A Season of Us | Paul Petrovich
The summer estate was beautiful in the way only things belonging to people with too much money could be beautiful. Everything seemed to have been placed there deliberately, from the pale stone fountains to the roses climbing the garden walls, from the endless lawns disappearing toward the distant woods to the lake glittering beyond the trees. Even the gravel paths seemed incapable of collecting ordinary dirt.
You had been there for three days and had already decided you hated it.
Not because it was unpleasant. Quite the opposite. It was too pleasant, too polished, too carefully arranged. There was something exhausting about a place where every servant knew exactly where to stand and every guest knew precisely how much they were allowed to speak.
You knew your place.
That was the first thing one learned as a lady’s companion.
You stood slightly behind your mistress when she entered a room. You poured her tea. You remembered which correspondence required immediate attention and which could wait until morning. You accompanied her on walks, attended her lessons, helped select ribbons and jewels, and knew when to disappear entirely.
You were educated enough to converse with the people you served but never educated enough, socially speaking, to be considered their equal.
Far enough away that you could never touch it.
That afternoon, your mistress had gone inside to rest after complaining of the heat. You had been given no particular instruction, which meant you were free for perhaps an hour before someone remembered that you existed.
You had taken advantage of it.
A book rested open in your lap as you sat beneath the shade of an enormous elm tree, though you had been reading the same page for nearly twenty minutes. The air smelled of roses and warm grass. Somewhere beyond the hedges, you could hear servants preparing for the evening’s dinner.
For once, nobody was asking anything of you. You closed your eyes.
“You’re sitting in my favorite place.”
The voice startled you. Your eyes opened to find a young man standing several feet away.
He was dressed beautifully, although slightly less formally than the other men at the estate. His dark hair had been arranged with obvious care and yet had already begun to fall untidily across his forehead. There was something almost boyish about him despite the confidence with which he carried himself.
You stood immediately. “I apologize.”
He raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“I didn’t know it was yours.”
He looked towards the tree. “It isn’t.”
You stared at him. “Then why did you say it was?”
His mouth twitched. "I wanted to see whether you'd apologize."
You slowly sat back down. "Then I suppose you have your answer."
He laughed. It was not the polished laugh you had heard from the other guests, the sort of laugh that seemed designed for public consumption. His was warmer, unexpected, and entirely too charming.
He stepped closer. "You aren't from here."
"No."
"I've never seen you before."
"I arrived with Lady—" You stopped.
He was watching you. Waiting. You could have explained everything then.
You could have told him exactly who you were, exactly where you belonged, and perhaps avoided every complication that followed.
Instead, you glanced down at your dress. It was not yours.
Your mistress had lent it to you that afternoon after deciding she disliked the color of it. It was an elegant thing, pale blue silk with delicate embroidery along the sleeves. You had never owned anything remotely like it.
The young man's eyes followed yours. "You're one of the visiting ladies."
It wasn't a question. You should have corrected him. Instead, something strange happened.
For one brief, foolish moment, you imagined what it would feel like not to be the woman standing behind someone else. To have someone look at you and assume you belonged.
You lifted your chin. "Perhaps."
His smile widened. "Perhaps?"
"You seem very certain."
"I usually am."
"That sounds terribly inconvenient."
He laughed again. Then he offered his hand. "Paul."
You hesitated. Not Your Highness. Not Prince Paul. Just Paul.
You placed your hand in his. "How do you do?"
His expression changed. Not dramatically. Just enough that you noticed. "You're not going to tell me your name?"
You gave it to him. He repeated it quietly, as though testing the sound.
Then, with absolutely no warning, he kissed your hand. Your heart stumbled. "Come," he said.
"Where?"
"I've decided you're going to walk with me."
You looked at him incredulously. "Have you?"
"Yes."
"And if I refuse?"
He considered that. "I'll be offended."
"You'll survive."
"I doubt it." You should have laughed less easily than you did. But you followed him.
The two of you wandered through the gardens, where the afternoon sun had turned everything gold. Paul spoke with the confidence of someone accustomed to being listened to, but unlike most men of his station, he didn't seem particularly interested in hearing himself speak.
