifted gears with that stupid graceful wrist twist—oh, good, cool, great, I guess I’ll just spontaneously combust.
The road stretched ahead, a mix of gravel and long, winding hills. The wind swept through the windows, rustling her hair slightly. Mine? Braided, royal. Hers? Chaotic, effortless, sexy in a way that makes me want to punch a tree.
“So,” I said brightly, desperate to fill the silence before my hormones did, “have you always driven like a morally ambiguous drama lead with five exes and a tragic past?”
Milk didn’t look at me. “I’m focused.”
“Mm, yes. On the road. Definitely. And not at all trying to look cool while doing it.”
She adjusted the rearview mirror without replying. One-hand style. Of course. I tried again. “Did your tragic backstory come with a car license?”
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“Not if I’m being driven into the forest by a hot alpha with arm veins that belong in a museum.”
This time she choked. Subtle, just a tiny breath caught in her throat — but I caught it.
I grinned. “Gotcha.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re avoiding eye contact.”
“I’m driving.”
“And blushing.”
“It’s the reflection from your red face.”
“Oh, clever,” I said. “But I’ve seen you stare down a gun without blinking. Yet now you’re flustered because I noticed your… muscles.”
“That’s not what you said earlier.”
“Oh? What did I say earlier?”
She muttered something under her breath that sounded like "arm veins in a museum.”
I leaned closer, lowering my voice like I was letting her in on a secret. “I meant it. They’re… majestic. Like ancient calligraphy.”
Milk shook her head, exasperated, but I could see the corner of her mouth twitching — traitorous, almost a smile.
“How long until we get there?” I asked, settling back with a satisfied sigh.
“About four hours.”
“Great,” I said. “Plenty of time to analyze your tragic past and how it connects to your brooding driving style.”
“There’s no tragic past.”
“Then why do you shift gears like you’re haunted?”
Milk looked out at the road like it personally offended her.
I folded my arms, studying her profile shamelessly. That strong jaw. The small scar under her left eye. Her long fingers tapping the wheel when a song came on low from the radio — classical instrumental, because of course it was. Milk didn’t listen to pop. Milk listened to music that hurt.
“Do you always grip the wheel like that?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“All casual. One hand. Pinky practically off-duty.”
She flexed her hand slightly. “This is just… how I drive.”
“No, this is how you flirt without making eye contact.”
She almost hit the brake. “I’m not flirting.”
“Okay, then drive two-handed like a normal person.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“…Because now you’ve made it weird.”
“Me? I made it weird?”
“You compared my hands to ancient calligraphy!”
“Well, they are! Look at them!”
Milk exhaled, finally gave in to the smallest, smallest laugh — the kind that disappears quickly, but I caught it like a firefly.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
“And yet you chose to take me camping alone. Whose fault is that?”
Silence.
She didn’t answer. But her ears were pink.
Notes:
Don’t forget to leave kudos and comments — they keep me alive, fr 🤧
Chapter 20: Style: Part 2
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Love’s POV:
If someone were to write a fairytale about this moment, I’m pretty sure it would be called: “The Princess Who Did Absolutely Nothing While Her Hot Bodyguard Built a Love Nest.”
Because that’s what was happening. Milk was crouched near the riverbank, sleeves rolled up, hammering tent poles into the earth like a lumberjack who'd quit society to live in the woods and growl at tourists. Her brow was furrowed in that usual “I have no feelings” way, but her hands moved with efficiency, grace, and unfortunately for my heart.
“Do you want help?” I asked sweetly from my seat on a log, swaying my legs.
“No.”
“I can carry something.”
“You’ll trip.”
“I am capable of—”
“You got lost trying to find the portable toilet.”
“Okay,” I sniffed. “That was one time and the signs were confusingly designed.”
She didn’t even look at me. Just kept hammering pegs into the ground like the forest owed her rent. I watched her for another few seconds, chin resting on my palm, sighing dramatically. “Uggghhhh, my dream hubby,” I moaned. “Won’t let me work. So protective. So providing. What a fantasy.”
Milk muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “This is a nightmare.”
I gasped. “You love me.”
She gave me a long, dry stare. “I just don’t want you accidentally impaling yourself with a tent pole.”
“That’s the most romantic sentence I’ve ever heard.”
“Princess,” she warned, adjusting the stakes.
“Yes, hubby?”
She dropped the hammer so hard it bounced off a rock.
I grinned.
Eventually the tent stood — beautiful, sturdy, positioned perfectly beside the river where the moonlight would reflect just so. I clapped with obnoxious pride. “Look at you,” I said. “Queen of Wilderness. Protector of Omegas. Architect of Sexy Outdoor Lodgings.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it.”
She turned away, ears slightly pink.
I did not comment on it. That would be rude.
(Just kidding, I did.)
---
Later, at the nearby riverside festival…..
Turns out, the locals held a moon festival every summer to celebrate falling stars and overcooked food on sticks. Bright lanterns swayed between trees, music drifted from hand-played flutes, and children ran barefoot with glowing jars of fireflies.
It was all very charming, very wholesome…
…until I caught someone looking at me like I was a roast chicken.
Milk noticed it first.
I didn’t see the guy right away — just heard Milk’s voice, low and cold, like winter settling into my spine.
“You got a staring problem?”
I blinked and turned.
A boy — maybe my age, maybe a bit older, all tan skin and messy hair — was standing a few feet away with a skewer in hand and the unmistakable face of someone who’d been checking out an omega way above his political pay grade.
“Oh,” I said, realizing. “It’s fine, Milk. He’s just—”
Milk didn’t take her eyes off him. The guy looked between us, then took a slow step back. Milk didn’t move.
“I—I was just admiring the… uh…” he looked around, desperate, “the lanterns.”
Milk’s voice didn’t change pitch or volume, but somehow became even sharper. “You were admiring her ass, actually.”
The guy turned red. “N-No, I—”
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Milk said, taking one slow step forward, completely casual, completely terrifying. “You’re going to turn around. You’re going to pretend you never saw her. And then you’re going to leave this festival with all your limbs in the correct number and order. Deal?”
The boy nodded so fast I thought he might snap his own neck. “Yes. Deal. Yes ma’am. Sorry. Very sorry. So sorry.”
Then he sprinted off like his pants were on fire.
I blinked. Milk looked over at me. “What?”
I raised a brow. “Ma’am? That’s new.”
“I scared him. It worked.”
“You also threatened dismemberment over eye contact.”
Milk didn’t reply.
I smiled slowly. “Were you jealous?”
She made a face like she’d swallowed a lemon. “I don’t do jealousy.”
“Right. I forgot. You do… violence.”
“Protective strategy,” she corrected.
“Love language.”
She turned to me then, the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You're insufferable.”
I beamed. “But safe.”
She didn’t deny it. We kept walking, the festival lights glittering around us, laughter spilling through the air, and the warm pressure of her presence a silent vow beside me. She didn’t hold my hand. She didn’t say anything soft. But her shoulder brushed mine just once. And it was enough.
---
Love’s POV:
I’m not saying I have a type, but if I did, it would be: Emotionally unavailable bodyguard. Cold stare. Sharp jaw. Veiny hands. Secret softie. Would take a sword to the chest before admitting they care.
Which is exactly what I’m dealing with as we sit under paper lanterns, chewing festival food in comfortable silence while Milk pretends she doesn’t like her grilled fish but still ate all of it.
“This is good,” I say, licking chili sauce from my thumb. “Spicy. Sweet. I want twelve more.”
Milk raises an eyebrow. “You’ll explode.”
“Romantically, maybe.”
“I don’t want to carry you back to camp.”
“You wouldn’t?” I gasp.
“I would,” she says, deadpan. “But I’d complain the whole time.”
“That’s love.”
Milk does not respond. She’s chewing a bite of sticky rice like it personally offended her.
We sit on a low bench near the lantern booths, my sandals kicked off, her boots planted like she’s ready for an ambush. Music plays somewhere in the background — fiddles, pipes, laughter. Children run by with sugar-stained hands and little jars of fireflies. I lean into her space casually, just enough to make her shoulders stiffen. “Did you like it?” I ask. “The festival.”
Milk shrugs.
“That’s for ‘yes,’ right?”
She sighs, chewing slower. “It was fine.”
“Fine,” I repeat, dramatic. “You hear that, ancient moon spirits? My emotionally constipated bodyguard says it was fine. Bring forth the rain.”
“Do you always do this?”
“What?”
“This,” she gestures at me vaguely. “This entire… princess thing.”
“Being charming?”
“Being annoying.”
“Same thing, really.”
Her mouth twitches — not a smile, but the ghost of one. Progress.
---
Back at the tent....
The moon is higher now, the river murmuring gently nearby. We’re sitting on a blanket just outside the tent, half-bundled in cloaks, the night crisp enough to pull us close without looking like we’re huddling for emotional reasons.
Milk sits beside me like she always does: perfect posture, arms crossed, expression neutral, like she’s guarding a palace, not… sitting beside a girl who wants to braid flowers into her hair. I lean back on my elbows, staring up at the stars. They twinkle like they know something I don’t.
“You know,” I begin, voice casual, “they say if you wish on a falling star, your wish comes true.”
Milk doesn’t look up. “Superstition.”
“Oh, come on,” I nudge her boot with mine. “Not even one little wish?”
“No.”
“Not even secretly?”
“No.”
“What if I make a wish?”
“You’re an omega. You’re biologically programmed to wish for things.”
I gasp. “Rude. Also, accurate.”
Milk still doesn’t look at me, but her mouth is tight — like she’s trying not to laugh. Or panic. I roll over dramatically, flopping onto my stomach. “Fine. I’ll wish something.”
“No one’s stopping you.”
I rest my chin on my folded arms, grinning at her silhouette. “Want to know what I’d wish?”
“Not particularly.”
“I’ll tell you anyway.”
“Of course you will.”
I whisper, all soft and romantic: “Maybe I’d wish… for us to get married someday.”
Milk goes very still. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. A statue carved from fear and social discomfort. Then finally, she mutters, “That’s not how stars work.”
“Oh, so now you do believe in them?”
“I’m just correcting your logic.”
“Admit it,” I say. “You blushed.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. I can *feel* the temperature spike from here.”
“That’s the campfire.”
“Milk.”
Silence.
“Milk~”
“…What?”
“Would it really be so bad? Getting married?”
“To you?” she says, like I just asked her to legally marry a bear.
“Yes, to me. Future Queen. Kisser of noses. Bringer of mischief. I come with snacks.”
She exhales, long and suffering. “You’re impossible.”
I rest my cheek on my hands, smiling up at her. “So… that’s a no?”
She doesn’t reply.
Which means it’s not a no.
---
The stars are still up there, waiting. They haven’t fallen yet. But I might. A little more every minute.
Milk’s POV:
She’s been watching the stars for the last twenty minutes like they’re going to spell out her name. Or mine.
We’re sitting just outside the tent I built — she offered to help and then talked the entire time while I did everything myself. Typical. Now she’s curled up beside me on a blanket, close enough to feel the heat from her skin, far enough that I can still pretend I’m not thinking about it. The river nearby is quiet. Peaceful. The kind of place I’d like to be alone in, except… I’m not. And I don’t want to be. Which is annoying. She sighs like a poet.
“You know,” she says, voice light, teasing, too sweet for my nervous system, “they say if you wish on a falling star, your wish comes true.”
I don’t even look at her. “Superstition.”
“Oh, come on.” I feel her nudge my boot with hers. It’s gentle. It still feels like getting hit with a brick. “Not even one little wish?”
“No.”
“Not even secretly?”
“No.”
“What if I make a wish?”
“You’re an omega,” I say dryly, “you’re biologically programmed to wish for things.”
She gasps. “Rude. Also, accurate.”
I don’t look at her. I refuse to look at her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her flop over onto her stomach like some whimsical deer creature from a royal painting. Her braid slides across her shoulder, and I have to stare straight ahead or I’ll actually combust.
“Fine,” she groans. “I’ll wish something.”
“No one’s stopping you,” I mumble.
She turns her face toward me. I can feel her looking.
“Want to know what I’d wish?”
“Not particularly.”
“I’ll tell you anyway.”
Of course she will.
“Maybe I’d wish… for us to get married someday.”
My entire spine locks. Every part of me — jaw, shoulders, knees, lungs — freezes like a caught animal. My brain? A blank chalkboard. Nothing but a looping scream and the slow mental image of running into the river and never returning.
“That’s not how stars work,” I mutter, which is the most intelligent thing I can manage.
“Oh, so now you do believe in them?” she sings, triumphant.
“I’m just correcting your logic,” I say tightly.
She’s smiling now. I can hear it in her voice. “Admit it. You blushed.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. I can *feel* the temperature spike from here.”
“That’s the campfire.”
“Milk.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
“Milk~”
“…What?”
“Would it really be so bad? Getting married?”
“To you?” I say before I can stop myself. It sounds harsher than I meant it to.
She just says, “Yes, to me. Future Queen. Kisser of noses. Bringer of mischief. I come with snacks.”
