Chapter Nine
"You're quiet," Desmond said, nudging Leo's tray with his elbow. "That usually means you're plotting something reckless."
Leo barely touched his food. His eyes were distant. "I can't wait three months."
Desmond frowned. "Wait for what?"
"The truth," Leo muttered. "Whatever it is they're hiding. The whole 'alpha' thing. I need to know now."
"Leo... "
"I'm serious, Des. I'm not going to sit around and wait for some magical birthday to be spoon-fed answers. I'm done being handled like a china doll with a title."
"I get it," Desmond said, picking at a bread roll. "But barging in could make things worse. What if you're not ready?"
"I don't care," Leo snapped. "It's my life. My blood. If something's waking up in me, I want to meet it head-on."
Desmond sighed. "Just… don't go rogue, alright? You've got enough pressure already."
"I was born rogue," Leo muttered, then looked up. "And speaking of pressure…"
Several girls giggled nearby, clustered at a table, whispering and glancing over at him every few seconds.
One waved. "Hi, Your Highness."
He gave a tight, obligatory smile.
"I saw a girl brought a full-on sketch of your face today," Desmond said under his breath.
"I wish you were joking."
"I wish I was blind."
The cafeteria door swung open.
Pascal strolled in.
"Great," Leo muttered. "Here comes the spy and wizard."
Desmond glanced up. "You don't even know him."
"Oh I do know him. Last week, this guy terrorised me with his dark looks."
Some of the attention shifted instantly, eyes trailing from Leo to Pascal like spectators at a tennis match.
Pascal, calm and collected as always, sauntered toward the food counter like he was born in a fashion ad.
Leo's eyes narrowed and landed on Frankie trailing behind him, looking unsure but still holding her head up.
"She's with him?" Leo muttered.
Desmond didn't reply. He was already watching.
At the counter, the warm clatter of cutlery and the low hum of chatter filled the cafeteria. Pascal leaned in slightly toward Frankie as she scanned the trays, his voice casual but kind.
"You sure you don't want me to cover it?" he offered again, nudging her gently with a grin. "Really, I don't mind. My treat."
Frankie shook her head with a small smile. "My lunch is included with the scholarship. I'm good."
"You sure?" he asked, tilting his head. "Because I can be very persuasive."
"Positive," she said, chuckling under her breath. "I've survived worse than cafeteria lines."
He held up both hands in surrender. "Alright. Just say the word if you change your mind."
She nodded and turned her attention to the hot food trays. Her stomach grumbled at the scent of baked pasta, roasted vegetables, and fresh rolls. She filled her tray carefully, modestly. A small portion of chicken, a side of rice, and a bottle of water.
The hunger gnawed at her, but so did the desire not to appear needy.
When she reached the counter, she smiled politely at the woman behind it.
"I'm on the scholarship plan," she said, her tone light but certain.
The attendant, large, square-faced, with a deep crease between her brows, peered over the rim of her glasses. Her expression immediately soured.
"What's the name?" she asked, already sounding suspicious.
"Francisca Adebayo. Frankie."
The woman scrolled slowly through her list, her finger tapping the screen as if she resented it for making her work.
"I don't see that name here," she said flatly.
Frankie's smile faltered. "It should be. I spoke to someone last week. They confirmed everything, meals included."
"You were told wrong," the woman snapped, her volume noticeably louder now. "We scraped that off the scholarship incentives last term."
Frankie blinked. "That wasn't in the email I received. The document said..."
"I said it's not on this list," the woman cut her off, her voice rising another notch. "Which means either you pay for that tray or put it back. We're not running a charity buffet here."
A hush fell across the room like someone had turned the volume knob down on the entire cafeteria.
Frankie's ears burned.
The embarrassment crawled over her skin like wildfire, hot and fast, leaving a trail of humiliation in its wake. She glanced to her left, then her right. The cafeteria had fallen into a tense, uncomfortable hush.
Conversations dropped, chairs paused mid-scrape. Forks hovered halfway to mouths and all eyes were slowly turning toward her.
Leo leaned forward from his table at the far end, narrowing his eyes as he tried to make sense of why the attendant yelled. "What the hell is happening?" he muttered under his breath.
Frankie stood frozen at the counter, her tray trembling slightly in her grip. Her hand had gone stiff around its edge. The heat climbing her neck reached her cheeks, flushing them pink. It wasn't just the attention. It was the look in that woman's eyes, like she was doing the world a favour by putting Frankie in her place.