He asked questions. What did you think of the estate? Which books did you read? Did you ride? Did you like music? What did you think of the court?
You answered carefully at first, then less carefully as the conversation continued.
He discovered you had opinions. Strong ones. When you disagreed with him, he looked delighted rather than offended.
"You don't agree with anything I say."
"Not true."
"You've disagreed with me four times."
"Only four?" He stopped walking. You realized what you had said and bit back a smile. Paul stared at you for a moment before laughing. "You are strange."
"So I've been told."
"I like it." The words were casual. They shouldn't have mattered. They did.
By the time the dinner bell sounded, you had forgotten entirely that you were supposed to be someone else. Paul escorted you back toward the house. At the steps, you finally remembered.
"I should go."
"Why?"
"Someone will be looking for me." He frowned.
"They can wait."
"They shouldn't have to."
"You'll come to dinner?" You hesitated. "Of course."
"Good." He smiled. "I'll see you there."
You watched him disappear inside. Only then did the reality settle over you. He thought you were a noblewoman. You had allowed him to think it. It was a tiny lie.
A harmless one, perhaps. A single omission. Tomorrow, you would tell him the truth.
You would explain everything, and he would laugh, perhaps mildly embarrassed by the misunderstanding. Then you would return to your proper place, standing behind your mistress while Paul forgot you entirely.
That was what should happen. But as you climbed the stairs toward the servants' corridor, you found yourself smiling. And for the first time since arriving at the estate, you were looking forward to tomorrow.
By the end of the first week, Paul had developed a habit of finding you wherever you happened to be.
At first, you told yourself it was a coincidence. The estate was large enough that two people could easily cross paths several times a day, especially when one of those people had little to occupy his time and the other was constantly moving between her mistress's rooms, the gardens, and the various errands required of her.
But coincidence did not explain why Paul appeared at breakfast asking whether you intended to walk after luncheon, nor why he somehow knew when you would be in the gardens, nor why a horse was saddled for you each morning despite the fact that you had never once asked for one.
You eventually confronted him about it. "You've been following me."
Paul looked genuinely offended. "I have not."
"You knew where I was going."
"I have excellent instincts."
"You knew I would be at the stables."
"I own the stables." You stared at him. He smiled. "Perhaps you are following me."
That was the problem with Paul. He could turn almost anything into an argument he had already won. You should have been more careful.
You should have remembered that every conversation, every smile, every stolen hour brought you closer to the moment when he would inevitably discover that you were not who he thought you were.
Instead, you found yourself looking forward to seeing him. The horseback rides became the most anticipated part of your mornings.
Paul rode beautifully, with the sort of effortless confidence that came from years of practice rather than vanity. You were good enough to keep pace with him, which seemed to surprise him greatly the first time you did. "You never told me you could ride."
"You never asked."
"You have been hiding things from me." You glanced sideways at him. "Have I?"
He narrowed his eyes. "That sounded suspicious."
You laughed and urged your horse forward. Paul immediately followed.
The two of you raced along the edge of the estate, horses thundering beneath you while the wind pulled loose strands of hair from your carefully arranged style. For those few minutes, you forgot everything.
You forgot your mistress. You forgot the servants' quarters. You forgot the lie. You were simply a young woman riding beside a young man beneath a summer sky.
Paul beat you by half a length. He was insufferable about it for the rest of the day. The afternoons belonged to the gardens.
There was a particular corner of them that neither of you had any reason to visit except that you had discovered it together. An old stone bench sat beneath an archway of climbing roses, half-hidden from the main paths. From there, you could see the lake through the trees without being seen by anyone passing through the formal gardens.
It became yours. You read there. Sometimes Paul read beside you, although he rarely managed more than a few pages before becoming distracted.
Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you simply sat together. Those quiet hours were when you began to learn the things Paul did not tell everyone else.
He hated being watched. He hated being corrected in front of others. He hated the endless expectations attached to his name.