I stare at the sky. At literally anything that isn’t her face. “You’re impossible,” I say.
She rests her cheek on her arms. Smiling. Not even trying to hide it. “So… that’s a no?”
I don’t answer.
Because it’s not a no. But I can’t say yes either.
Because she's sunshine and I am midnight rain. But still… I glance at her, once, in secret. She’s glowing in the moonlight. And she’s looking at me like I already hung the stars she’s trying to wish on.
And that? That might just kill me.
---
The stars still haven’t fallen, which is a shame. I was kind of hoping one would crash right onto my forehead and end my suffering.
We’re sitting outside the tent again. The fire’s burning low, the river murmurs in the background, and Love — Her Highness the Actual Menace — is wrapped in a cloak beside me, humming some old folk song like she’s in a dream sequence.
Meanwhile, I’m trying not to think about the way her braid has come undone. Or the way her voice slides under my ribs like a warm knife. So naturally, I do the only thing that makes me feel normal: I pull out my vape.
It’s one of those sleek black ones. Rechargeable. Doesn’t smell like trash fire like the cheap ones. I click it twice and lift it to my mouth, hoping for just thirty seconds of quiet distraction. A puff of minty vapor curls into the night sky. Cool. Calm. Controlled.
Until—
“What is that?” Love asks, scandalized, as if I just pulled out a live squirrel and bit into it.
I exhale slowly. “It’s a vape.”
“I know that, Milk, I’m not a nun. I meant why are you using it?”
I glance sideways at her. She’s frowning at me like I personally offended the monarchy. “Because I want to,” I say.
“Terrible reason.”
“Solid reason.”
“You know that stuff’s addictive, right?”
And then she does it. She just—grabs it out of my hand.
“What—hey! Give that back.”
“Nope.”
“Your Highness—”
“Nope.”
I stare at her, completely betrayed. “I just wanted one hit.”
She tucks it into the folds of her cloak like she’s confiscating contraband at a royal ball.
“You don’t need it,” she says, smug.
“I want it.”
“Well, I want to kiss someone who doesn’t smell like synthetic mint, but we can’t all have what we want, can we?”
I choke. She pretends not to notice. Or maybe she’s pretending she didn’t just murder me in cold blood with a single sentence. “You’re unbelievable,” I mutter, dragging my hand down my face.
“You’re welcome,” she says cheerfully.
“I wasn’t thanking you.”
“Sounded like it.”
“You’re going to give it back later, right?”
She smirks. “Why? Planning a secret rebellion when I fall asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Aw. Romantic.”
I glare at the fire and cross my arms. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Deeply.”
“You’re power-tripping.”
“I’m a princess. That’s my entire brand.”
I fall silent. Mostly because I’ve realized something horrifying: I don’t actually want the vape back right now. Not when she’s smiling like that. Not when she’s this close, looking proud of herself for saving my lungs and possibly my soul.
She wiggles her brows. “Regretting your life choices?”
“All of them,” I mutter.
“Even joining the royal guard?”
“Especially that.”
“Oh?” She shifts a little closer. “Even becoming my personal guard?”
I glance sideways. She’s looking at me with that stupid face. All smug and pretty and annoying.
I hate her. I hate her. I’d die for her.
“Your Highness,” I say dryly, “do you ever get tired of making my life difficult?”
She beams. “Never.”
---
The fire pops softly. She’s still holding my vape. I’m still pretending I don’t care. The stars are overhead, still waiting to fall. Maybe they’re procrastinating, too.
Or maybe they’re just watching like the rest of the universe, wondering when I’ll finally admit the truth.
(Spoiler: never. Probably.)
---
Notes:
Don’t forget to leave kudos and comments — they keep me alive, fr 🤧
Love y’all 💕
Chapter 21: Style: Part 3
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Film’s POV:
The air tonight is thick with things unspoken.
I lean over the balcony rail, elbows pressed against the cold stone, watching the city breathe in flickers of distant lights. The breeze isn’t enough to cool my skin. Or maybe it’s not heat I’m feeling — maybe it’s guilt. Shame. Grief in disguise. Behind me, the room is quiet. Curtains flutter. My tea is cold. I’ve been standing here for almost an hour. Still can’t get her voice out of my head.
“Film, I’m going to say something… and I don’t want you to overreact about it.”
The moment she said that, I felt it — the *shift*. That feeling when the floor doesn’t give out, but your balance does. I’d swallowed hard. “What?”
And then, so casually, so softly — like she was saying my name: “I know about you and Namtan.”
I think my soul left my body for a second. In the present, my hands curl tighter around the railing. Back in that room, I’d gone completely still. I couldn’t look her in the eyes. Couldn’t breathe. She’d added quickly, “Chill. I’m not mad at you.”
That almost made it worse. The kindness. The understanding. The fact that she still called me “Film” like she didn’t see me any differently.
“I know you liked her,” she’d said. “Since we were fifteen. And… I know you guys made out. It’s fine.”
Her voice hadn’t wavered. Not once. I had no idea how she did that. I remember finally looking up at her, stammering. “You’re not… angry?”
She smiled. A soft, tired one. “No. I never liked Namtan. The whole thing was forced — politics, appearances. You know how it is.”
Yeah. I knew how it was. I knew better than anyone what being forced into things felt like. But then she’d gone serious — not cold, not distant. Just… serious. Protective.
“But I’ve warned her,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like she wasn’t casually protecting my life. “Whatever happened between you two — it stays buried. If it leaks out, it won’t just be some scandal. It’ll ruin *you*. Your engagement with Nawin, your image. Everything.”
I remember swallowing again, throat dry. “He wouldn’t care.”
She nodded. “Yeah, but his family doesn’t. You know how they are. Old money, old mindsets. They’ll talk about purity, tradition… stupid things. But loud. And cruel.”
The worst part? She wasn’t wrong. And she didn’t say it like a threat. She said it like a friend. Like someone who’d been burned by those same people and didn’t want me getting the same scars.
---
Back on the balcony now, I breathe deep and slow. My fingers twitch. The city lights are blurry in the corners of my eyes. I remember the silence that followed her words. How she reached over and touched my hand — not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Just… gently.
“You’re still my best friend,” she’d said. “You’re still Film. This doesn’t change anything between us. Okay?”
And gods, that almost made me cry. Because I don’t know what I was expecting. Anger? Disgust? Royal fury? But I got Love. Just… Love. Being exactly who she always was.
Now, as I stand under the sky, I whisper to no one, “Why do you always have to be so good to me?”
---
I stared at my reflection in the mirror for a long time that night. Not out of vanity. Not to fix anything. Just to... see myself. To see if the girl in the glass still looked like me. She did. Almost. Except she looked stronger. Or at least trying to be. I smoothed my hands down the silk of my nightgown and whispered quietly to the girl in the glass: “No more looking back. We’re done with that.”
The air was still. Too still. The kind of stillness that presses against your ears like water. The kind where old memories like to crawl in. But I didn’t let them. Not this time.
---
I walked out to the balcony again, wrapping a shawl over my shoulders, the palace glowing behind me. The city lights glittered ahead like promises. Promises I hadn’t been brave enough to believe in. But I am now. I leaned against the railing and took a deep breath.
“I will be his wife,” I said aloud.
No one was around to hear me. Just me and the night. But it felt important to say it out loud. Like a vow. Like a spell. “I’ll be the best prince’s wife this kingdom has ever seen.”
My voice didn’t even shake. I thought of Nawin — sweet, kind, patient Nawin. A little awkward, sometimes too quiet, but steady in a way that made my heart feel safe even when everything else was breaking. He never once raised his voice. Never once questioned my past.
He deserved this. He deserved someone who chose him. Not someone stuck in the shadow of someone else.
I would be that. For him. For Love. For myself.
---
I felt the memory stirring then — like it always did when the night got quiet and the air tasted like jasmine.
Namtan’s voice. Her breath against my collarbone. Those nights behind locked doors, hearts reckless, hands clinging like we had no tomorrow. Because we didn’t.
But I shook it off. “Enough,” I whispered to no one.
“She’s my past. And that’s all.”
---
Then… my stomach turned. Just a little. A quick, tight coil in my gut that made me press a hand to it instinctively. I frowned. It wasn’t pain. Not really. Just… nausea. A flutter of unease. Like the world had tilted a bit sideways for a second. But it passed. Sort of.
I stood straighter. “I’m fine,” I told the stars. “It’s nothing. Maybe the sweets from the festival.”
I pushed the thought away like dust from my sleeve. Because tonight wasn’t for spiraling. It wasn’t for weakness. It was for becoming.
---
I thought of Love.
How she looked at me earlier — kind, knowing, firm. She didn’t scold me. Didn’t shame me. She just wanted me safe.
She fought Namtan for me. I didn’t see it, but I felt it in her words.
“If that ever leaks, it’ll destroy your name, not hers.”
“Her family won’t accept you."
“You deserve better.”
She never said it out loud, but I knew what she meant: “You deserve love that chooses you back.”
So I choose now. I choose forward. No more aching for someone who let me become a secret. No more crying over a version of myself that had to be hidden in shadows. I pulled the shawl tighter around myself and smiled — soft, small, but real. “From now on,” I said to the night, “I will build the kind of life no one can take from me.”
And somewhere deep down — beneath the nausea, the ache, the tremble I won’t name, a quiet, steel-sharp voice whispered: Even if it kills me.
Milk’s POV:
The light slants through the trees like it’s trying to kiss her skin. Of course it is. Everything loves her. The forest. The wind. The goddamn insects. Love walks a few paces ahead of me, hands brushing ferns aside like they’re soft silk curtains. She’s humming something — a song I know from her childhood, half-forgotten, the kind you sing when you feel safe.
Safe.
It’s the way she walks near me, always a little too close, never quite cautious. She never flinches when I reach for my blade to cut a branch. Never asks what I'm thinking when I go quiet for hours. Never looks at me like I’m something to be wary of. Like I’m not dangerous. She jokes too much. She talks like we’re normal people. Like we’re not walking through a jungle where death is as close as a wrong step. As close as me.
“You know,” she says lightly, pushing a leaf from her face, “if I get bit by a snake, you’re carrying me.”
“I’m not carrying you.”
She stops, glancing back at me with that stupid, infuriating smile. “Oh? You’d just leave me for dead?”
I don't answer. Her eyes sparkle, teasing. “Liar.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t test me.”
She turns back around and keeps walking, unfazed. The braid sways down her back, that golden ribbon she tied this morning catching the late light like fire. I hate that I noticed that. I hate that I always do. Everywhere we go, she makes things softer. Even here. In the dark. In the wild. I shouldn't have brought her. No. I shouldn't have let her come.
I step over a root and follow in silence. She talks again. She always does. “You really don’t like being called hubby, huh?”
My shoulders stiffen. “It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s adorable.”
“Stop saying that.”
She turns her head just enough to toss me a grin. “But you act like such a grumpy spouse. I’m just playing my role.”
“Your Highness—”
She cuts me off with a laugh. “There it is. That tone. The ‘you’re being inappropriate again, Love’ tone. I love it.”
I stop walking. She doesn’t notice at first. She keeps walking, half-spinning around with a skip in her step, her hand grazing tree trunks, her voice still floating: “You’ll see. One day, when we get married, people will say ‘gods, how did she tame that wolf?’ and I’ll say—”
“Stop.”
She does. Mid-step. Turns to me slowly. I’m standing a few meters back, fists tight, jaw locked, heart pounding in places I don’t want to name. “Stop calling me that,” I say.
Love’s brows lift slightly, playful confusion softening into curiosity. “Calling you what?”
“You know what.”
She tilts her head, hands on her hips. “Is it really that awful, Milk? I mean, you glared when I called you ‘dream hubby,’ but I thought that was just your way of blushing.”
I take a breath. It tastes like rust. “Don’t joke about that.”
“I’m not—”
“I’m not safe.”
She blinks. I step forward. Slowly. Carefully. Like I’m walking toward a cliff. Or a mirror. “You joke,” I say, quieter now, “you play around, you trust too easily. You act like I won’t—”
She watches me closely. No fear. No retreat. I hate that. “I could break your trust like everyone else,” I say. My voice is shaking now. I clench my jaw so tight it hurts. “I could take everything you give me and destroy it.”
Her smile fades. Not because she’s afraid. Because she’s starting to understand. She says, gently, “But you haven’t.”
“Not yet.”
We stand in the filtered light — two shapes in a forest where nothing ever stays still. She opens her mouth.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t tell me you believe in me. Don’t look at me like I’m someone good.
“Milk,” she says, and I know it’s going to be too soft. Too real.
“I said stop!”
It comes out like a crack of thunder. Startles the birds. Shakes the silence into pieces. Love steps back, just a little. Her face drops, confused. Hurt. She isn’t used to me yelling. No one is. I’m breathing hard now. Everything feels too loud. My skin too tight. I turn.
I walk.
---
I don’t storm. I don’t run. I walk like I’m chasing something. Like maybe, if I move fast enough, I won’t feel it anymore. The heat in my chest. The ache in my gut. The way her face looked when she realized I wasn’t going to catch the joke this time. Leaves crunch beneath my boots. A branch snaps. I keep going. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just need to not be there.
