The door slammed open with a force that startled even Valerie—no easy feat.

She straightened from her half-packed trunk, a boot dangling from one hand, a pistol tucked at her hip. Her eyes met his, black and unreadable, but the stillness in her shoulders said she’d been expecting this.

Lysander stood in the doorway, breath shallow, cloak askew, hair mussed from running. He looked nothing like a prince. He looked like a man who’d just realized the one thing he didn’t want to lose was already leaving.

“You were going to slip away,” he said, voice hoarse. “Without even saying goodbye?”

Valerie turned back to her trunk, casually tossing the boot in. “Would’ve been easier.”

“For who?” His voice cracked. “Because it’s not easier for me, Valerie. Not after everything.”

She paused. That silence spoke louder than any retort.

“I thought—” He took a step in, softer now. “You made me believe there was a chance. That maybe… we could find a way.”

Valerie looked at him, and for the first time, she didn’t wear that smirk. Just something sad. Something dangerous.

“There was a chance,” she murmured. “But you’re a prince, Lysander. You have a kingdom. A throne. And I have the sea.”

He moved closer, voice barely a whisper now. “Then why did you make it feel like home?”

She didn’t answer. Not with words.

And still, she didn’t stop packing.