Most of all, he hated the strange uncertainty of being raised to become something without ever being asked what he wanted to be. "You have everything," you said one afternoon.
Paul looked at you. "I know." There was no arrogance in his answer. Only weariness.
"You say that as though it isn't enough."
"It isn't." You closed your book. "What would be?"
He thought for a long moment. "I don't know." Then he looked at you. "Perhaps that's the problem."
You wanted to tell him that you understood. More than he knew.
You understood what it was like to be surrounded by things that belonged to other people. To spend your life learning how to fit into a role someone else had chosen for you.
The difference was that Paul had been born into his cage. You had simply been born outside its gates.
Neither of you said any of that. Instead, you reached over and brushed a fallen rose petal from his shoulder. He went very still.
Your hand remained there for a moment too long. Then you withdrew it. Neither of you spoke.
The next afternoon, Paul took you swimming.
The lake was warm from weeks of sunlight, and the secluded shore offered enough privacy that you could forget the estate entirely. You hesitated at first, conscious of the fact that you had never been particularly comfortable being seen without the layers of clothing expected of you.
Paul noticed. He didn't tease you. He simply walked into the water first, turning back when he reached his waist.
"Come on."
"You'll have to convince me."
"I've never been very good at convincing people."
"You're a prince. You usually don't have to." He smiled. "Then perhaps you should be the first."
You stepped into the water. By the time you reached him, you were laughing. He splashed you. You splashed him back.
Soon neither of you could remember what you had been arguing about. When you finally climbed onto the shore, you sat beside him beneath a tree, damp hair dripping down your back. Paul was quieter than usual. "What?" you asked.
"Nothing."
"You are staring."
"I know." You looked away, suddenly shy. The silence between you had changed.
It was no longer the easy silence of friendship. It had become something heavier. Something neither of you quite dared to name.
That evening, there was a small gathering at the estate. You dressed carefully, wondering whether Paul would notice. He did. The moment you entered the ballroom, his eyes found you. He crossed the room without hesitation.
"You look beautiful." The simplicity of it unsettled you more than any elaborate compliment could have. "Thank you." He held out his hand.
"Dance with me." You placed your hand in his. As the music began, Paul drew you closer.
You moved together easily, and for once neither of you spoke. You could feel his hand at your waist. You could feel your own pulse beating too quickly. When the dance ended, he did not let you go immediately.
"Come outside." The garden was quiet beneath the stars. Paul led you beneath the rose archway, where the moonlight spilled across the stone bench.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then he reached for your hand. "I've been trying to decide something."
"What?"
"Whether I should do this."
"Do what?" He looked at your mouth. Your heart stopped. He leaned closer. You could have stepped away.
You didn't.
His lips met yours gently, almost cautiously, as though he were giving you every opportunity to change your mind. Instead, you leaned into him. The kiss deepened for only a moment before he pulled away, his forehead resting against yours.
Neither of you spoke. You were too aware of the truth waiting somewhere beyond the garden walls. Tomorrow, you told yourself. Tomorrow, you would tell him.
But Paul smiled, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. And you realized with a sinking heart that tomorrow had become much more frightening than it had been a week ago.
After the first kiss, everything changed, though neither of you ever quite acknowledged when it happened.
There was no formal agreement between you, no conversation about what the two of you were becoming. Paul simply began behaving as though you belonged beside him, and you, despite every sensible instinct you possessed, began allowing yourself to believe it.
Summer settled over the estate in earnest. The roses climbed higher, the days grew longer, and the afternoons became too warm for anything more strenuous than wandering beneath the trees. The world seemed to slow around you, as though the estate itself had decided that there was no reason to hurry toward autumn.
You began each morning expecting to see Paul.
More often than not, you did.
Sometimes he waited outside the stables with two horses already saddled. Other mornings, he appeared at breakfast and slid a piece of fruit onto your plate as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"You look tired."
"I am tired."
"You should sleep more."
"You woke me before sunrise."
"That was for the ride."
"Then you are responsible for my exhaustion."
He smiled. "I'll take responsibility."
You rolled your eyes, but you could not stop yourself from smiling.