Not see her. Not feel this. Not want her.
---
I don’t know how long I walk. The anger fades fast. Too fast. Replaced by a slow, icy thing that crawls up my spine. Then— It hits.
She was alone.
My feet stop moving. The jungle suddenly feels too wide. Too endless. Too unknown. I turn.
Where is she? Where the hell is she?
---
“Love?” I call out. The name sounds wrong coming from my throat. Too raw.
I jog back. Faster. Twigs snap. My lungs burn. I reach the log where she stood. Empty. No golden braid. No soft humming. No stupid smile. Gone. And in the stillness of that moment, one thought sinks its teeth into me for the first time in my life: I might have just lost the only person who ever saw me… and didn’t flinch.
---
I don’t remember when I started running. At some point, my boots were pounding the ground, slicing through the ferns, crashing through low branches like a wild animal. The trees blurred. My vision blurred. My breath caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat and refused to move.
“Love!”
Nothing. Just the jungle. The endless, laughing jungle. I turned left, pushed past vines, scraped my wrist on bark.
“Your Highness?” I shouted again, louder this time, hating how broken my voice sounded.
No answer. Not even birdsong now. Like the whole forest knew I’d fucked up and didn’t want to get involved.
---
It had only been minutes. It had only been minutes— She couldn’t have gone far, right? She couldn’t have left me. Not really.
But she had. Because I told her to. Because I made her feel like she wasn’t safe with me.
I tripped over a root and fell hard, palms hitting damp dirt. Didn’t get up right away. My breath came out in harsh, ragged gasps. Not from the fall. From the weight. The weight of everything I’d never said. Everything I’d broken with a few word.
I sat there, kneeling in the dirt like some lost thing. My hands were trembling. Not from fear. From knowing. Knowing I’d hurt her. Not with a weapon. Not with teeth. But with me. I whispered her name.
“Love…”
It came out hoarse. Pathetic. I forced myself up. I started running again. I called for her — over and over. Sometimes in a whisper. Sometimes in a scream.
“Where are you?!”
“Love—please!”
“Your Highness, I—” My voice cracked. “Come back.”
No one answered. Just leaves. Just silence.
---
I don’t know how long I wandered. I know the sky started to darken. I know my heart kept getting heavier. I found the place where she dropped a flower earlier — crushed beneath her heel. I stared at it like it might speak. I touched the petal. “You’re really gone…”
My voice broke at the end. Just cracked wide open. And suddenly, I was kneeling again. Hands in my hair. Chest caving in. Like something inside me finally gave out. And the tears came. Slow. Hot. Quiet. No sobs. Not at first. Just tears sliding down like betrayal. Like proof that I could feel. That all this time, the coldness had just been armor. And she—she was the only person who got close enough to see underneath it.
And I chased her away.
---
I didn’t realize I was talking until I heard myself.
“Why did you have to look at me like that…?”
My voice was raw. Like I was whispering through glass shards.
“You always look at me like I’m someone good. Like I’m someone who’d… stay.”
A pause. My hand clenched around a leaf.
“But I don’t know how to stay. I only know how to guard. To follow orders. To run. To leave before I’m left.”
I looked up at the sky. It was too big. Too high. Too empty.
“I don’t know how to be what you want.”
I wiped my face with a shaking hand.
---
I stood. Slowly. Like my limbs were made of stone. I whispered one more thing. Not to the forest. Not to the wind. But to her. “Come back, Love…” And this time, I didn’t call her Your Highness. Because she wasn’t just royalty anymore. She was the only thing I wanted to come home to.........
Notes:
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Chapter 22: Style: Part 4
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Milk's POV:
I didn’t know where I was anymore. The jungle had twisted in on itself — no more paths, no more signs. Just roots and thorns and the sound of my heartbeat chasing me through the dark. My throat was dry from calling her name. My legs burned. I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t.
“Love,” I whispered again, barely audible. “Please. Please be okay.”
The sky had gone dark above the trees. My flashlight flickered with low battery, casting pale beams that shook with every step I took. The silence was thicker now. Unnatural. And then—
I saw it. A flicker of orange, just barely between the trees. A fire. I slowed. Every nerve in my body lit up. Something’s wrong. I crouched low, creeping through the underbrush, staying behind tree trunks. Closer. Closer. The clearing opened like a secret in the dark — like a wound split into the forest. There was a hut— small, crooked, rotting into the ground. A fire burned in front of it, and around it stood three figures. Men. Drunk on something. Their laughter cracked through the quiet like glass. And tied to a tree—Slumped. Still.
Love.
Her head hung down, hair matted with blood, cheeks scratched, her dress dirty and torn. Rope cut into her wrists. Her legs were buckled beneath her like she’d collapsed trying to fight. And they— They were laughing. Pointing. One of them was lighting a cigarette, the ember glow reflecting in his teeth.
“You think that girl tastes expensive?” one of them sneered, his voice thick with filth.
Another laughed. “Maybe she’ll beg for her life when she wakes up.”
The third one just grinned like a wolf.
And that’s when something inside me split. I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I moved.
---
I stepped out from the trees, slow, deliberate, my boots crunching against the dirt. The one with the cigarette turned first — his grin fell flat when he saw me. I raised my gun. He barely had time to blink before I pulled the trigger.
CRACK.
The shot echoed through the jungle like a scream. He hit the ground. Hard. The firelight danced across my face now. And the other two? They froze. I saw their eyes go wide — not just from fear, but from the way I looked. Not like a soldier. Not like a bodyguard. Like something dangerous. I walked forward slowly, gun raised, my voice low — calm enough to be terrifying.
“Back off,” I said. “If you don’t want to be dead.”
The taller one reached for something at his belt — I cocked my gun with a click that shut him down fast. “No, no, no—” he stammered, backing up. “We didn’t know she was with someone—”
“She’s not ‘with someone,’” I said flatly. “She’s with *me*.”
The other one was already running. Coward. I didn’t shoot him. Didn’t need to. They knew better now. They ran into the trees like rats in a flood. Good. I barely looked at the body. I didn’t care. I ran to her.
---
“Love—” My voice cracked as I dropped to my knees in front of her. She didn’t respond.
“Hey—hey, stay with me.” My hands moved without thinking — untying the ropes, checking her pulse, brushing the blood away from her temple. “You’re okay. I’m here.”
I pressed her head gently against my chest. She was breathing. Shallow. But alive. I bit back the sound in my throat. I hadn’t cried since I was a child. But right now, if she hadn’t been breathing— I would’ve burned this entire forest down.
---
I cupped her face gently, whispering to her. My lips brushed her hairline.
“You stupid girl,” I murmured. “Why did you trust me?”
She stirred faintly in my arms. I closed my eyes, pulling her closer. “Why didn’t you run farther? Why did you wait here like I’d come?”
Because she knew. Even after everything, she knew I would. My voice broke when I said it again: “I’m here. I came back.”
---
She was too light.
That’s the first thing I noticed when I lifted her onto my back — that she weighed nothing at all. Like if I didn’t hold tight enough, she’d vanish into the wind. Her arms hung limp over my shoulders, her forehead pressing faintly into the back of my neck. I adjusted her legs around my waist and stood slowly, carefully, like one wrong jolt might snap something delicate. “Hold on,” I whispered, even though she couldn’t hear me.
I began to walk.
---
The jungle was dark now. Properly dark. Each step was an effort — not because of the weight, but because of what she looked like. Because her breathing was shallow.
Because there was dried blood on her hair. Because her warmth on my back was the only thing tethering me to reality. I talked to her while we walked.
Not for her. For me.
“I told you not to call me hubby,” I murmured, breath hitching. “And what did you do?”
No answer.
“You always talk too much. You flirt too easily. You trust too fast.”
The branches scratched at my arms as I ducked under them.
“And I… yelled. Like an idiot.”
The words trembled. “She should’ve been safe with me,” I said to the jungle, my voice lower now. “She was supposed to be safe.”
---
By the time I reached the camp, my legs were shaking.
The tent stood quietly by the river, the lantern still glowing faintly from earlier. I dropped to my knees with her in my arms, laying her down gently on the bedroll like she was made of glass. Her cheeks were cold. I lit the stove. Fumbled with the water. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I cleaned the blood from her hair as best I could with warm cloth. Checked the bruise on her temple. It didn’t look fatal. No swelling. Just a dark, angry mark. I sat beside her. Watching. Waiting.
Her chest rose and fell. That was all I needed. That was all I had.
---
Minutes passed. Hours, maybe. I don’t remember when it happened. Her fingers twitched. Then—A soft inhale.
I looked down just as her eyelids fluttered open. She blinked at me — slow, confused, dazed. Her lips parted slightly, cracked and dry. Her eyes landed on my face. And the first thing she whispered, like it was a fact, was—
“Milk…?”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “You’re awake,” I said. My voice came out lower than usual, quieter. A crack in it I couldn’t hide. She blinked again, slower this time, brow furrowing. Then she saw my face — really saw it.
The tear stains still on my cheeks. The way my hand hovered near her, like I wanted to touch her but didn’t trust myself. And her eyes widened. “You cried?”
“I—” I tried to speak. My voice caught. Love’s lips parted again, stunned. “You… cried for me?”
I looked down. “You were gone. I thought—”
I couldn’t finish that sentence. She sat up slowly, wincing as her hand went to the side of her head. “Gods… my head.”
“Easy,” I said quickly, leaning in. “You need to rest—”
“I was just going back to camp,” she muttered, rubbing her temple. “I was mad, okay? I didn’t even leave far. I was pouting.”
I almost laughed. Almost. Her expression twisted. “Then something hit me. Hard. On the back of my head. I—I didn’t see anything.”
Her fingers trembled. My chest twisted. “I don’t remember much after that,” she said, voice fading. “Just… pain. And then… you.”
I looked at her. Really looked. The smudges under her eyes. The dirt on her arms. The bruise. And she was still trying to joke. Still trying to be her. My throat closed around everything I couldn’t say.
But then, quietly — too quiet — I managed:
“Thank the gods I found you.”
She blinked. Her lips twitched into the smallest smile. “You did find me, huh?” she whispered. “Even after all that yelling. I was pretty mad at you.”
“I know.”
“Still kinda am,” she added, playful but tired. “You hurt me.”
“I know.”
She tilted her head. “Are you going to apologize?”
“…Eventually.”
She grinned. Then winced. I adjusted the blanket around her.
“You really carried me back?” she asked after a pause.
“On my back,” I muttered.
She blinked at me. “You— Milk. That’s… romantic as hell.”
I sighed and shook my head. “Don’t start.” But she was already smiling like she’d won the lottery. “Maybe I’ll forgive you,” she teased, curling into the blanket. “Maybe.” I didn’t answer. I just sat there — eyes fixed on her, hand hovering near hers, like if I blinked, she’d disappear again. But she didn’t. She stayed.
---
We didn’t speak much after she woke up. Just a few words. A few touches. She drank the water I gave her. Let me wrap her hand. Told me the ache in her head was fading. Now, we sit by the riverbank. The stars stretched above us like scattered glass. Her knees pulled up to her chest. My coat draped around her shoulders. The campfire flickers behind us, but here, it’s quieter. More real. The river hums softly at our feet, the current gentle, like it knows it’s holding our reflection. She shifts beside me. Her shoulder brushes mine.
“You’re thinking too loud again,” she says, voice still hoarse, but playful.
I glance at her. She’s looking straight ahead. Eyes wide, lashes casting shadows down her cheeks.
“I’m not thinking,” I lie.
She hums. “You always say that when you’re thinking the most.”
I don’t answer. Just lean back on my hands and tilt my face toward the sky. The night is clear. Stars everywhere. Like they all came to see if she was okay. She draws in a breath.
“Remember what I said?” she asks. “About falling stars?”
I nod once. “Superstition.”
“Still true.”
“I still don’t believe in it.”
“Well,” she says, stretching her legs out with a soft groan, “that’s your problem.”
I turn to look at her. She’s smiling at the sky.
“I’m going to wish anyway,” she whispers.
And then— It happens. A soft streak of light across the sky, golden and slow, trailing like a sigh. The star falls. Her eyes sparkle, mouth parted just slightly. I don’t ask what she wished for. I already know she won’t tell me. And I’m glad.
Because if she said my name, I don’t know what I’d do.
---
I close my eyes. Just for a second. And let myself do it. Something I’ve never done before. I wish. Not to win wars. Not to rise higher. Not for strength. Not for power. Just one thing: Let me protect her. Let me keep her safe. Even if she never calls me hers. Even if I never deserve it. Let me carry her. Again. And again. And again.
---
When I open my eyes, she’s watching me. Not smiling. Just watching. Like she sees everything I didn’t say.
“You wished something,” she says quietly.
I shake my head. “No.”
“You did.”
“Did not.”
She turns her face back to the river. Her voice is quieter now.
“…I hope it comes true.”
