✮ Born To Reign - Jannik Sinner
jannik sinner x royal!fem!reader
sy: you should of seen it coming, really. distance is chasing you away again, and silence seems to drown you. you face internal conflict about whether consequence or love prevails. i guess you’ll find out.
a/n: yes the colour theme is icky. yes i hate it. (trying to base the colours off emotions but lyk) feedback alwaysss welcome (will need it for this 🙏🏼)
-> PART 1 // PART 2 // PART 3
MORNING DOESNT COME GENTLY, not at all. truth be told, you cried yourself unconscious, so everything past the second you touched your bed is a blur. the second you’re woken up by an apparent circus being hosted downstairs, the guilt ridden heart ache comes instantly.
“for f—christ’s sake,” you quickly correct, irritated by the sudden wake up call. it takes your eyes a moment to fully adjust, as the swelling from last nights waterworks made them puffy. you push your palm deep at your chest, as if trying to mitigate the ache.
aimlessly, you reach for your phone somewhere on your bed, and swipe it open as your heart races.
all you want is a message from him.
however, you’re met with disappointment.
there’s no text. you chew at the inside of your cheek, wondering if you should message him first.
after all, aren’t you the one that ran out on him?
you chew at the inside of your cheek harder. no.. no. maybe he needs time. maybe he isn’t awake yet. or maybe he’s waiting for you to text him? no.. you need to give him time.
sighing, when you squeeze your eyes shut, the memories flood back in. “i’m still in love with you,” he had whispered. “i said i love you.” the warmth of his fingertips, you can still feel etched into your skin like scars. the coolness of his skin meeting your warm.
“rise and shine sunshine!”
you jolt up at the speed of usain bolt, throw your phone and collide your head with a skull cracking thump. “ow!”
your mother appears, so full of grace.
it’s naturally unfair, really. how she carries such elegance even at the ripe time of dawn.
when you groan and rub at your head, she beelines her way to the curtains; she pulls them aside to allow light into the pool of darkness in your room.
“mother—it’s too early for this.”
you wince like a vampire to the sun, and you swear you almost feel your skin sizzle to the sudden heat boring through the glass pane.
“its never too early to open your curtains,” she feigns. “why are you laying in the dark anyway?”
“i wasn’t. i’ve only just woken up.”
her face pales. you frown. what’s so wrong with that?
“only just? hon, it’s 12pm.”
“it is not—” it so is. god damn for clocks. especially for your particular one, that hangs right above your doorframe and impossible to ignore. it does infact read, 12:02pm. you pull your lips into a straight line, why didn’t you even think to look at the time on your phone?
she watches you closely now, her perfectly arched eyebrows knitting together. her expression is one that can’t decide between disappointment or concern. her eyes dart between yours; you can only accept that she’s discovering the sadness hidden beneath your reddened eyes. kate places herself on your bed, resting her hand next.
“can you tell me what’s going on?”
“what? n—nothings going on,” you scoff nervously, pacing away to your vanity. “why would something be going on?”
your mother sighs, extracting her hands to her lap. her beady eyes travel across your frame: the inky reminscience of cried off mascara under your eyes, the frizzy nature of your hair—evident that you’ve either been caught up in the rain or coaxed by tigers—the swollen puff of your lips n cheek; not to mention, how you’ve managed to sleep like a baby, in a wooly jacket, in 26c heat.
she pulls her lips together. “ever since wimbledon you haven’t been acting yourself. it seems like you’re always on edge or… i don’t know, in a fight or flight trance.”
you grimace and shake your head.
“look, darling,” kate sighs again. “i’m not going to be angry—“
you dismiss it immediately. “look, mum, there’s nothing going on, alright? so you can stop with the whole detective thing.”
the princesses calm persona doesn’t waver, and guilt almost entirely consumes you. you can’t tell her. no way. you can’t tell anybody.
because you know how this game works.
news spreads like wildfire in this family, so does gossip. so do secrets.
even if you were to slip up, or confess, that you’ve decided royal protocol isn’t the focal point of your life? as a matter of fact, what better way to stun her into suspected disappointment is that you’re willing to risk it all over a man?