It became a language between you, these little exchanges. Teasing and laughter, glances held too long across crowded rooms, hands brushing beneath tables where nobody could see. Paul was still perfectly capable of being insufferable, but now you knew the softness underneath it.
You knew that when he complained about being bored, what he usually meant was that he wanted your attention. You knew that when he became particularly arrogant, he was often covering some private insecurity. You knew that when he grew quiet, he wanted someone beside him. And he was learning you in return.
He knew when you were worried by the way you twisted your rings. He knew you preferred the gardens in the late afternoon. He knew which books you returned to when you needed comfort. He knew you hated being the center of attention, despite the fact that he seemed determined to put you there whenever possible.
"You enjoy embarrassing me."
"Immensely."
"You are a terrible person."
"And yet you keep coming back."
You looked at him. "Perhaps I'm equally terrible."
Paul smiled. "Perhaps."
The summer parties became frequent, and Paul seemed determined to make every one of them an excuse to keep you near him. He would find you across the ballroom and offer his hand without asking whether you wanted to dance. He would sit beside you during dinner even when there were more suitable places available. If someone monopolized your attention for too long, he inevitably appeared with some ridiculous excuse to steal you away.
You should have worried about what everyone was noticing.
You should have remembered that none of this could last.
Instead, you were happy. That was the dangerous part. You had stopped pretending for yourself.
For a little while, you had forgotten that you were pretending for him.
One afternoon, you and Paul escaped to the lake. The heat had driven everyone indoors, leaving the estate strangely quiet. You sat together beneath the shade of the trees, your shoes discarded beside you.
Paul had his head resting against your shoulder. You looked down at him. "You're becoming spoiled."
"I was already spoiled."
"More spoiled, then."
"That's your fault."
You smiled and ran your fingers lightly through his hair. He closed his eyes. "Stay."
The word was so quiet that you almost missed it. "I am staying."
"No."
He opened his eyes. "Stay here."
You understood then. He wasn't talking about the afternoon. He was talking about the summer. Perhaps he was talking about something more. "I will."
Paul smiled. And you believed yourself.
That evening, the two of you walked through the gardens as the sun disappeared beyond the trees. The air smelled of roses, and somewhere in the distance, music drifted from the house. You stopped beneath the familiar rose arch. "I wish it could always be like this."
Paul looked at you. "It can."
You laughed softly. "Nothing lasts forever."
"Why must you always say things like that?"
"Because they're true."
He took your hand. "Then we'll make this last as long as we can."
You looked at him, and for one reckless moment, you imagined a life beyond the summer. Not the life you had been born into. Not the life he had been promised.
Something else. Something belonging only to the two of you. The thought should have frightened you.
Instead, it felt wonderfully simple.
Later that night, you found Paul waiting beneath your window. You stared down at him in disbelief. "What are you doing?"
"I wanted to see you."
"It's midnight."
"I know."
"You cannot simply appear beneath my window."
"I just did."
You tried not to laugh. "You're impossible."
"And you love me."
The words were tossed out lightly. You froze.
Paul seemed to realize what he had said only after it was already spoken. Neither of you moved. Then he looked up at you, and all the teasing disappeared from his expression. "I do." Your heart began to pound. "I love you."
There it was. The truth. Simple. Terrifying.
Everything you had spent the summer avoiding. You should have told him then.
You should have told him that you weren't the woman he believed you to be, that every moment of this had begun with a lie you never intended to carry this far.
Instead, you looked at the man standing beneath your window and realized that the love in his eyes was real.
You stepped outside. Paul took your hands. "I don't know when it happened," he admitted. "Perhaps the first day. Perhaps when you argued with me in the garden. Perhaps when you beat me riding and refused to apologize for it."
You laughed through the sudden tears in your eyes. "You still haven't forgiven me for that."
"Never."
He smiled. Then he became serious again. "I love you."
You swallowed. The lie sat between your ribs like a stone. But so did the love. And, for one selfish moment, you chose the love. "I love you too."