I look at her. Her profile in the starlight. Her bruise fading under her cheekbone. Her lips chapped. Her heart still wide open. I don’t deserve to be near her. But I am. And gods help me — I want to stay.
“…Yeah,” I whisper. “Me too.”
Notes:
Author’s Note 💌
Hey guys!! 🐸💖
Just a quick heads up — I’ll be going on a little break for about a month (studies/life chaos 😵💫📚), but before I disappear, I wanted to drop 4 chapters for you as a big hug and apology!! 🥺💕
Thank you SO much for your love, comments, and chaos-screams in the tags — you make writing this messy royal/mafia drama a blast. I’ll be back soon with 3 more juicy chapters— pinky promise 🤞✨
Until then, scream in the comments, leave me some kudos, and keep being iconic 💅
Love you all!!
— 🐸💗
Chapter 23: My Tears Ricochet
Chapter Text
Namtan’s POV:
I used to joke that silence was the worst sound in the world. Now I know it’s not. It’s the sound of her laughing beside someone else. It’s the sound of porcelain clinking when her hand brushes his as she passes him a plate. It’s the sound of her voice, just loud enough to be polite, soft enough to be warm. But never for me. Not anymore.
---
The Weerawatnodom dining hall is too bright this morning. White walls. White linen. White plates. Everything in this godforsaken house feels like it was bleached of color. Including me. I sit near the end of the long table, as usual. My back straight. My spoon poised perfectly in hand. The oatmeal tastes like nothing.
Across the table, Film is laughing. With Nawin. Her laugh isn’t fake. It isn’t forced. It’s… natural. Like it belongs there. She’s leaning toward him slightly. Not much. Just enough for my chest to tighten. Her shoulder brushes his once. She doesn’t move away. She always used to move away when I touched her.
He says something low. A joke, maybe. I can’t hear. She giggles. Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. I stare at my bowl.
“You’re quiet this morning,” someone says. One of the aunts, I think.
I look up. Barely. “Didn’t sleep well.”
“Hm. Try chamomile next time,” she says, buttering a roll. “It does wonders for the nerves.”
Nerves. That’s a delicate way of putting it.
I’m not breathing properly. Haven’t since I walked in and saw them sitting side by side like they’ve been doing it forever. Like she isn’t the same girl who used to whisper my name in the dark, trembling under my hands. Like she isn’t the same girl who cried in my arms the night before her engagement was announced. Like she isn’t the same girl who I ruined.
Usually, this is the part where I act out. Where I grab her wrist too hard in some hallway. Where I slam her against a doorframe and kiss her like I want to erase everyone else she’s ever smiled at. Where she breaks and melts and gives in, just like always.
But not today. Not after what Love said, “If this ever leaks out… she’ll be the one to suffer.”
Not after that night, when I watched her walk out of my room and into a future with someone else. With my stepbrother.
---
“You’re not eating,” another voice says. Weerawatnodom Sr. this time. The patriarch.
I glance down. My spoon’s still full. Has been for ten minutes. “Not hungry,” I murmur.
He frowns slightly, but doesn’t press. Thank gods.
I steal one more glance across the table. Film is sipping tea now. She’s so careful. So poised. Everything about her screams perfect future wife. The kind that brings stability. Peace. Honor. Not chaos. Not scandal. Not someone like me.
She hasn’t looked at me once. It’s like I’m not even here. And maybe… I’m not.
The hollowness is new. I don’t even know where it started. Maybe the night I heard her engagement announcement in someone else’s voice. Maybe the moment I watched Love — fucking Love — tell her to forget me. Or maybe right now. Watching her slide into this family so easily, while I sit here with my untouched food and a mouth full of ash.
I push the bowl away.
“Excuse me,” I say to no one in particular.
Film’s laughter fades the moment I stand. But she doesn’t look at me. Not until I’m almost past her. Then — just then — her eyes flick to mine. For half a second. Maybe less. And I swear I see it.
A flicker of guilt. Or pain. Or… regret?
But then she turns away again. Says something to Nawin. Smiles. And I walk out like I didn’t feel my whole chest cave in.
---
I didn’t punch the wall today. I thought I would. My knuckles even twitched on the way to my room. That familiar ache. That itch to bleed it out. But instead… I just sat. I closed the door behind me, leaned against it for a second, and slid down until I was sitting on the floor. Still in my dress. Still with my boots on.
No screaming. No broken glass. Just the hum of the air conditioner and the sound of a heart breaking the old-fashioned way.
My room used to feel too big. Now it feels tiny. As if everything I ever did in here — every fight, every kiss, every mistake — is pressing in on me from the walls. I press my head back against the door and close my eyes. And she’s there. Like always.
---
“You can’t just drag me into the kitchen at 2AM and demand I cook you noodles—”**
“Why not? You make them better.”
“We literally have a chef.”
“Yeah, and I have a girlfriend with magical hands. Why would I settle?”
“You are impossible.”
“And you’re still here.”
She huffed, rolled her eyes, but her fingers moved on autopilot — boiling water, cracking an egg, chopping green onions with sleepy eyes and flushed cheeks. She made me noodles. Then fed me the first bite.
“You’re spoiled,” she’d muttered.
“You made me this way,” I’d said through a mouthful of broth.
She’d laughed. Softly.
---
I stand slowly, walk to the edge of my bed, and sit down. The mattress creaks under my weight. I stare at the spot where she used to lie. On her side. One hand curled under her cheek. Hair spread across my pillow like a storm cloud.
---
We weren’t soft, her and I. We didn’t say 'I love you'. Not with words. But in other ways? She was fiercely mine. She wouldn’t even let anyone touch her. Would recoil when other people flirted. Looked genuinely bored when men tried to talk to her.
“I think my body’s broken,” she joked once, curled under the blanket beside me.
“How so?” I’d asked, brushing my fingers down her back.
“It only reacts to you.”
I hadn’t said anything then. But I’d kissed her like I meant to never let her go.
---
I stare at my ceiling now. Eyes burning. Gods, how many times did I take her for granted? How many times did I assume she’d stay — no matter how cruel I got, no matter how many promises I broke? And now she’s downstairs, next to my stepbrother, acting like she belongs there. Like she’s never known what it feels like to scream my name against the headboard.
My fingers twitch again. I almost hit the wall this time. But I don’t. Instead, I fall back on the bed. One arm across my eyes. I speak to the ceiling. To no one.
“Did you forget me already, Film…?”
My voice cracks.
“Did you forget what we were?”
No one answers. Only memory does.
Milk’s POV:
I don't usually come here. View’s apartment sits too high above the city. Too quiet. Too clean. Too… safe. But tonight, I needed somewhere to lose my mind. Somewhere she didn’t exist. I was wrong, of course. She exists everywhere now.
View hands me a glass of cold water, sits across from me on the couch, and stares. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She never does. She waits. And when I don’t say anything after five minutes, she breaks the silence. “…You’re shaking.”
I blink. I hadn’t noticed. I grip the glass tighter, like I’m holding myself together by the rim.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
I scoff. “You always say that.”
“That’s because you always do it.”
Another silence. The ticking of her minimalist wall clock scratches behind my eyes. I want to rip it off the wall.
“I—” I start, then stop. “Something happened on the trip.”
View raises an eyebrow. “Did you kill someone?”
I give her a look. “No.”
She shrugs. “You have that same energy.”
I sigh. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Try the middle. It’s usually messier there.”
I stare down at the condensation building on my glass. “I yelled at her,” I mutter. “I snapped. Out of nowhere.”
View nods, as if that’s the most normal thing I could say.
“She was being… her,” I say. “Flirty. Kind. Trusting.”
I grit my teeth.
“She kept saying stupid things. Like—like calling me hubby. And saying she felt safe with me. And smiling like I hadn’t thought about betraying her since the moment I met her.”
View watches me. Patient. Silent.
“And then I lost it,” I admit, voice cracking. “I told her to stop trusting me. That I could break her. That she shouldn’t say those things.”
“And?”
“She looked like I’d punched her.”
View tilts her head. “And that’s what made you spiral?”
I let out a breath. “No.”
She waits. I close my eyes. “She went missing.”
That gets her. “What?”
“In the jungle. I pushed her away and walked off. When I came back, she was gone.”
View leans forward now. Serious. No more sarcasm.
“She was kidnapped. Blood on her head. Rope. Some bastards laughing around her like she was a toy they hadn’t broken yet.”
View’s face hardens. “Did you kill them?”
“One.”
She nods like that’s right.
“I got her back. Carried her. She woke up crying. I…”
I press my hands into my eyes. “I almost lost her, View.”
The words hang in the air. Like something too sacred to touch. View whispers, “And it scared you.”
I nod.
“And now you don’t know why?”
I bite my lip. She leans closer.
“Milk.”
I don’t look at her. She says it softer. “Milk… you’re falling.”
That word. That word— It shatters whatever was holding me upright. I stand abruptly. “Don’t say that.”
View frowns. “But it’s true.”
“No, it’s *not*.”
“Milk—”
“Stop it!” I snap, turning to her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her voice stays calm. “You love her.”
I laugh. Bitter. Loud. “I don’t love anyone.”
“Bullshit.”
“You think I’d fall for someone like her? A royal? A spoiled, trusting little—”
“You already did.”
I pace the room like a caged animal. “I can’t fall.”
View stands now too. I stop. Turn to her. “I’m supposed to betray her.”
Silence. My chest heaves. I whisper it again. “I’m supposed to betray her.”
View says nothing. I sink to the floor like I’ve been shot. Hands in my hair. Heart pounding so loud it makes me nauseous. “I made a deal. I had a plan. I was going to take her kingdom, her name, everything—she was just the path.”
My voice breaks. “But now she looks at me like I’m her world. Like I’m something *good*. And I can’t— I can’t look back at her and keep lying.”
View kneels beside me. Her voice is low. Gentle. “So what are you going to do?”
I look at her, eyes glassy.
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
“I shouldn’t have saved her.”
“You would’ve died for her.”
I clench my jaw. “I can’t fall.”
She touches my shoulder. But I barely feel it. Because somewhere in the middle of my chest, something is unraveling. And it feels like truth. And it feels like her. And it feels like I’m not the monster I swore I’d be. Not anymore.
---
I’m still on the floor. My knees pulled to my chest, palms slick against my face, the kind of cold sweat you get when you’ve cried too hard but never let the tears fall. View hasn’t moved. She sits beside me on the carpet like we’re children again. Like I haven’t just shattered in front of her for the first time in a decade. The silence stretches. It doesn’t hurt. It’s… breathable. Then, softly: "Hey."
I glance up. Her eyes are kind. Too kind. "I got something for you," she says, voice light. “A little distraction. You remember that thing you asked me to run a few weeks ago?”
I blink. “What?”
She taps her phone screen and pulls something up. "You asked me to run a DNA analysis. You and Namtan."
I sit straighter. The air stiffens. “You actually did it?”
She nods. “Swabbed your glass. Stole hers off a champagne flute.”
“You drugged her at a royal gala?”
“I distracted her with compliments and let her think I was into her. It’s not that hard.”
I blink, trying to process. “I’d forgotten about that…”
“No you didn’t,” she says, handing me her phone. “You just buried it under all the feelings you keep pretending don’t exist.”
I scowl, but I take the phone. The screen glows with a report. My name. Namtan’s name. Genetic markers. Percentages. 99.97% probability of full-sibling match. My chest tightens. Even though I suspected it—Even though I felt it. Seeing it confirmed feels like swallowing fire.
“So it’s true,” I whisper. “She’s my sister.”
“Older,” View adds. “By two minutes.”
“Two cursed minutes,” I murmur.
She shrugs. “She got born, then stolen. You got left behind.”
I give her a look.
“What? I’m just saying. Drama runs in your family.”
I stare down at the DNA report. I feel nothing. Or maybe I feel too much. She’s my twin. And I’ve never known her. Not truly.
“She looks like our mother,” I say.
“And you?”
I let out a breath. “I look like him.”
View doesn’t have to ask who. The man who raised me like a soldier. The one who didn’t let me cry at my own bruises. The man who said ‘You killed her the day you were born.’ "I may look like dad” I whisper, “but everyone says I act too much like mom.”
View studies me. “And Namtan?”
I swallow. “She has mom's face,” I say slowly, “but she walks like him. Talks like him. Her mind’s always calculating. Her eyes never soften.”
“So you’re inverted copies.”
“No,” I say, barely audible. “We’re a tragedy divided in two.”
Silence. Then, from View: “Do you hate her?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Do you trust her?”
I pause. “No.”
View exhales. “She’s not your enemy, Milk.”
“She might be.”
“But you don’t want her to be.”
I clench my jaw. “We’re not friends.”
“You share a womb. That’s deeper than friendship.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m always one step away from war?”
View’s voice softens. “Because you were both born into grief. You just processed it differently.”
I nod. Tired. So, so tired. And somewhere in my chest, where betrayal used to live— There’s something like love. Old, unfamiliar, aching. Not for Love. Not even for Namtan. But for the mother neither of us ever got to know.