“alright,” she takes her bottom lip between her teeth. “are you certain that there’s nothing you want to tell me?”
she deadpans you with a look that you fear she can see straight through you. you and your lies. but you don’t want to venture that far and take the risk, so, you shake your head with a eventual, “no.”
your mother nods, a smile breaking through that’s nothing like what she usually wears. it’s strained, forced probably. “well, come down to eat. the food will go cold.” the royal rises, smoothing down the creases of her dress and slips swiftly from the door.
you rake a breath out you weren’t even aware you were holding.
you wince at the immediate burning sensation shooting through your temple from the attempt to crack your skull. the sun blares through the glass, right into your eyes and you hammer the curtains shut to bare with the strain behind your eyelids. dear lord, your eyes ache. a heavy pit of guilt settles at the bottom of your stomach, and stalks your heart.
your boyfriend creeps back into your head.
standing dizzily, your mind wanders to replay the way he’d snaked his arms around you like he needed to, drank in every last softness of your lips when he couldn’t get enough of you; when he reeled you in so much that there wasn’t an inch of a gap between you, giving you every piece of him and his vulnerability with it. the pads of your fingers instinctively rise to trace over the kisses he’d left along your jaw as you’re still lost in memory. you can almost hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, feel it coaxing your body into a lullaby, and the way he looked at you as if you were a living, breathing angel.
the tears come back, but they come slow. your palms come faster to catch them before they leak.
god, you miss him. more than ever.
and you can only beat yourself up about how you didn’t tell him the same.
when you really wanted to.
you check your phone again, but there’s nothing but the time and date of the day. carefully, grasping both hands, the urge takes control over your limbs and you type away.
‘hey, i need to see you again. can you text me back baby. please.’
suddenly, his words ring again in your mind, making you feel nauseous. “i said i love you.”
it feels as if your mind is haunting you with his words, punishing you for allowing cowardice to win.
“stop it,” you tell your brain as the guilt becomes unbearable to handle.
in an attempt to distract yourself, you swing onto a stool that accompanies your vanity. you pull out a hairbrush, a hair tie and some lip balm before you make your way to the on-suite bathroom of your own to win back some normality in your appearance.
the mirror, it doesn’t show… you.
not how it presented you two days ago.
bright eyed, polished and well-kept now seems to diminish infront of your very eyes to sort of what you would describe as a doll that’s been worn and torn. that had been thrashed around by pre schoolers with snotty and filthy hands.
you look closer to death than you do alive.
rapidly, you brush your teeth on autopilot, spit, and ignore the mirror as you walk back out of the bathroom and out into the hallway.
your flats squeak against the polished flooring as you make your way downstairs, toying with the band of your necklace; harshly clearing your throat, which makes it sting, just as you cut the corner to the open-casted doors of the dining hall.
the fraction of a second you make contact to the room, your blood runs cold. everyone’sat the dining table already: both parents, charlotte, louis and unfortunately george. but what’s new to you is the newspaper swarmed out between the table, each person looking overly interested.
there’s never been anything other than food and water at the breakfast table. ever.
your steps are hesitant, slow, and you already feel the bile rise in your throat. what could possibly be so interesting on the cover of a tuesday’s post?
each and every tv cable is still unplugged, as you heard complaints from george as soon as you greeted the table. ‘but i can’t watch attenborough’s documentary,’ he had whined. which, good news. however, you’d forgotten your fathers tendency for the occasional afternoon paper.
like goddammit, it’s 2025.
why do physical papers still exist?
“good mornin—or should i say, afternoon, you!” your father booms. “it’s about time you make greetings with your family and stop hiding in that cave of yours upstairs.”
he chuckles wolfishly, the sound echoing in the wide space. you take your seat next to louis. in return, you laugh sheepishly, curling your fingers around the silver cutlery with shaky hands.
there’s not one still movement as you begin chewing on a slice of toast.
the more your knee bounces from nerves, the more your dress rises up to your thigh, so the more you tug it back down with trembly, clammy hands. your left hand is present at your knee, because whilst it’s not busy tugging the cotton fabric of your dress down, it’s cleaning the sweat off of your palms and onto your equally clammy skin of your knee as the heat from your anxiety builds up with each passing second.
its eerily still. that’s what scary.
your throat clamps dry with a bite, and after a prolonging sip of oj, you decide to break the ice. “what’s so interesting?”
after a beat, charlotte says, “horse racing gossip.”
“well, not all, horse racing,” your father corrects, scanning the pages with such ardor. “the mail caught some celebrity scandal last night too.”
the cutlery in your hands almost slip. george swallows his food. “oh, do tell father.”
the child cocks a brow and a wild, devilish and sarcastic oh-no smirk up at you. he still chews irritably on his jam and peanut sandwich, knowing how much chewing with his mouth open, irks you.
no, surely it wouldn’t make the physical copies of news yet… would it?
william sucks in a breath.
this is where you suffer a heart attack.
adrenaline pulses through your veins; suddenly, you’re on high alert to everything surrounding you. the way louis scraps his fork across the plate, the screeches of it, the soft slurping of charlotte when she picks up her ribena, the rythmatic tapping of your least favourite sibling’s fingers, hitting the table, like it’s a timed countdown to your inevitable death.