The world seemed to disappear around you. The estate, the court, the expectations, the secret you carried, all of it faded beneath the warmth of his hands and the summer night. For that one moment, you allowed yourself to believe that perhaps there would be time.
Perhaps you could tell him tomorrow. Perhaps he would understand. Perhaps love could survive the truth.
You didn't know yet that summer had already begun to turn. And you didn't know that the happiest part of the season would become the memory that hurt the most.
The summer had begun to feel endless.
That was perhaps why you had become careless.
You had stopped counting the days until your inevitable departure. You had stopped rehearsing the confession you had promised yourself you would make. Somewhere between the gardens and the lake, between stolen kisses and midnight conversations, you had allowed yourself to believe that perhaps there would always be another morning.
Paul had made it dangerously easy.
He had begun speaking about the future as though you were naturally included in it. He would mention a journey he wanted to take and ask whether you would like it. He would complain about returning to court and then casually suggest that you ought to visit. He had even begun leaving books in your room, insisting that he disliked the idea of you having nothing to read when he wasn't there.
You had learned to treasure these things. You had also learned to fear them.
Because the truth had not disappeared simply because you had stopped thinking about it. It was waiting.
And eventually, it found you.
The afternoon had been unbearably hot, and most of the household had retreated indoors. You were returning from the gardens when you heard voices coming from the terrace.
Paul was there. So was your mistress. You slowed when you realized they were speaking about you.
"You've been very kind to her," your mistress was saying.
Paul laughed softly. "I wouldn't call it kindness."
"Well, whatever you call it, she seems happier here." Your stomach tightened. You stepped closer. Paul was leaning against the stone railing, smiling.
"I hope she stays after we leave."
Your mistress laughed. "She'll have to come with me."
Paul frowned. "Why?"
There was a pause.
Then your mistress said, almost absently, "Because she's my companion."
Silence.
You stopped breathing.
Paul's expression changed. "Your companion?"
"Yes."
He looked at her. Then toward you. You knew immediately. There was no confusion in his face.
Only dawning realization.
His eyes found yours across the terrace. For several seconds, neither of you moved. Then Paul said quietly, "What did you just say?"
Your mistress turned. She saw you.
Then she looked back at Paul, suddenly understanding what had happened. "Paul..."
But he was already walking toward you.
He stopped several feet away. You had never seen him look at you like that.
Not angry. Not yet. Just wounded.
"Is it true?" Your mouth went dry.
"Paul—"
"Is it true?"
You swallowed. "Yes."
The word seemed to strike him. He stepped back.
"You are not—"
"No."
"You're not a noblewoman."
"No."
"You are her companion."
You lowered your eyes. "Yes."
For a moment, he simply stared at you. Then he laughed. It was a terrible sound. Not amusement.
Disbelief.
"I don't understand."
"I can explain."
"Can you?"
You flinched. He looked away, running a hand through his hair. "How long?"
"Since the beginning."
His eyes snapped back to yours. "Since the beginning."
"I never intended—"
"But you did."
His voice rose. "You let me believe you were someone you weren't."
"I know."
"You let me court you."
"I know."
"You let me tell you that I loved you."
Tears burned your eyes. "I loved you too."
His expression twisted. "That isn't what I asked."
"It was never a lie."
"How am I supposed to know that?"
The question silenced you. Paul looked devastated now, and somehow that hurt more than his anger.
He began pacing. "I told you things I have never told anyone."
"I know."
"I trusted you."
"I know."
"I thought you understood me."
"I do."
"No."
He turned sharply. "You understood the version of me you wanted to understand."
"That's not true."
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
You couldn't answer. Because the answer was humiliatingly simple. You had been afraid.
Afraid that the moment he knew, his affection would disappear.
Afraid that he would look at you and see only a servant.
Afraid that everything you had experienced that summer would vanish. "I was afraid you'd stop loving me."
Paul stared at you. "You should have given me the chance to decide."
You began to cry. "I know."
He looked toward the gardens.
The same gardens where he had kissed you.
The same paths where you had walked together.
The same rose arch beneath which he had told you he loved you.