Chapter 24: Delicate
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Love’s POV:
The air in Father’s study always smelled like incense, old leather, and dry rules. The room had too many chairs no one sat in. Too many clocks that ticked at the same time but never quite in rhythm. He sat behind the large desk, like a statue carved in authority. I stood before him — in my favorite light yellow dress, looking every bit the obedient daughter. Which I absolutely wasn’t.
He didn’t look up right away. He just kept signing papers, his brows drawn tight. The silence lingered. Then, finally, he said it without preamble. “There will be a royal gala next week. You and Namtan will attend together.”
There it was. I didn’t even blink. “Of course, Father.”
He looked up, surprised. I smiled with all my teeth. Not too much. Just enough to say: I’m your perfect daughter. I do not set fires behind the curtains.
He nodded slowly. “You’ll dance the opening waltz with her.”
Oh? Will I?
“Understood.”
“She’s been away from court for a while. There are whispers. This will help settle things. Reaffirm your position beside her.”
I tilted my head just slightly. “Will other nobles be attending too?”
“They will. As will every House of the Eastern Provinces. It’s a political gesture.”
Of course it was. Everything in this kingdom was a performance. Eat the right soup, wear the right silk, smile at the right noble — or lose a province to gossip.
He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t want rumors, Love.”
I held his gaze. I knew which ones he meant. Too close to your bodyguard. Too many smiles. A princess doesn’t sit so near an alpha with a past like hers.
“Yes, Father,” I said sweetly.
He stared a moment longer, trying to read something in my eyes. But I was far too practiced for that. Then he dismissed me with a nod. “You may go.”
I turned to leave. But not too fast. Not like I was running. Just… floating out. Every step past his desk, I bit down a laugh. The moment I stepped outside and shut the door behind me, I let myself breathe. Just once. A gala. A royal gala. With every Lord and Lady of Limpatiyakorn watching. And he wants me to dance with Namtan? Oh, sweet Father. You’ve just handed me the perfect stage.
I walked down the corridor, the marble cool beneath my feet, and imagined it already— The orchestra starting. The candlelight flickering. And me—spinning in the arms of my so-called bodyguard. Milk in black. Me in red. Dancing the waltz in front of everyone. Slowly. Deliberately. Her hand at my back. Her gaze too intense for “just a guard.” Let them whisper. Let the nobles choke on their fruit wine. You want scandal? I’ll give you opera.
I twirled once in the empty hall, just to feel the idea settle in my body. Milk will resist, of course. She always does. Always mutters things like “this isn’t wise,” and “you’re a princess, you can’t.” But I see the way her eyes burn when I smile too long. I know her better than she thinks I do.
I stopped near the courtyard, the sunlight warm on my face. “Let them all come,” I whispered, the look of my infamous mischievousness playing on my face.
Namtan’s POV:
It’s been twelve days. Twelve days since the breakfast where I saw her laugh beside him. Twelve days since I told myself I’d let it go. Twelve days of watching her walk hand-in-hand with someone else, waving at crowds like she was born into royalty instead of molded into it by silence and duty. Twelve days of watching the kingdom fall in love with my girl.
My girl. Who’s not mine anymore.
I stand by the edge of the palace corridor, out of sight but never far enough to not see her. She’s on another tour today — Film, the radiant fiancée of Prince Nawin. Camera flashes. Her smile. His hand on her lower back. Her perfectly timed laugh. Gods. She’s good. I wonder if she practiced it in front of the mirror. Or if it just came naturally — the way she slipped into that role. The way she slipped out of mine.
“Isn’t she lovely?” one of the ministers says to another as they pass behind me.
“Perfect for the prince. Just perfect.”
My jaw clenches. I light my vape. Inhale like it’s the only thing that’ll keep me from screaming. They don't see me. They never do. Just like her.
In another life, I’d have grabbed her by the wrist. Pushed her into the nearest empty room. Said something stupid like “Say you don’t love him.”
And she would’ve stared at me with that fire in her eyes and said, “I don’t.”
But that life’s gone now. I don’t touch her anymore. I don’t speak. I just watch.
Night falls. It always does. And every night ends the same way: Me, alone in my room, surrounded by smoke and silence.
I sit on the floor beside the balcony. One hand holding my vape, the other cradling a glass of whiskey like it’s a goddamn lifeline. I inhale. Exhale. Again. My lungs are already starting to hate me. Good. Maybe if I keep this up, they’ll give out and save me the trouble. I imagine the headline: "Weerawatnodom's eldest daughter found dead in her apartment, nothing but empty bottles and a half-used vape beside her."
Tragic. Expected.
The door creaks. It’s just the wind. Or the universe teasing me. She never comes to my room anymore. Not even to fight.
I talk to myself now. Like an idiot.
“She looks happy,” I mutter to the shadows.
No one answers.
“She walks like she belongs with him.”
No one answers.
“She probably sleeps better now.”
Still nothing.
I throw the empty bottle against the wall. It doesn’t shatter. It just thuds and rolls under the table like even the glass has given up on me. I close my eyes. Inhale again. Deeper. The vape glows blue. My lungs burn. “Kill me slower,” I whisper to the ceiling. “Drag it out. Make it hurt.”
Because if Film loved me even a little, she’d come back.
And if she doesn’t? Then I deserve every second of this.
---
Today is the garden ceremony — some diplomatic show-off gathering with princesses and advisors and rose bouquets. I sit in the second row, behind Nawin and Film. Of course. Behind them. Film’s hair is curled. Her gown is a soft pink, flowing and regal. She doesn’t even look nervous anymore — she walks like someone born to this. Beside her, Nawin is smiling.
“She’s blooming,” someone beside me murmurs. “Such grace. A real lady of the court.”
I light my vape again.
“You’re not supposed to do that here,” a guard whispers to me.
I blow the smoke in his direction. “Report it, then,” I mutter.
He doesn’t. No one wants to touch me. I’m already rotting. There’s applause. More speeches. More polite smiles. More of me watching her slip further away. She waves at the crowd. Poses with the children. Takes Nawin’s hand to guide an old duchess to her seat. I should be angry. I should do something. But I just sit.
---
Later that night, I’m in my room again. Same routine. Same floor. Same drink. Same vape between my fingers, glowing blue in the dark like a dying heartbeat. I don’t even bother with music anymore. Silence hurts more. Feels more honest.
I reach under the bed. Pull out the old box. Photos. Letters. Dumb little things she left behind. A pair of earrings I bought her but never gave. Her scribbled note — “Your breath smells like coffee and sin. I love it.”
I hold it up. My hand is shaking.
“You bitch,” I whisper, voice cracking. “You said it. You said you loved it. You said you loved me. You didn’t say goodbye." With that, I press the note to my face.
And for the first time in a long time....I cry.
Not the violent kind. Not the kind that leaves your face red and your fists bleeding. Just quiet. Steady. A slow river of grief that drips down my cheeks and into the neckline of my shirt. I cry like someone who knows no one’s coming to stop me.
My phone lights up. A news notification: "Crown Prince Nawin and fiancée Film Weerawatnodom set to attend international summit next month together. Sources say the couple is becoming a symbol of royal unity."
Royal unity. What a joke.
I chuck the phone across the room. It hits the wall, screen cracking. Just like me.
Then sit back against the wall. Legs folded, eyes open, brain empty.
And I whisper: “Forget me already, Film?”
And the silence replies, "She already has."
---
Milk’s POV:
I stood at the edge of the war table, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the map we’d spread across the steel surface. Thick lines. Satellite feeds. Entry points. Exit tunnels. Months of planning reduced to arrows and assumptions.
The vault was real. The fortune inside, unimaginable — more than gold. Codes. Backdoors to entire economies. Secrets nations would murder to protect. And we were so close. “Update,” I said, barely above a whisper.
One of my men stepped forward, nervous. “The team breached Sector 4B last night. They bypassed the coolant systems. We disabled half the security protocols. But…”
“But?”
He hesitated. “The final lock didn’t open.”
I already knew the answer. I already knew what came next.
“It requires a dual-authorization sequence,” he said, eyes darting to me. “One belongs to the current monarch of Limpatiyakorn… and the other… is encoded in the DNA of their future consort.”
My chest tightened. Love. The bastard vault was sealed with Love’s name — with the one woman I couldn’t bring myself to touch, let alone betray. I pressed my hand flat against the map to stop it from trembling.
“How the fuck…” View muttered beside me. She dragged a hand through her hair. “No one told us the second key was biological.”
“They didn’t know,” I said quietly. “Even the royal archives only hint at the bio-lock.”
“They’ve always been ahead,” she whispered. “As if they were waiting for us to come.”
I nodded once, stiff. Then — the door slammed open. Heavy boots. A scent that brought bile to my throat — expensive cologne over blood and smoke. The higher-up. Korn Chaiwat. My father’s oldest ally. My deepest fear.
He was already storming toward me before I looked up. The soldiers by the door moved like ghosts behind him — silent, armed.
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, Milk,” he snarled.
“Sir—”
I didn’t finish. He grabbed my collar — hard — yanking me forward so fast my boots scraped the floor. His breath was hot against my face.
“Three months!” he roared. “Three months of waiting, investing, bleeding — and you’re telling me a princess outplayed you?”
“She wasn’t—”
“Don’t!” he spat, tightening his grip. “You were supposed to kidnap her the night of the summit! The minute, she stepped out of her golden cage.”
“I didn’t get the order until later,” I gritted out, forcing my jaw steady.
“You hesitated.”
I said nothing. He knew I did. We both knew why.
“She smiled at you, didn’t she?” Korn hissed. “That little omega princess gave you a soft look and you forgot who the fuck you are?”
Before I could move, View stepped between us. “She didn’t hesitate,” She snapped. “It’s my fault. I told her we needed surveillance. I gave the delay. Don’t put this on her—”
Crack. The gun’s metal hilt slammed into View’s head. She dropped like a sack of bricks, knees folding, body collapsing sideways.
“VIEW!” I shouted.
But I couldn’t catch her. Couldn’t even move. Korn’s hand still gripped my collar.
“Do you see now?” he growled. “You’re too soft. Just like her.”
I froze. Her. He meant my mother. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper.
“I gave you command because you were Arthit’s daughter,” Korn said. “But look at you. You’ve got her soul. You’re weak. You think we ask for crowns? We take them. We steal breath. We burn cities. We don’t fall for omega eyes.”
He shoved me backward. I staggered, caught myself. The guards moved as if they were about to collect View and go. Like this was the end of the line for me.
No.
I couldn’t let it end like this. I wouldn’t. I raised my voice, steady and sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Give me more time.”
Korn stopped mid-step. “What?”
I squared my shoulders. “You trained me. You trusted me with this for a reason. If the future consort is the key, then I’ll be the one to hold it. I will bring her in. No one else can do it like I can. You know that.”
He stared at me. Silent. Disbelieving.
“You’ve already waited three months,” I added. “One more won’t kill you.”
He stepped closer. The tension buzzed around us like a live wire. The soldiers didn't move. View lay breathing, still, on the cold floor behind me. Then Korn’s lip curled into a bitter grin. “One month, Milk,” he said. “Not a day more.”
I exhaled slowly. “Understood.”
“And if you fail,” he added, voice low and venomous, “you won’t get a second chance. This time, I’ll put a bullet between your soft little eyes.”
He turned on his heel and walked out. The others followed. The door slammed shut behind them. And I stood there. Alone. Heart pounding. Staring at View’s unconscious form. Staring at the map. Staring at the name I couldn’t cross- Princess Love Pattaranite Limpatiyakorn.
Notes:
HEY GUYS I AM BACK 😭😭😭
Life was hectic, but I couldn't help but sit to write after reading you guys kind comments 😭😭😭
Sorry I couldn't give three chapters as I promised, but two chapters aren't bad, right? 😓😓😓
See ya' guys!
Leave kudos and comments, they inspire me the best 🤧🤧🤧
Chapter 25: Illicit Affairs
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Love’s POV:
I sat across from her, swirling the wine in my glass just for the sound of it. The soft hum of the restaurant felt miles away, like some distant lullaby sung to soothe people less tense than us. She looked like hell in a fancy coat. Hair tied too tightly, jaw clenched like the world owed her something. Even the shadows under her eyes were angry.
“So,” I smiled, fake and sweet, “you’re the one who called me out for a ‘casual catch-up’?” I leaned forward, elbows on the pristine white tablecloth. “You look pathetic, by the way.”
Namtan’s fork clinked against the plate. She didn’t look up. “Shut up.”
A giggle escaped me, cruel and unbothered. “What? Are you still brooding over her?” I tilted my head. “She seemed happy. Did you see her laughing with Nawin earlier? I bet that stung your little control freak heart.”
Her fingers tightened around her glass. “Love,” she said, voice low, like a warning shot in the dark.
“What? You can’t stand that she’s moving on? That someone else gets to look at her without being terrified of breathing wrong?” I leaned back and crossed my arms. “God, you’re so transparent.”
Her eyes finally met mine. Sharp. Dark. Like a gun that hadn't been fired yet, but you could hear the safety clicking off. “I would like,” she said through gritted teeth, “if you shut your mouth.”