"I wasn't trying to take anything... " she started, her voice tight.
"You don't take what you can't pay for," the woman snapped, her voice loud enough to hit every corner of the canteen. "Now leave the tray and step aside."
A ripple went through the crowd. A few quiet gasps. A stifled giggle somewhere near the windows.
Frankie's jaw clenched. Her pride warred with the rising ache in her chest.
"You don't have to humiliate me," she said, her voice sharp now. "I was explaining..."
"Don't raise your voice," the woman warned, arms folding across her chest like a bouncer outside a club. "You won't win that game here."
Frankie stared at her. Her throat tightened, her stomach twisted. "Or what?" she said, biting each word. "You'll throw me out for trying to eat like a human being?"
Across the room, Desmond was halfway to his feet.
Leo caught his arm. "Wait," he said quietly. "What do you think you're doing?"
Before Frankie could explode, or crumble, Pascal stepped forward.
"Okay," he said, voice steady and sharp. "That's enough."
The woman blinked. "Excuse me?"
"She's with me," Pascal said firmly. "So drop the rude attitude."
"Pascal, " Frankie hissed, mortified, but he didn't even glance at her.
He held her tray in one hand, pulled his card out with the other, and turned to the woman like she was beneath wasting breath on.
"Put it on my tab," he said. "All of it."
There was a pause. The woman blinked at the card, then at him.
She sniffed, muttered something under her breath, and tapped the till aggressively.
"Next," she barked.
Frankie exhaled, sharply, like she'd been holding the air hostage in her lungs. She stepped away from the counter like it had burned her.
She felt people watching, her tray felt heavier than it had a second ago.
"You didn't have to do that," she said to Pascal, barely above a whisper.
"I wanted to," he replied, calmly handing the attendant his card.
Frankie didn't speak for a moment. She could still feel the stares on her back like daggers.
Across the cafeteria, Desmond let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He slumped back into his seat, the tightness in his shoulders easing just a little.
"That was intense," he muttered, his eyes still fixed on Frankie.
Leo didn't respond. He was watching too, silently, sharply.
"She thanked him," Desmond added, his tone unreadable. He watched as Pascal and Frankie carried their trays to an empty table by the windows. "He didn't let her leave humiliated. That was decent of him."
"Of course she did," Leo said, flatly. There was no emotion in his voice.
Desmond leaned slightly forward, squinting at the two of them as Frankie sat down and Pascal said something that made her laugh, light and quick, the sound almost surprising.
"She looks…" Desmond hesitated. "Glad."
Leo's jaw shifted. He turned toward his friend, eyes narrowed. "You like her."
Desmond blinked, startled. "What? No."
Leo let out a short, humourless laugh and gave Desmond a single pat on the shoulder. "You like her. I can see it. The way you keep looking at her. Like she's a puppy you found in the rain."
Desmond looked away. "It's not like that."
"Sure it isn't," Leo replied, his voice calm but his gaze sharp. "But let me give you a heads-up before you go any deeper. She's just like the others."
Desmond frowned. "What does that mean?"
Leo didn't answer immediately. He turned his head again, watching as Pascal offered Frankie a napkin and she actually smiled.
"She plays the innocent act well," Leo said, his tone bitter. "But I've seen it too many times. If they're not gold diggers, they're fame diggers. Always looking for something to dig."
Desmond stared at him. "That's a harsh generalisation. You don't even know her"
Leo scoffed. "With my years of experience as crown prince, I've seen alot of things like this."
Desmond's expression darkened. "That's not fair, and you know it."
"I'm not in the business of fair," Leo replied coolly. "I'm in the business of not getting played."
He turned away from Desmond, but his eyes were still locked on the Frankie. His heart still heavy at the sight of her.
He watched her as her fingers twirled a fork absentmindedly as she spoke to Pascal. She leaned forward as she listened, her face open, her expression, relaxed. She laughed again at something Pascal whispered and nudged his arm playfully. She didn't look guarded, or cautious, or wounded by what had just happened.
She looked comfortable.
Leo's hand curled around the edge of the table, slow and tight, his knuckles blanching white against the wood.
He couldn't stop watching her, he couldn't block out the way her eyes softened at Pascal's words.
He couldn't figure out why it bothered him so damn much.
Why does she even matter?
She was a commoner, poor and unpolished. She didn't belong in his world, and yet here she was, holding his attention like she had every right to it.
Leo tore his gaze away, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
"She's not worth the emotions," he muttered under his breath.