All of it seemed suddenly poisoned. "Was any of it real?"
Your heart broke. "Every moment."
He shook his head. "You don't get to say that."
"I mean it."
"You lied to me."
"About who I was."
"Isn't that enough?"
"No," you whispered. "Because I never lied about what I felt."
He stared at you. For one terrible moment, you thought he might soften. Instead, he looked away.
"I don't know what to believe anymore."
You stepped toward him. "Paul."
He moved back. “It’s your majesty.”
The rejection was small.
It was devastating. “Your majesty.”
"I need you to leave."
You went still. "What?"
"You heard me."
"Please."
His jaw tightened. "I can't look at you right now."
You wiped at your tears. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"But you did."
"I know."
"I need you to go."
The words came quieter this time. That somehow made them worse. You nodded. "When?"
"Tonight."
You looked at him for one last moment.
The boy beneath the prince's title was still there. You could see him. The person who had laughed with you beneath the summer sun, who had rested his head against your shoulder, who had kissed you beneath the roses and told you he loved you.
But now there was a wall between you. And you had built the first stone. "I am sorry," you whispered.
Paul closed his eyes. "Please."
You turned away. You made it only halfway down the corridor before you broke. By sunset, your belongings had been packed. The estate was strangely quiet as you left. You looked back once from the carriage.
Paul wasn't there.
Perhaps that was mercy.
Perhaps it wasn't.
The carriage began to move.
Behind you, the summer estate grew smaller and smaller until the gardens disappeared beyond the trees. You pressed your hand against your chest, trying to contain the ache there. You had spent the entire summer pretending to be someone else.
And now, for the first time, you understood the terrible irony of it. Paul had fallen in love with you. You had simply been too afraid to let him know who you were.
The estate had never seemed so large.
Paul discovered that on the first morning after you left.
There were still servants moving through the corridors, still horses being exercised in the paddocks, still music drifting from the drawing room in the afternoons. Meals were served at the same hours. Guests continued to arrive and depart. The gardens remained immaculate beneath the late summer sun.
Everything was exactly as it had been.
And yet nothing was.
Paul found himself looking toward the entrance whenever he heard footsteps.
He would catch himself turning at the sound of laughter, expecting to find you somewhere nearby, perhaps leaning against a doorway with that knowing smile you wore whenever he said something particularly ridiculous.
Then reality would return.
You were gone. He had told you to leave.
The knowledge sat heavily inside him.
At first, anger made it easier.
He told himself he had done the only sensible thing. You had deceived him from the beginning. Every time he remembered your first meeting, he saw the pale blue dress and remembered the certainty with which he had assumed you belonged among the other noble guests.
He remembered your hesitation. He remembered how easily you had allowed him to believe it. And he was angry again.
But anger, he discovered, was exhausting.
It could not fill the empty spaces.
He tried to return to the things he had enjoyed before you.
He rode every morning.
It lasted three days.
On the fourth, he stopped halfway through the ride because he found himself looking toward the trail where you had once raced him.
He returned to the gardens.
That lasted even less time.
Every path seemed to contain a memory.
There was the bench beneath the roses where you had read together. The lake where you had splashed water into his face. The tree beneath which you had talked until the sun went down. The terrace where you had first kissed.
Paul began to understand something he had not been willing to admit.
He did not miss the noblewoman he had believed you to be.
He missed you.
That realization irritated him more than anything else.
One afternoon, he found the book you had left behind.
It was tucked beneath another volume in the library, its pages slightly worn from use. He opened it and found a small piece of paper between the pages.
Your handwriting.
A passage you had marked.
Paul stared at it for a long time.
He remembered you telling him why you liked the book.
He remembered the way you had spoken about stories, about how people often became trapped by the roles others assigned to them.
At the time, he hadn't understood. Now he did. Or at least, he thought he did.
The next morning, Paul began asking questions.
Not about where you had gone. About who you were.
He found one of the older servants who had known your mistress for years.
"Tell me about her."
The servant hesitated. "Her?"
"You know who I mean."
The woman looked at him carefully. "She's a good girl."