I smirked, tilting my head. “Truth hurts?”
She stood abruptly. Her chair screeched behind her, earning a few curious glances from nearby tables.
I stayed seated. Calm. Provoking. Dangerous. “You don’t miss her,” I said slowly, clearly. “You just miss owning her.”
Her fist clenched at her side. The kind of stillness that comes before an explosion. “Last warning,” she growled, her voice a low storm.
My smile didn’t reach my eyes. “What will you do, huh?” I tilted my chin up, unafraid. “Hit me? In front of everyone? Prove to the whole damn city that you’re exactly who I say you are?”
She trembled. Not from fear. From restraint. I stabbed the knife in deeper. “You never loved her. You loved controlling her. And now you can't stand the fact that she’s—”
Her hand slammed the table so hard the cutlery jumped. I flinched — just barely.
“Enough!” she barked.
Silence swallowed the restaurant. Even the music had the decency to fall away. I stared up at her, breath caught mid-throat. Her hand twitched, like she was seconds away from making a terrible mistake. Her knuckles white. Her eyes feral. She’s going to do it.
The air turned heavy. I swore I heard a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.
Then—
Milk’s POV:
The night was cold. Not cold enough for coats, but cold enough to breathe and see it. I didn’t like nights like this. Hospitals, neon lights flickering at the entrance, the bitter smell of antiseptic still clinging to my skin after admitting View. She’d be fine — nothing serious, just a cut from the gun.
I was walking back to the car when I caught a flash of gold through the corner of my eye — a dress. And not just any dress. Her. Love. The way she moved, sharp and fluid, like fire wrapped in silk. And in front of her— Namtan.
I stopped. She was standing now, towering over Love, fist trembling, her entire body coiled like a spring. Something in her eyes—too violent for a restaurant, too wild for public. Something bad was about to happen. I was still for half a second.
Then Namtan’s hand lifted.
No.
Before I even thought, my body moved. My feet hit the pavement like gunshots. The distance between us evaporated. And just as Namtan’s hand drew back, I crashed into her — elbow slamming into her ribs, hard. The sound she made wasn’t quite a scream. More like air being sucked out of a balloon — sharp, pained, stunned. She stumbled back, catching herself on the edge of the table. Wine spilled across the white tablecloth, a thick red stain blooming like a wound. She looked up at me, furious. “Do you even know the cost of hitting a princess?” she hissed, voice laced with venom.
I didn’t blink. “I don’t need to.” My voice came out colder than I meant. “I was appointed to protect the princess. And I’ll protect her from anyone—even if that anyone is you.”
The air froze. Love didn’t say a word, but I could feel her eyes on me. I didn’t look at her yet. I was watching Namtan. Watching the way her pride cracked like ice under pressure. Namtan scoffed and turned her eyes back to Love. “Listen, Love,” she spat, “say whatever you want, twist everything if that helps you sleep—but I loved Film. I will always love her. And…” she looked at me for just a second, then back to Love with something almost cruel in her eyes, “don’t you feel even a little sad? That your wife loves someone else?”
There was a heartbeat of silence. And then Love… laughed. Not a small laugh. A full-bodied, head-thrown-back, ‘are-you-kidding-me’ laugh that turned every eye in the restaurant toward us.
“Sad?” she echoed between chuckles. “Oh please.” Her gaze sharpened like broken glass. “I would rather give up my royal title than be sad over someone pathetic and useless like you.”
Her voice cracked through the room like a whip. I had to stop myself from smiling too wide. She was so—
Strong.
Fierce, with everyone else. Unshakable. Unforgiving. Her tongue, a blade. And yet… I thought of the way she whispered in her sleep when I am with her. The way she tucked her face into my neck, soft like satin and just as warm. The way she’d clumsily brush my hair from my eyes and pout when I teased her. The way she whispered, “P'Milk,” like it was a prayer she didn’t want anyone else to hear.
I smiled. She’s so strong. So wild with fire. But with me? She’s a baby.
Namtan looked like she wanted to say something back, but her lips just opened… and closed again. No fire left. Only silence. She turned, stiff and tight like every step was a battle, and walked away into the night.
Love let out a breath, finally turning to me. “Took you long enough.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You were doing fine.”
“You’re still supposed to stop people from punching me.”
“She never touched you.”
“She almost did.”
“She wished she did.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. Just slightly. I reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away. Her fingers laced with mine, and I could still feel the faint tremor in them. “Let’s go,” I said, nodding toward the street. “I’ll walk you to the car.”
She looked at me — really looked — and in that moment, all her fire melted. Her shoulders dropped, her eyes softened, and she stepped closer into my space like gravity wasn’t even optional. “Let’s go home,” she whispered.
I nodded once. And I took her hand like I always would.
Namtan’s POV:
I only went out because the whiskey was gone. That’s all. No poetic excuse. No grand breakdown. Just a bitter craving crawling down my throat and the irritating discovery that my stash was empty. So I left my room at 1:12 AM, hoodie zipped halfway up, socks dragging across the marble tiles, and a phone in my pocket I hadn’t charged in days. The halls were quiet. Royal wings always are at this hour. It’s when secrets breed.
I didn’t mean to pass her hallway. I just… took the long route. I told myself it was to avoid the guards. That was a lie. I always end up near her room. Like gravity’s in on the joke. Film. She’s in the east wing now, closer to Nawin’s chambers. The kingdom’s golden pair, tucked neatly into the palace like they were sculpted for it.
I paused near her door. Not on purpose. Habit. Then I heard it.
Retching. Soft, but sharp. Guttural. I froze. Another heave. Then the shuffle of feet on tile. She must’ve barely made it to the bathroom. I took a step back. No. Don’t. Not your business. Then her voice — raw, hoarse, whispering like she didn’t want the walls to hear:
“Why am I feeling so sick recently…?”
A pause. A quiver in her breath. “I… I don’t understand…”
I blinked. Everything around me went quiet. Not just the hallway — my whole body. Like time hiccupped. My hands curled into fists. Her voice didn’t sound like the girl who had smiled through dinner beside my stepbrother. Didn’t sound like the flawless future bride of the kingdom. It sounded like her. My Film. Confused. Soft. Vulnerable. Scared.
I backed away from the door. Step by step. One foot behind the other. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t let myself think what if. Still, as I walked into the night — the air cold, the stars too bright — I kept hearing it. Her voice. That whisper. “Why am I feeling so sick?”
And I swear to god… It echoed louder than any scream I’ve ever caused.
---
I didn’t sleep that night. Not after hearing her. Not after those words. They kept replaying in my head — not like echoes, but like sirens. Each time louder. Each time more cruel. “Why am I feeling so sick…? I don’t understand…”
Goddamn it, Film. What the hell’s going on?
By morning, I was pacing. Back and forth across my room, hoodie sleeves pushed up, vape untouched, throat dry. I’d gone out for whiskey. Came back with a curse. I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my phone and called the one person I knew wouldn’t ask too many questions if I played it right. Mim. She picked up on the second ring.
“It’s 6:12 in the morning. Are we going to war?”
“Get up,” I said. “I need something.”
A sigh. Then the rustling of sheets. “Please don’t say a body.”
I ignored that.
“Film. I want a health check-up done for her.”
Silence.
“…What?”
“You heard me.”
“For the love of god, Namtan, why the hell would I—?”
“I don’t need commentary. I need you to get it done.”
She hesitated.
“Do you want her medical history?”
“No,” I said quickly. “No records. No suspicions. Just something casual. Routine. Bloodwork. Check iron levels. Ask about cycle regulation. Run whatever girls run when they feel… off.”
“Are you joking?”
“No.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Then— “You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
“…Does this have anything to do with you vaping outside her door at 1 AM last night?”
I grit my teeth. “Just get it done.”
Mim sighed again. “Fine. I’ll send a palace medic. No alerts. No flags. I’ll tell her it’s protocol for public appearances and press prep. It’ll be clean.”
“Thank you.”
“And if it turns out she’s just iron deficient and tired of your melodrama?”
“Then you can laugh at me later.”
“…Deal.”
Hours passed. Painfully. I pretended to be busy. Reviewed policies I didn’t care about. Stared through glass windows like I was watching the clouds move for philosophy, not answers. Then Mim messaged me. Just a short voice note. I locked the door before playing it.
Mim’s voice, low and cautious: “So… she’s late. Her cycle’s off. Nearly two weeks. She hasn’t noticed because she’s been under stress, but— I mean—she’s never been late before. You told me that. Blood pressure’s low. Nausea’s present. She didn’t eat breakfast today. The medic suspects hormone fluctuations. Should I continue?”
I dropped the phone. Not out of shock. Out of everything. Because suddenly the air felt like fire and my stomach turned inside out and I could feel something in my chest that didn’t have a name. Late. She’s late. No… no, she couldn’t be— But what if…?
---
I don’t know how long I sit there on the floor. Phone by my side, spine pressed to the cold wall, head tilted toward the ceiling like the answer might be scribbled in the crown molding. Late. Sick. Confused. She said she didn’t understand. God. Neither do I.
A knock. I don’t answer. Mim pushes the door open anyway. She’s holding a tablet and a folder and a look that says 'you better not be dragging me into a crime scene again'. She pauses when she sees me — knees up, hoodie on, hair a mess, eyes probably hollow.
“…Okay,” she says, walking in slowly. “I’ve seen this look before.”
I don’t speak. She drops the folder on the table, crosses her arms. “You want to talk about it?”
I still don’t move. She sighs. “You look like someone just told you you’re the mother of a royal heir.”
Silence. My throat closes. Mim freezes.
“…Oh my god.”
I blink slowly. “I mean—” I finally whisper, “—she wouldn’t sleep with Nawin. Not that fast. She’s barely even warmed up to holding his hand in public.”
Mim sits down slowly on the arm of a chair. Her eyes never leave me.
“And if she did,” I continue, barely breathing, “symptoms wouldn’t show this early. Not unless… unless it was already—”
I swallow hard. “Already started. Before him.”
Mim’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “…Namtan, don’t you dare tell me—” she leans forward, her voice sharp now— “don’t you dare tell me you impregnated her.”
I exhale. It sounds more like a broken laugh. “I’m not saying anything.”
“That’s not a no.”
I run a hand through my hair. “She was mine,” I mutter. “Before all of this. Before him. Before the palace turned her into someone she’s pretending to be.”
“That’s not how pregnancy works—” Mim snaps, standing now. “It’s not poetic, Namtan! You don’t get to say 'she was mine' and have the universe plant a baby like karma!”
I press my knuckles into my mouth. Hard. “She cried that night,” I whisper. “When I touched her. Said she’d never felt like she belonged in anyone’s hands before. Not like that. Not like mine.”
Mim stares at me, eyes wide with something between panic and disbelief.
“She kissed me like it was the first time she knew what love was. I didn’t even think—I mean, we weren’t careful, but she was always so…” I trail off.
Mim exhales a curse. “You absolute idiot.”
She walks toward the window, rubs her temples, then turns back. “If this gets out—if she’s pregnant, and it’s yours—”
“She won’t tell anyone,” I interrupt.
“You think she knows?” Mim raises a brow. “You think she even suspects?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well if she doesn’t know now, she will soon. You think she won’t start counting days? You think the court won’t notice the changes?”
“I’m not saying it’s real,” I snap. “I’m not saying it is mine. I’m just saying…”
I bite my lip.
“…what if it is?”
Mim lets that settle in the air. The room feels too quiet. Like something holy is about to break. Finally, she speaks — softer now. “What are you gonna do if it is?”
I don’t answer. Because for the first time since I lost her… I feel something like hope. And it terrifies me.
Notes:
Author’s Note:
Heyyy guys 🥹💖 I finally managed to snatch some free time from the chaos of life, so guess what? I’m gonna try to drop 2-3 chapters today, if everything goes smoothly!! 😭🔥
Your support means everything—leave me some kudos and comments, if you're enjoying the story 🥺💬✨ It really keeps me going!!
Love you all lots 💌
— [Your Author] 💕🖋️
Chapter 26: The Way I Loved You
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Milk’s POV:
The palace corridors were oddly quiet today, even for a late afternoon. I had just returned from the hospital after making sure View was stable—two cracked ribs, a mild concussion. She joked that she'd had worse on missions, but I didn’t laugh. She was hurt because of me. Because I hesitated. Because I let the leash around my neck tug too gently. I was on my way to report to Love, to at least see her face once. Maybe just listen to her humming or rambling about her royal schedule—anything to shake off the guilt that clawed through my chest.
But the moment I opened her chamber door, I stopped. There she was. Not Love. Her.
Sitting across from Love on the plush, wine-colored couch like it was her rightful throne, legs crossed in leather boots,, sleek uniform jacket unbuttoned just enough to hint at white shirt worn below. Her long black hair tumbled over her shoulder like it was choreographed.
Princess Jingjing Prariyapit Yu.