“they believe it to be a woman—yet to be identified—but, a celebrity, fooling around after hours with,” father raises his brows in surprise, “sinner.”
your mother peers over to the paper that your father eventually sets infront. she scans it briefly, and only briefly, does her gaze flicker towards you. on the other hand, your father hums in thought, who’s clearly entertained by this scandal rather than perturbed by it. you can see it now. the black and white, scratchy photo of two people stumbling at the curb underneath the poor light of a lamppost.
“last night you say?” george squeaks. louis gurgles down his milk as your blood boils and it slivers through your cheeks.
you’re sure you’re as red as a babbons buttocks right now.
the bile in your stomach climbs up to your throat and threatens to spill to your tongue.
why is everybody acting like this is a game? is george actually smart enough to connect the dots?
you throw down a mouthful of water that almost chokes you. george definitely has his suspicions, and he’ll be the one to rat you out.
“it’s strange though,” william adds. “no clear imagine of this woman. the daily mail is usually better at catching these things.”
as your knuckles pale when your grip tightens around your fork, you stab at your boiled egg with a decreasing appetite.
“silly woman,” george shrugs. “i’m sure she woefully regrets it now.”
your appetite vanishes completely, and if you spend one more millisecond at that table, you’re sure you’ll hurl. or worse.
“i—” you stand abruptly, lost for words. everybody looks you up and down as if you’re loony when your plate crashes hard.
“i—i’m not feeling too good,” you stutter. “i think i need to go lie down.”
you don’t actually wait for anybody to give you approval, nor do you seek it. you spin away on your heel, grasping at the—what feels like a sack of hot coals—churning sensation in your stomach.
you don’t even know where to go.
though, you don’t stop jogging. your calves burn, taut and stiff, as you twist and push yourself through every left corner of this house.
with no real destination in mind, your flats continue to slip softly when your pace quickens but all you know is you have to get away.
away from them. away from the table. away from that godforsaken paper, before you make one wrong move and out yourself.
the thoughts refuse to cool.
they spiral, over and over like a film reel. the image on the paper, the moment you heaved jannik up from the curb and he came crashing onto you, it replays non stop, as if it’s a punishment that’s been burned onto your eyelids for secretly breaking the royal conduct.
your hand flies to your mouth as you round another corner, pressing hard like you can physically shove the panic back down your throat before it consumes you whole. as if the guilt wasn’t enough. your breathing also comes out uneven and there’s a ringing in your ears that drowns out everything else.
they’re going to find out soon.
the media will pick it apart piece by piece, crucify you until there’s no escaping it nor denying it. they’re clever, so clever, that it’s only a matter of time before they find out.
then what? do you lose jannik?
that sends your head around like a carousel.
the article is one thing. but he’s another.
when you whip your phone from your dress pocket, your grip tightens so that the sweat from your palms doesn’t cause you to drop it. your thumb scrolls hard until you find his chat.
no reply. no seen. no, nothing.
the question appears uninvited into your brain. then a million more appear.
did he see the photo? did he recognise us?
the words taste sour on your tongue as you whisper, “…is that why he hasn’t answered?”
you shake your head quickly, like that alone might dislodge the thought but it’s already there, already rooting itself into every gap in your mind. because what if he did? what if he woke up, saw it plastered across headlines… saw what last night looked like from the outside and regretted it?
the word regret hits harder than anything else. “no,” you mutter under your breath pleadingly. “no, he said—he said he loved me, he wouldn’t just—”
but the realisation hits you, that, you left.
as the memory returns, when he softened his voice, only, to confess, like he doesn’t throw that term around lightly. then, the way he held you for a fraction tighter afterwards, like he was hoping for it in return.
and you gave him nothing. although, that’s all you wanted to tell him.
“jan, i’m so sorry,” you whisper, broken. a tear falls. “i do—”
all of a sudden, the doors swing open and blows a gush of cold wind into the room. you jump aback, startled, and one of the many maids you can’t quite place a name on, steps in and stops just as fast.
the maids eyes widen the second she sees you, her hand still on the door like she might yank it shut again. “i’m so sorry—i thought no one was—i didn’t—”
she cuts herself off, already backing away.