Paul swallowed. "That's not what I asked."
"You asked who she is."
"Yes."
The servant sighed.
"She came to work for Lady— when she was quite young. Her family had very little. Her father died when she was a child, and her mother couldn't support them both. She was educated by relatives for a time, then eventually became a companion."
Paul listened silently. "She's clever," the servant continued. "Always has been. Reads constantly. Speaks several languages. Her mistress relies on her for nearly everything."
Paul looked down. "She could have told me."
"Perhaps she was afraid."
The words struck him. He dismissed the servant gently.
For the rest of the afternoon, he thought about them.
Perhaps she had been afraid. Not afraid of being discovered.
Afraid of being rejected.
Paul hated how much sense that made. He thought of all the times you had tried to tell him. The hesitations.
The sudden changes of subject. The moments when you had looked at him with something almost frightened in your eyes. He had mistaken them for shyness. He had been so certain of what you were that he had never thought to question it.
And now he wondered whether he had been just as guilty as you.
He had loved the woman beside him. He had loved her intelligence, her humor, her stubbornness, her kindness. He had loved the way she argued with him. He had loved the way she looked at him when he spoke honestly.
None of those things belonged to a title. They belonged to her.
That evening, Paul returned to the garden. The roses were beginning to fade. The first leaves had begun turning brown along the edges.
Summer was ending. He sat beneath the arch where you had told him that you loved him. He could still remember the exact sound of your voice.
I love you too.
Paul closed his eyes.
He had spent weeks telling himself that the lie had destroyed everything. But perhaps the lie had only revealed something he had been too proud to understand.
He had not fallen in love with a noblewoman.
He had fallen in love with the woman who had sat beneath this tree and read books, who had beaten him on horseback, who had laughed when he tried to impress her, who had stayed beside him when he admitted that he did not know what he wanted from his own life.
He had fallen in love with the woman who had made the estate feel like home. And she had left because she believed he could never love her once he knew the truth.
Paul opened his eyes. "No," he whispered.
He stood.
The decision came with surprising clarity. He could not change what had happened. He could not erase his anger or pretend the betrayal hadn't wounded him.
But he could stop allowing pride to make the decision for both of them.
He would find you. He would tell you that he was still hurt. He would tell you that trust would not return in a single conversation.
But he would also tell you that he had been wrong about one thing. You had never needed to be noble for him to love you.
The next morning, Paul ordered his carriage prepared. One of the servants looked surprised.
"Where are we going, Your Highness?"
Paul glanced once toward the gardens. "To find someone."
As the carriage rolled away from the estate, summer finally began to loosen its grip on the countryside.
The fields were turning gold. The evenings were growing cooler.
Autumn was coming.
Paul watched the estate disappear behind him and held your abandoned book tightly in his hands.
He didn't know what you would say when he found you. He didn't know whether you would forgive him for sending you away. He didn't even know whether you would want him back. But for the first time since you left, he understood something with absolute certainty.
He would rather hear you tell him no than spend the rest of his life wondering what might have happened if he had gone after you.
And so he kept going.
You were sitting beside the window of a small sitting room, mending a torn sleeve while the afternoon light faded across the floor. The house was nothing like the estate. It was smaller, quieter, and comfortably ordinary, with none of the grand corridors or endless gardens that had surrounded you throughout the summer.
You had begun learning how to live without them. You had almost convinced yourself that you could.
Then you heard a carriage outside. You looked toward the window.
A moment later, someone knocked. Your hands went still.
You knew before the door opened. Paul stood on the other side. For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
He looked different. Not dramatically. There was still the same careful clothing, the same familiar dark hair, the same expression that could so easily become petulant when things did not go his way. But something in him seemed quieter now.
Older, perhaps. You stood.
"Your majesty."
It came out barely above a whisper.
“Just Paul.” He replied, solemnly "I told you I would find you."
Your heart twisted. "You shouldn't have."
"I know."
He stepped inside. You remained several feet away. "I didn't come because I'm no longer angry," he said. "I am."
You looked down. "I know."