The crowned princess of the Eastern Coast. On paper? A polished, ribbon-cutting diplomat. In reality? A devil in pearls. One of the biggest foreign smugglers of military-grade weapons. And my biggest damn rival in the shadows. I had run missions to stop her countless times. We’ve crossed paths before—her laughter is something you don’t forget. Cold and sweet at the same time. Just like poison in champagne. My fists clenched at my sides before I could stop them.
“Oh,” Jingjing drawled, turning her head slowly, like she just noticed me. “Is this your famous bodyguard, Love?” Her tone dripped with honey. “You weren’t exaggerating. She is... intense.”
Love beamed, completely unaware of the tension slicing through the room like wire. “Yes! This is Milk. Milk, this is Princess Jingjing of Eastern Coast. She’s visiting for a few days. You’ll be seeing more of her. We studied together at Geneva, Jingjing is quite talented person.”
My jaw tightened. Seeing more of her. Great. I bowed stiffly. “Your Highness.”
Jingjing didn’t return the bow. She just smiled wider and looked back at Love. “She’s formal. I like that. So rare to find someone disciplined in a place like this.”
I stepped forward slowly, eyes never leaving Jingjing. “Is there anything I can assist with, Princess Love?”
Jingjing beat her to the answer. “Oh no, she was just telling me about your... tent trip,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Sounds adorable. How lucky of you, Love, to have a bodyguard so devoted.”
My spine went rigid. She knew. Someone from the underworld must’ve talked. Someone spread that Milk Pansa, the mafia’s coldest hand, was soft for the princess of Limpatiyakorn. I narrowed my gaze, but she only smiled wider. Love, bless her obliviousness, giggled. “I told her you almost didn’t get in the water. She's been teasing me about it for the last ten minutes.”
“Was she shy?” Jingjing asked, looking up at me with that same fake sweetness. “You’re not usually the shy type, are you, Milk?”
I said nothing. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Love looked between us, clearly missing the subtext. “Milk? You okay?”
“Fine.” I stepped closer to her, subtly placing myself between them. “Is the Princess still needed here?”
“Oh, relax,” Jingjing said. “I won’t bite. Not unless I’m asked nicely.”
Love laughed, but I felt the burn rise up my throat. Jingjing knew exactly what she was doing. Poking. Testing. Marking her territory in a room she didn’t own. And it hit me. She wasn’t just flirting. She was testing how far she could go with Love to get a reaction out of me. She knew I was supposed to be neutral. Detached. Professional. A good mafia leader who completes the mission, not the girl who wants to hold someone under the stars.
“Princess Love,” I said sharply. “There’s something we need to discuss. In private.”
Love blinked. “Now?”
“Yes.” I didn’t mean to sound so cold, but I couldn’t stop it.
Jingjing rose slowly, brushing imaginary dust off her boots. “Such urgency,” she whispered, brushing past me as she walked toward the door. Her voice was low, almost playful. “I’ll be around, Love. Don’t miss me too much.”
When the door closed behind her, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. Love tilted her head. “Milk… what was that? You looked like you wanted to murder her.”
“I should’ve,” I muttered.
She blinked. “Huh?”
“Nothing.” I glanced at the door again. Jingjing’s perfume still lingered in the air. Cloying and expensive. Fake. I looked at her, this girl who smiled like summer and trusted me without question. “She’s... a complicated woman,” I mutter.
Love grinned. “Well, I like her.”
That made my stomach twist. Of course you do. She liked everyone. But Jingjing didn’t like people. She liked power. And now she was sniffing around the one person I was starting to see as mine. And someone—someone from my side—had let that information leak. Soft for Love. I had to fix that. Before Jingjing made her next move. Or worse... before I did something I couldn’t undo.
---
The night had crept in unnoticed. The palace garden glimmered under scattered lantern light, casting golden threads across the path. My boots made soft crunches against gravel, each step a distant echo from the storm still pacing inside my head. I shouldn't have left Love alone with her. Jingjing Prariyapit Yu—crowned Princess of the Eastern Coast, heir of smiling diplomacy and covert chaos. Everyone saw royalty, but I knew better. I saw the black-market blood on her silk gloves. I passed the rose archway and slowed. My hands were in my pockets, but they itched for a weapon. Or a cigarette. Or something sharper than both. And then I heard her.
"Such a nice night, isn't it?" Her voice slid in like warm venom. Jingjing stepped out from behind the stone pillar with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Walking off the jealousy?"
I didn't answer. I never gave her the satisfaction first. She walked beside me, not asking permission, boots matching my pace. Her uniform still had creases like she had flown in directly from some black-market negotiation table. Her hair shimmered loose around her shoulders, crownless but commanding. The kind of woman you’d notice in a crowd, and regret noticing later. "I thought Love knew your identity," she said casually, like we were old friends at brunch. “Aren’t you supposed to be honest with the person you're soft for?”
I stopped. Coldly. “I would like if you shut up.”
She turned to face me fully, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Why? Feeling exposed? Or are you scared she’ll look at you differently when she finds out?”
I smiled without warmth. “Careful.”
She leaned slightly closer, her perfume floral, but not soft—expensive and sharp, like something that could choke you in a closed room. “Should I tell her then?”
I tilted my head, hands still calmly in my coat pockets. “You say a word, and I’ll say you smuggle arms for a living.”
Her laughter was light, theatrical. “Sweetheart, I’m a princess. I have politicians to cover me. I fund campaigns, shake hands, kiss babies—”
“You’re a criminal.”
“And you’re a mafia. But who’s covering you, Milk?” Her voice lowered like a warning. “You think a palace rank makes you untouchable? Your record’s cleaner than mine only because you burn all your evidence. But you slip up once—just once—and the whole house of cards crashes.”
I took a step forward, voice like ice slicing under her silk. “You’re forgetting one thing.”
She blinked. “Oh?”
“Your beloved fiancée—Piploy.”
That hit. Her smile dropped. “What about her?”
I leaned in close, breath steady, letting the weight of the threat settle. “She was my classmate at university. One call, Jingjing. Just one.”
A flicker of panic. She masked it fast, but I saw it. “Don’t you dare touch her,” she hissed, voice no longer sweet. “You leave her out of this.”
I shrugged. “That’s what’ll happen if you don’t stay in line.”
We stared at each other for a long beat. Two predators in the dark. Her jaw clenched, eyes burning. Then I turned. I walked away, slowly, deliberately. I didn’t look back—but I felt it. The shift in the air. I had pushed a nerve, and Jingjing wasn’t the type to leave that unpunished. She’ll retaliate. She always does. But so do I. And this time, she messed with something that mattered to me. Love. And I don’t lose what I protect. Not twice.
Film’s POV:
They said I needed rest. That I was just overwhelmed with palace duties. Too many appearances. Too many expectations. Too much smiling beside someone I don’t want. They handed me vitamins. Told me to drink more water. I nodded. I always nod. Because that's what a future princess does.
But the truth started in my throat. It tasted like iron every morning. Like fear. I couldn’t swallow breakfast for the third day in a row. The eggs made my stomach turn. The tea burned going down. Even the scent of warm toast made me want to cry. I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Love. Not even Nawin. Because they’d all look at me like I’m porcelain. And I’m so, so tired of being breakable.
I started counting days. Then recounting. Then checking hidden calendars on my old phone — the one Namtan bought me three birthdays ago when she said, “No one else will call you, so I will.” The days didn’t lie. They stacked up like guilt. I was late. By more than a week.
I ran to the bathroom. Locked the door. Sat on the floor. Pressed my forehead against the tile until the chill numbed the panic rising in my chest. No. No, it’s stress. Just stress. That’s what they said. That’s what I’ve been saying. But then—I touched my stomach. And it was nothing. Just skin. But it felt like something else. Something not mine.
A memory knocked on the back of my skull like a cruel old friend. Her. Namtan. That night. She kissed me like it was goodbye. She whispered my name like a prayer she didn't believe in. I remember her hands on my hips, the way they didn’t hesitate. I remember how I said, “Please don’t stop.” I remember how she cried when she came undone and said, “I can’t lose you.” I didn’t answer. Because I already knew she would.
I pressed my palm flat against my belly. My chest was too tight. I stared at myself in the mirror — hollow-eyed, pale, not glowing or blooming or miraculous. Just confused. Just terrified. Could it be? Could it really be?
No. Nawin and I haven’t even—He’s kissed my cheek and held my hand, but he’s never seen my bare shoulders. Never touched me like he owned me. Never touched me at all. Only she did that. And I remember how we weren’t careful. We never were. She said, “You're mine.” And I believed it.
My hands are trembling now. I grab the edge of the sink to stay upright. The marble is cold against my skin. My knees want to give out. My voice breaks before I realize I’m speaking. “…It’s hers.”
I clutch my mouth. As if the walls can hear. As if this palace will eat me alive if the truth gets out. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I don’t even know if it’s real. But something is different. I am different. And if it is hers… If I am carrying a piece of that night, of her, of us… Then I don’t know how long I can pretend to be someone else.
Namtan's POV:
I’ve stopped smoking the way I used to. It’s not like I quit—I still carry the lighter in my pocket like some pathetic emotional support relic. But ever since I found out… she’s pregnant…I can’t bring myself to light up the way I did.
It’s funny. Everyone thinks I’ve matured overnight. Nawin probably thinks I’m finally calming down because I’m engaged. Good for him. Let him believe the lie. He doesn't know that the real reason I stay sober and sharp is her. Film. I can’t even say her name without tasting ash. She doesn’t talk to me anymore. Not really. Just cold glances and the occasional flicker of something when she thinks I’m not looking. But I always am. It’s the little things now. That's all I get. That’s all I can do. I don’t ask how she’s doing—because if I open my mouth, I’ll ruin everything. So I just… watch. Quietly. Carefully.
She came down the stairs today holding a glass of water with both hands, like it was something sacred. Her eyes were tired, swollen slightly at the corners. Probably didn’t sleep again. Probably threw up again. And no one knows. No one fucking knows what she’s going through. Except me.
“Still drinking mint tea, huh?” I asked today, pretending I didn’t notice the trembling in her wrist as she stirred honey into her cup.
She didn’t look at me. “It’s good for the stomach.”
I nodded, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “You should try lemon too. Cuts nausea better.”
She froze for a second. Barely. Blinked down at the tea. Then she whispered, “I’m not pregnant, Namtan. If that’s what you’re fishing for.”
And I didn’t flinch. Not even a blink. I just smiled, slow, cruel. “Did I say you were?”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. She left the room right after, not waiting for me to answer. It’s like this now. This dance. This ache.
I leave snacks outside her door. Salted crackers, orange juice boxes. Ginger candies. Little dumb things no one else notices go missing. But she eats them. I know because the wrappers are always gone the next day. I sneak her hot water bags before dawn. I take her laundry when she forgets. I open her windows so she doesn’t get headaches. And I watch. I watch her lie to everyone. I watch her sit beside Nawin and pretend everything is fine. I watch her smile like her world isn’t collapsing from the inside out. And every time I do, I want to scream.
I want to rip it all down. I want to grab her and say, "You don’t have to do this alone. I know. I see you. I still fucking love you." But I can’t.
Because I let this happen. I made her think I didn’t care. I let her walk into silence thinking I wouldn’t follow. So now, all I can do is leave care in crumbs and pretend I’m just the villain in her story. The reckless ex. The dangerous one.
I saw her holding her stomach last night when she thought she was alone. Just standing in the mirror, brushing her hair with one hand, palm resting gently on the bump that hasn’t even started showing yet. And I wanted to die. I wanted to get on my knees and beg. But instead, I turned around. This is the only language we speak now. And I’ll keep speaking it. Until she’s ready to hear it out loud.
Notes:
Author’s Note:
Bruhhhhh 😭 I’m so rooting for JingjingPiploy to become canon, okay?? The chemistry is unreal, and I couldn’t help but slide these chaotic cuties into my book. They just fit too perfectly.
Leave some kudos and drop your thoughts in the comments! Love y’all 💥💋🔥
That’s all for today, guys! I’ve totally run out of ideas 🧠💨
Prolly gonna crawl back in 1–2 weeks with more drama and angst.
Till then—bye! Stay feral 💅👑
Chapter 27: You Are in Love
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jingjing's POV:
The palace hasn’t changed. Same marble under my heels, same overly polished mirrors on the hallway walls reflecting a girl I barely recognize anymore. My heels echo as I walk—one step after another toward my room, like I’m walking back into a cage I built myself. But then the door creaks open and there she is. Piploy. And suddenly I’m not just a caged thing anymore. I’m a girl someone loves.
Her smile spreads like sunlight across her face when she sees me. “Finally,” she says, voice soft with that sleepy lilt I used to kiss in bed before state dinners. Before everything got complicated. She steps forward and without another word, cups my face and kisses me—warm and unguarded. No questions. No suspicion. No idea who I’ve become since I left this room three weeks ago.
I let her kiss me. I kiss her back. I smile at her like I don’t have blood on my hands. Like my suitcase doesn’t have a second compartment with forged papers and burner phones. Like the perfume clinging to my collar isn't mixed with the scent of gunpowder and sea salt from the port last night.