“its fine,” you say quickly, voice a little rough. “you didn’t—it’s okay.”
the young woman shakes her head, almost ashamed, her gaze dropping to the floor. “i didn’t know… i’m really sorry ma’am—i’ll just—“
panickangly, she starts to hurried leave. “no,” you stammer huskily. “don’t go.”
you step forward cautiously, urging her to not open the door again. you put your hands out almost like a peace offering, and that’s when you notice her pink, sore eyes and fresh tears clinging to her eyelashes.
poor girl, you think. as you wipe your own teary eyes, you say, “did you wanna talk? i can tell you’re upset.”
the woman licks at her bottom lip, “i—“ she looks startled, as if you, a royal, would be offering help to her. you tilt your head, reassuring with a gentle smile.
“no—it’s okay.. it’s stupid anyway,” she mutters.
you chuckle. “im sure its not stupid. hit me.”
at this point, nothing could phase you after these past couple days. but she doesn’t say anything still.
“hey,” you offer a another gentle grin, and gently shut the door with your palm as her hand still grips the handle. “you can talk to me. i’m not that scary.”
that earns a soft, rough chuckle. she sniffles, pressing her palms to her eyes. “i—um, okay…”
gently, you lead her far away from the door, raking out two chairs from beneath a small, ceramic table, where you encourage her to sit before you do the same.
she wipes her nose on her sleeve and tucks flyaways beneath her ears. her cheeks are flustered, and it looks as though she’s been suffering internally just as much as you have.
you give her all the time she needs, until she starts, “well…” she sighs out, “it’s just my boyfriend.”
your stomach does backflips.
the woman’s eyes stay glued to her lap as she fiddles with her rings, sheepishly continuing, “we had a bit of a thing. not even a proper argument, just—“ the maid sniffles again. “he thinks i don’t love him.”
she shrugs, but it’s not causal. “because he says i don’t say it enough.. or show it. he says it all the time, and i just.. don’t. not like how he wants,” her lips press together. “and now he thinks i dont love him at all.”
it feels like something sharp pokes at your eye. you wince, look away and look back.
“yeah, a lot,” she answers straightaway. “i just—i dont know how to say it without it feeling.. too much or too late.”
you gulp back a lump. and the dozy face that jannik looked at you with, flashes infront of your eyes. “so, you’re just not going to tell him? even though you do love him?”
her nails dig deep into her skin, leaving crescent shaped marks. she doesn’t say anything for a beat, so you ask for her name.
you nod, about to speak but she interrupts. “i don’t know. maybe it’s easier not to.. because if i say it now and he doesn’t believe me still, or if it doesn’t fix anything then,” her voice cracks a syllable. “i might lose him and i don’t wanna lose him.”
hot air leaves your nose as you exhale heavily.
god, you understand that.
“if you really love him, and you mean it,” you whistle out, “you need to tell him. that’s what he clearly wants, isn’t it?”
“if you don’t say anything, he’s just going to keep thinking you don’t feel it,” you continue, and surprisingly your voice seems steady though the chaos in your head is not. “and then you lose him anyway. at least if you tell him, you’re still fighting for the person you love.”
the room falls eerily quiet, but the only thing audible is your heartbeat that pounds against your ribs. you can feel the words spill from your mouth as smooth as jelly, because you’re living the reality of this.
its not just about maria. its about you, too.
your fingers curl against the arm of the chair. “you don’t lose him by saying it,” you add softly, “you lose him by not.”
maria stares at you, seeping your words in.
a smile curls at your lips, for the first time in a small while. “i think if you love him, you don’t get to stay silent about it,” something unsettles you and you shiver. “because silence doesn’t protect anything. it just guarantees you lose him without trying.”
she lets out a small breath, as if she’s been holding it in. but suddenly, you’re not talking to her anymore.
you’re talking to yourself.
your fingers find your phone again, and it’s still frozen on the message you last sent to jannik. it’s still sitting there with no reply, but for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re waiting for one.
its so obvious to you now.
you don’t fix this over a measly message.
not by waiting and spiralling.
you fix this by telling him before it’s too late.
there’s something resolute settling across your expression that wasn’t there before. you look back up to the young woman.
“thank you,” you spit out suddenly.
she blinks, confused. “for what?”
but your already standing up quick enough for your knees to crack, scraping your chair back. you can’t spare yourself a second to hesitate.
“for reminding me,” you answer as your halfway to the door.
because now you know, exactly, what you have to do. and for the first time in your life,
you’re not choosing to stay hidden.
you’re choosing to fight for what you love.
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