"I'm still hurt."
"I know that too."
He swallowed. "But I understand now."
You looked at him. Paul took a breath. "I understand why you lied."
Your eyes filled with tears. "That doesn't make it right."
"No."
He shook his head. "It doesn't."
He moved closer. "But I understand."
You looked away. "I was afraid."
"I know."
"I thought if you knew who I really was, you'd look at me differently."
"I might have."
The honesty hurt, but you appreciated it. Paul continued quietly, "I might have been surprised. I might have been angry that you hadn't trusted me enough to tell me. I might have said things I regretted."
He paused. "But I would have loved you."
You looked at him again. "How can you know that?"
"Because I did."
His voice broke slightly. "I already did."
The tears finally fell. Paul stood before you, his expression open in a way you had never seen before.
"I spent weeks thinking I had fallen in love with someone who didn't exist," he said. "Then I realized that the woman I loved was never the title. It was you."
You covered your mouth, trying to contain a sob. "You loved the way I argued with you."
"I did."
"You loved the way I rode."
"You beat me."
"You've mentioned that."
"I shall continue mentioning it." A small laugh escaped you. Paul smiled faintly. "You loved the way I read. The way I made you laugh. The way I listened when you talked about things you were afraid to say to anyone else."
His expression softened. "I loved you before I knew what your name meant to everyone else."
You lowered your hands. "I am sorry."
"I know."
"I should have told you."
"Yes."
"I should never have let it continue."
"Yes."
You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. "I don't expect you to forgive me."
Paul took another step toward you. "I already have."
You stared at him. "Forgiveness doesn't mean I wasn't hurt," he said. "It doesn't mean everything is magically fixed. Trust will take time."
"I understand."
"But I don't want to spend that time without you."
The room seemed suddenly too quiet. Paul reached for your hand, but stopped just before touching you.
For the first time, he waited. You closed the distance yourself. Your fingers slipped into his. His hand tightened around yours. "I want you to come back with me."
You looked at him. "As what?"
Paul's expression softened. "As yourself."
The simplicity of it broke something open inside you. "Paul..."
"I don't want another summer with a secret between us. I don't want you pretending to be someone else. I don't want to wonder whether you're frightened to tell me what you think."
He smiled. "I want you to argue with me."
You laughed through your tears. "You regret saying that already."
"Probably."
He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles. "I want you beside me."
You looked toward the window. Outside, the first leaves of autumn had begun to turn gold.
"The summer is over."
"I know."
"And everything is different."
"I know that too."
You turned back toward him. "Then why go back?"
Paul looked at you for a long moment. "Because I don't want the summer."
Your brow furrowed. "I want the seasons."
Your breath caught.
He stepped closer. "I want autumn with you. Winter. Spring. Another summer. I want all the ordinary days we didn't get to have because we were too busy pretending that the one we had would never end."
You smiled. "What happens when you get tired of me?"
"I already tried that."
"And?"
"I was miserable."
You laughed softly. Paul leaned down and kissed you. It wasn't like the first kiss beneath the roses.
That kiss had been uncertain, fragile, filled with the excitement of something neither of you understood.
This one was different. There was history in it. Pain. Forgiveness.
A promise that neither of you could guarantee would be easy, but both of you were willing to make.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. "No more secrets."
"No more secrets."
You squeezed his hand. Then you looked once more toward the window, toward the fading afternoon and the golden leaves beyond it. Summer had ended.
The season that had begun with a lie was over. But perhaps that was not the tragedy you had once believed it would be. Perhaps some seasons were meant to end so that something else could begin.
You gathered your things. And when you stepped outside with Paul, you did not look back.
The carriage waited at the road.
He helped you inside, then climbed in beside you. As it began to move, you watched the countryside pass beyond the window, the greens of summer slowly surrendering to gold and amber.
Paul took your hand. This time, neither of you needed to pretend.
And somewhere behind you, the summer remained exactly where it belonged: in the past, beautiful and painful and impossible to forget.
Ahead was everything else.
And for the first time, you were not afraid of what came next.