“You missed me?” I whisper, brushing my lips against hers.
Piploy grins and nods. “Mmm, of course. You’ve been gone forever. Or did you meet someone better?”
I chuckle lightly, peeling off my gloves. “Maybe I did.”
She pouts playfully and throws herself backward on the bed. “Rude.”
I sit on the edge, close enough to trail my fingers up her wrist. She shivers, and I feel a strange ache in my chest—guilt or affection, I can’t tell anymore. I watch her eyes—light brown, kind, too kind. That kind of softness doesn’t last in the world I live in. I lean closer, hand on her thigh now, casual but deliberate. “Hey… do you know someone named Milk?”
Piploy hums. “Milk? Yeah, she was my friend in university. Studied something weird like criminology or strategy—I forgot. Kinda intense. Alpha. Quiet. Tall. Wore black a lot. A good person, once carried me on back when I fainted at summer drill. We haven’t talked in years though.”
Her tone is light, nostalgic. She has no idea. She doesn’t know Milk runs ports in five cities. Doesn’t know she orders men dead with a sigh. Doesn’t know I saw Milk kill someone with her bare hands because a deal went sour. Interesting.
“Hmm,” I say softly, brushing Piploy’s neck with the back of my knuckles. “So you don’t know what she does now?”
Piploy frowns faintly. “Is she in politics or something? What’s this about?”
She starts to sit up, but I push her gently back down, pressing a kiss under her ear.
“Shhh,” I murmur. “No more questions.”
She gasps a little when I move down to her throat, mouth warm, deliberately slow, letting my lips trail lower. She arches, fingers curling in the sheets. I hover above her now, one knee between her thighs, my hand sliding up her stomach beneath her blouse.
“Jing,” she breathes.
“I don’t want to talk about Milk,” I say, whispering into her skin. “I missed you.”
I feel her relax beneath me. Her eyes flutter shut, her chest rising with a shaky breath. She moans lightly beneath me, curling into the kiss, forgetting the question. I lower myself fully over her, pressing her into the mattress. Because I can’t let her ask more. I can’t let her dig. Because if Piploy ever knew what I really am…She’d never look at me the same again. It's me who have to find a way to take my revenge, I can't wait to see Milk's downfall. Just wait and see, Milk Pansa Vosbein.
Milk’S POV:
The hallway smelled like disinfectant and old fear. I knew the path to View’s hospital room like the back of my hand now. She'd been here for over two weeks—concussion, fractured ribs, internal bruising. All because she had the audacity to speak up for me during the Vault Mission, and Korn—my father’s oldest hound—had decided to make her a lesson in obedience. And I hadn’t stopped it. The shame clung to my boots like blood-soaked mud, thick and impossible to shake.
I pushed the door open slowly. She was awake this time. Sitting upright against a pillow, arms wrapped in a fleece blanket, hair messily piled atop her head like she’d fought the nurse over the comb. One eye was still slightly swollen, but the glint in her gaze was unmistakable.
“You’re late, General,” she croaked.
I smirked. “You’re lucky I showed up at all, Lieutenant.”
She grinned wide, her dimples pressing deep into her cheeks. “There she is! The tyrant of the Bangkok underworld.”
“I’m hardly a tyrant.”
“You’re right,” View said, dramatically wincing as she adjusted her position. “Tyrants don’t bring mango sticky rice to their injured soldiers.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I brought gauze and a painkiller prescription. I’m not your UberEats.”
She gasped, hand to chest like I’d just shot her again. “Where is the love? Where is the childhood bond we forged in blood and bicycle accidents and stealing cigarettes?”
I sat beside her bed, letting out a soft breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You sound like an old war widow.”
“I am an old war widow,” she said, eyes twinkling. “You married power. I got left behind.”
“Oh, shut up.”
We both laughed then—real, sharp, bellyful laughs that echoed around the sterile room like ghosts being exorcised. It had been a long time since I laughed like that. Maybe ever. It cracked something open in my chest I didn’t know had been locked tight.
View noticed. She went still, watching me with that knowing look she’d worn since we were kids and I couldn’t lie my way out of breaking her mom’s teacup. “You’ve changed,” she said softly.
“Have I?”
“Mm-hmm. That cold front you used to carry around? It’s thinning. I’d say you’ve become less guarded.”
I looked down, my fingers curling around the hem of my jacket.
She leaned in. “I should thank that little princess, shouldn’t I?”
The smile slipped off my face like silk off skin. I didn’t confirm. But I didn’t deny either.
View nodded like she already knew. “I figured. Tent trips, stargazing, clandestine bathtime conversations.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Very forbidden romance of you.”
I rolled my eyes. “There’s nothing romantic about it.”
“Oh please,” she said, rolling her head back. “You’ve been dead behind the eyes since you were fifteen. Suddenly, you're defending a princess in meetings and holding eye contact for more than two seconds. If that isn’t romance, I don’t know what is.”
“Don’t make this a thing.”
“I’m not. I’m just happy you're finally letting someone matter.”
That shut me up. She turned serious, voice lowering. “I thought you’d never feel again. After what he did to you. After what you did to yourself to survive it.”
I stiffened. She reached for my hand. “You’ve always carried his rage,” she said gently. “But now I see her softness showing through. You inherited your mother too, you know. She’s still there.”
My throat tightened. The hospital lights buzzed faintly overhead, and I had to look away. “I don’t deserve softness,” I whispered.
“Maybe not,” she said. “But you need it. And you’re allowed to want it, too.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full of old stories, scraped knees, cigarettes behind the schoolyard, whispered dreams about leaving the life we were born into. Eventually, I exhaled. “I brought your pills,” I said gruffly.
“Romantic and practical. God, she really has changed you.”
“I swear to God, View—”
She laughed again, and despite myself, I joined in. Two girls in a world of men, laughing through the scars. Maybe this was healing. Maybe this was what it meant to try.
View's POV:
The nurse left the room ten minutes ago, but I was still watching her. Milk. She sat near the foot of my bed now, fidgeting with a crumpled paper packet of painkillers, brow furrowed like the dosage label had wronged her personally.
I’d forgotten what she looked like when she wasn’t pretending not to care. But then she laughed. God. She actually laughed. And I didn’t even realize how badly I’d missed that sound until it hit me like a sucker punch to the ribs—right where it still hurt. She hadn’t laughed like that since we were kids.
Back then, we weren’t anyone. Just two little girls with bruised shins and scraped elbows, biking around back alleys like they were battlegrounds and hiding in train compartments like spies.
I remember her at nine—barefoot, scowling, a cut on her chin from trying to climb the fence outside the warehouse. Her arms were too small to lift her weight, but she never asked for help. Not even when she fell and twisted her wrist. She sat there, bleeding and shaking, and looked me dead in the eyes: “Don’t tell my father.”
That was the day I realized she didn’t just hate weakness—she feared it.
I remember sneaking crackers into her bag when her lunch money was taken. I remember shielding her from Korn’s boots during drills. I remember when she was thirteen, standing silent at her mother’s portrait in the west corridor—just staring at it like it held a map out of this life. Her fists were clenched, her eyes were hollow.
I remember thinking...She’s not going to survive this place. Or worse—she will. But she’ll never be Milk again. So I watched her harden. She buried her laugh first. Then her softness. Then her hope. Until one day, I couldn’t recognize the girl who used to cry over dead pigeons and hum lullabies under her breath.
But now…
Now she was here. Laughing at my mango sticky rice jokes. Pretending she didn’t know how to flirt when she absolutely did. Getting flustered when I teased her about a princess. And I realized something strange. That cold armor she spent a lifetime forging…it had cracks now. And the light that was slipping through? It wasn’t mine. It was hers. Princess Love.
Milk had always been fire and iron. But Love—Love had done the impossible. She hadn’t changed her. She’d unburied her. The real Milk. I looked at her—laughing, softer now, less sharp around the edges. And I—
…I fucking teared up.
Just a tiny tear. Just one. But she noticed. Milk turned to me sharply. “What?”
I blinked quickly. Shook my head. “Nothing. Something came in my eyes.”
She didn’t believe me. Obviously. But she didn’t press either. She just looked at me for a long second, like she knew there were things in my chest I couldn’t say yet. And maybe she was right. Because what was I supposed to tell her? That I thought she was gone for good? That I’d grieved her once already, even though she was still alive? That watching her be loved… finally… felt like mercy I didn’t think any of us deserved?
No. I couldn’t say that. So I just smiled. “It’s the hospital dust,” I joked. “Tell the nurse to vacuum next time.”
She snorted, tossing a pillow at me. And I let myself believe—for just a moment—that maybe she was coming back.
That maybe, just maybe, Milk had survived after all.
Love's POV:
The hallway was unusually quiet. Not the kind of palace quiet that comes with curfews and early evenings. No, this was *wrong* quiet—the kind that hums in your bones like a warning before the storm hits. My heels clicked across the marble as I turned the corner toward the west wing, where Milk had said she left her jacket. That was when I saw her.
“Film?”
She was stumbling. She clutched the wall with one arm, her other hand gripping at her stomach like she was holding something in, holding something back. Her skin was pale—too pale for Film, who was usually sunshine and eyeliner, sarcasm and sharp hips swaying like she owned every hallway she stepped through.
“Film!” I gasped, rushing forward just as her knees buckled. And then I wasn’t the only one moving.
Milk was behind me before I even had the chance to scream. No words. Just instinct. She caught Film mid-fall. Film barely managed a wince.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice rising with panic as I followed them down the hallway. “Milk? Film, are you hurt? Did someone—did someone do something to you?”
“Not now, Princess,” Milk said tightly. “She needs to lie down.”
My heart pounded all the way back to our shared room. The moment Milk laid her down on the bed, I was already grabbing water, cold towels, pillows. My hands were shaking. I didn’t even know what I was doing—just doing something. Milk stood beside the bed like a soldier awaiting orders, eyes pinned to Film, hands balled into fists.
“Is it cramps? You didn’t eat today, did you? I *told* you to eat something!” I said, crawling onto the bed next to her and brushing sweaty strands from her forehead.
Film turned her face away, silent.
“Talk to me, Film,” I whispered, softer now. “You’re scaring me.”
Still nothing. I looked at Milk. She looked at me. Then without a word, she turned and walked out the room, shutting the door with a sound that felt final.
I hated that. I hated how she could just walk away from people when she didn’t know what to do. “Okay,” I said, letting out a breath as I adjusted myself beside her on the mattress, curling close. “It’s just us now. So talk. What happened? Did you hit your head? Are you in pain?”
Film’s lips parted. “I’m fine.”
“You collapsed in the hallway!” I snapped, then softened immediately. “You’re not fine.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and they were glassy. Afraid. My heart clenched.
“I’m just tired.”
“Liar.”
She winced and rolled onto her side. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
“You didn’t,” I whispered, laying a hand on her shoulder. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll let this go. I’m not Milk. I won’t walk away and pretend I didn’t see something just because you don’t want to say it.”
She stayed quiet. I tilted my head, watching her with the kind of gaze only a sister-from-another-mother could give. “Film... if something happened… If someone hurt you…”
“No one did.”
“Then what?” My voice cracked. “You’re trembling. You’re pale. You’re pushing everyone away. Even me. That’s not you.”
She pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want ‘sorry’,” I said gently. “I want the truth.”
She turned her face into the pillow.
“You’re not alone,” I whispered. “You know that, right? We’ve been through too much for you to shut me out now.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t!” she barked suddenly, voice cracking like dry porcelain. “Because if I do, everything’s going to fall apart.”
I stared at her, stunned. My voice trembled. “Then let it. Let it fall apart. I’ll catch you.”
There was a long silence. A heartbeat. Two. And then—
“I’m pregnant.”
The world stopped. I blinked, dumbly. “…What?”
Film turned her head, finally meeting my eyes. There were tears clinging to her lashes. “And it’s Namtan’s.”
Notes:
🌿🎉 Author’s Note 🎉🌿
Hey hey, lovely readers! 💚 I know I said I wouldn’t update until next week (pls don’t throw tomatoes 🍅😭) — but today is a super special day I just couldn’t ignore...
✨🎂💥 It’s our favorite girl's birthday!! HAPPY 29th BIRTHDAY, MILK PANSA!! 💥🎂✨
She’s the sweetest soul, the greenest forest, and the softest storm all in one. 🍃🫶 Thank you for loving her the way I do — and today, we celebrate her with a new chapter drop! 🥳📖
Leave her some birthday love in the comments 📝 and don’t forget to hit that 💖kudos💖 button.
Also... I’ve been itching to start a new story 👩💻💭
But I need your help — which ship should I write next? 💌⛵️ Drop your favs in the comments and let the chaos begin 💥💬
Love y’all always,
— [Your author] 🌙
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neewrxmxntics on Chapter 2 Mon 30 Jun 2025 09:25PM UTC
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Last Edited Fri 13 Jun 2025 12:35PM UTC
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Last Edited Sat 14 Jun 2025 03:04PM UTC
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Last Edited Fri 04 Jul 2025 08:31AM UTC
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