Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 297: The Angry Prince

Chapter 297: The Angry Prince

Reuben stood frozen in the doorway of the king’s study, disbelief hardening into rage as the herald repeated himself.

"His Majesty did not summon you, Your Highness."

The words echoed in his ears, hollow and mocking.

He’d been tricked.

A slow, burning realization crept over him—Alaric had played him. The message, the summons—it had all been a ruse. A deliberate distraction. A calculated move to tear him away from Lara.

He had a beautiful moment with Lara in that gallery. He still remembered the look on her face when she saw the painting of her dancing. She looked shy and endearing, and the flush on her cheeks made her even more beautiful.

Reuben’s jaw tightened as a furious heat surged through his chest. He turned on his heel and stormed down the corridor. Without thinking, he lashed out—his boot smashing into an ornate vase perched in a decorative alcove. The porcelain exploded in a burst of shards and dust, scattering across the marble floor.

He didn’t care.

His fists curled at his sides, knuckles white. Alaric. That abandoned brother—banished, forgotten, and now returned not only to reclaim favor, but to mock him. To steal from him.

Reuben’s heart pounded as he made his way back to the gallery, a sick hope flickering within him that perhaps—perhaps—Lara would still be there. But the moment he stepped inside and saw the empty space where she’d stood, the flicker died.

Gone.

Just as he feared.

He spun around. "Mira!" he barked.

Silence.

One of his servants rushed to him, startled by the sharpness in his tone.

"Look for Mira Norse and tell her to come to my study."

After a while, Mira was led by a servant to the crown prince’s study.

"I... I don’t know, Your Highness," Mira said cautiously, her eyes searching his face. "Prince Alaric took her away, but he sent me out first."

Reuben stared at her for a long, tense moment. Then, with a growl of frustration, he swept his arm across his writing desk. A crystal vase crashed to the floor, glass splintering in every direction. The room fell silent, save for the lingering echo of destruction.

Mira stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat as the last shards of crystal settled across the polished floor. Her heart pounded beneath her chest, louder than the sound of the vase shattering.

She hadn’t expected to see Prince Reuben in a state like this.

The prince she knew—the one everyone in court spoke of with quiet reverence—was always calm, poised, and gentle. He was the image of composure, the kind of man who was charismatic and liked by many.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

There had been a wildness in his eyes, a flash of something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. Mira took a cautious step back, her shoes nearly crunching on broken glass.

"Your Highness..." she said gently, as if speaking too loudly might provoke another outburst. "Perhaps you should sit. I’ll ask the servant to clean this."

Reuben didn’t answer.

He didn’t even look at her.

His gaze was locked on the wall, but it wasn’t the wall he saw—it was something far beyond it—another painting, a lady in a white dress, frozen in a graceful lift in the air.

Lara.

Mira hesitated a moment longer, then curtsied quickly and backed out of the room. As she disappeared into the hallway, she pressed a hand to her chest, trying to still the rapid flutter of her heartbeat.

He’s not who we thought he was.

The servants came and cleaned up the mess.

Mira returned to the room.

There was a long silence before Reuben talked.

"Don’t dare talk about what you saw earlier."

Mira nodded. She understood the consequences.

"Good." Reuben looked at her, and she felt that she was in the middle of winter. "Tell the members of the Dance Club that the next meeting will be on Thursday. Tell them that a dance competition will be held in the palace soon, and if they want to participate, they need to convince Lara to teach them, and that she should come every time there is a gathering. This goes for you as well."

Then, with a few more words, he dismissed Mira.

Reuben stared at the area where the shards had been scattered earlier, scattered across the floor like spilled diamonds, before his gaze drifted to his reflection in the mirror that stared back at him—distorted, sharp-edged, unfamiliar.

He had lost control.

And Mira had seen.

Let her think what she wants, he told himself. The damage was done.

But the fury still burned in his veins. Hot. Blistering. Not just because of Alaric’s manipulation—but because of what it meant.

Lara was slipping through his fingers.

He had felt it earlier—that delicate connection, fragile and new, forming between them. He’d been patient, respectful. Calculated, even. He had given her space, shown her the courtly version of himself he had mastered for years.

And yet Alaric had returned—ragged, unwanted, unrefined—and with barely a word, he had taken her. Not physically. Not publicly. But emotionally. Subtly. Like a tide creeping up the shore.

Reuben moved to the window, shoving it open with one hand. The cool evening air rushed in, brushing against his heated skin. Below, the gardens, lit by storches and the moonlight, stretched in perfect symmetry, their order a stark contrast to the chaos in his chest.

I was born to rule, he thought bitterly. He was born to be forgotten, to be abandoned.

And yet now, he was the one being forgotten by the woman he fancied.

Reuben clenched the window frame so tightly his fingers ached.

This wasn’t over.

If Alaric thought he could steal her, he was wrong. Reuben would not be humiliated. Not by a brother who had grown up in shadows, and certainly not in front of the woman he intended to make his queen.

Let them have their stolen moment, he thought darkly. It will be their last.

The wind from the open window snapped at Reuben’s collar, but he barely noticed. His gaze swept over the manicured gardens below—every hedge trimmed, every path flawlessly aligned. Order. Control. The way things were meant to be.

Just like his life.

Until Alaric returned.

Reuben turned from the window, his boots thudding against the floor as he paced the study like a caged animal. The scent of crushed rose petals from the broken vase clung to the air, sweet and cloying—mocking, almost.

He ran a hand through his neatly combed hair, disheveling it for the first time in hours. His reflection in the glass of a nearby cabinet caught his eye. He stopped and stared.

His shirt was immaculate, his posture proud—but something was wrong with his face. The set of his jaw. The flicker in his eyes. He didn’t look like the golden prince anymore.

He looked like someone becoming something else.