by Zoey Oliver
Henry’s standing in the middle of the room, staring at me. I try not to let the sight of him affect me, but my lip quivers as soon we lock eyes.
Dammit to hell. He looks gorgeous. His tailored blue dress shirt matches the bright flecks in his eyes, and there’s that tousled blonde hair and strong jaw, and those oh-so-familiar lips that made me melt into a puddle with every kiss.
“Thank you for coming, Abi,” he says quietly.
My stomach churns uneasily. “What is it? Is it my family? Is everything okay?”
“They’re all fine. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“About what? I have a flight to catch.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’ve heard that you won’t be marrying Finley.”
“That’s right.” My words are guarded and clipped, but I begrudgingly remember my manners. “Spencer told me you helped with that situation. I suppose I owe you a thank you.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t owe me anything. It’s I who owe you. I owe you the truth. What you do with it is up to you — and I swear, I’ll respect whatever you decide, but I need to say this.”
I straighten my spine, bracing myself against his words, but my knees are going weak just looking at his gorgeous face. “Henry, don’t.” I can’t handle another scene like the one in the spa. Walking away from him once was too hard.
Heedless, he presses forward, that wild look in his eye telling me he’s running off sheer adrenaline. “I can’t. I can’t let you go without telling you.”
“I said don’t, Henry.” Tears form in my eyes, but not the kind he wants. I’m in deep, soul crushing pain, and it’s because of him. Maybe, after a long life of privilege, he’s just not used to losing. But I’m not going to let him win me over this time, not even for a minute.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and paces across the small room. “I know I don’t deserve you, but you’re wrapped around my heart like a wild vine. For all my bluster and bravado, it’s this that’s finally cracked me — you. Being away from you is killing me. I can’t bear it.”
“Stop it,” I plead, tears streaming down my face.
He comes to rest in front of me, his expression twisted into a mixture of pain and joy. “I love you, Abi” he whispers. “I love you to the ends of the earth.”
I shake my head. “No,” I cry, a sob rolling through my body.
“It’s true,” he says, his voice so tender it only makes me cry harder. “I know you’re better off without me, and I swear, I’ve tried to let you go. God knows I’ve tried. But I just can’t.”
I turn away from him, wiping my cheeks with the backs of my hands, digging deep to find my anger. I need it to fortify me, to push me forward. “I’m getting on that plane, Henry, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Abi, look at me, please.”
I refuse to turn my eyes to him. I remember all too well what happened last time I did, how I almost let him seduce me right there in the spa. “No! I’m not doing this again, Henry! Nothing’s changed.”
“Look… can we sit down together here, just you and me, and discuss this, please? Let’s just talk about us, okay?”
I grit my teeth, my chest racked with muffled sobs. “There never was an ‘us’ — it’s always just been you and every willing woman desperate to climb into your bed. I was a stupid fool to become one of them.”
“That’s not true! I’m the fool, Abi — me! Not you!”
My vision is blurry, and my legs are trembling, but I make myself start moving. I inch my way to the door, refusing to look at him. “My flight’s leaving, I have to go.”
I open the door, a rush of cool air flowing into the lounge from the corridor. Pierre is at the end of the corridor with the rest of the security team.
“Abi!” Henry pleads.
I practically leap out of the room, but Henry catches my hand. “Let go!” I huff angrily.
“Here, please, just take this.” He presses something into my hand, and my fingers close around it automatically as I hear the final boarding call over the airport loudspeaker.
“I’m going to miss my flight,” I shout in a panic, twisting my arm out of his grasp.
As soon as I’m free I take off running, my heart pounding. If Henry makes me miss this flight, so help me, I’ll go back in there and strangle him with my bare hands — Pierre will have to pry me off him with a crowbar and drag me away in handcuffs.
I fly down the corridor, pushing past his startled security team like a matador, and burst through the glass doors back out onto the tarmac. Oh, thank God! The plane hasn’t begun taxing to the runway yet. A flight attendant is just beginning to raise the stairs of the plane.
“Wait!” I yell, waving my arms. “Please wait!”
Loud commotion erupts behind me, and I know a crowd of reporters has just spilled out of the airport, jetting across the tarmac after me. I hear them shouting my name, but I keep running as fast as my feet will go, toward the plane, toward Africa, toward a new life far away from Ostwyn and Prince Henry.
Chapter 24
HENRY
I walk out of the lounge, head down, hands in my pockets. It only takes a second for Pierre to join me.
“Can I do anything, Your Highness?”
I shake my head. “No, there’s nothing left to be done.”
“May I say, sir, that I’m very sorry to see this outcome.”
I give his arm a squeeze — the most affection he’ll comfortably allow. “You did well, Pierre. Thank you for your help — with the file on Finley and with Abigail today. I appreciate it.”
He nods. “Of course, Your Grace, I’m always at your service.”
My heart is heavy, leaden and weeping, as we stroll up the corridor. Ahead, reporters are stretching and angling the best they can around my security team, trying their damnedest to get in a few shots.
Pierre pauses, pursing his lips disapprovingly at the ruckus. “Sir, I can take you out another way — I’ll have the car pulled around to the side exit. No need to swim through the sharks.”
“It’s okay, Pierre. If they want a show, let them have it. I’m tired of hiding. No matter what I do, my legacy will follow me until I grow old, or they grow bored of me.”
He hesitates, eyeing the crowd ahead with scorn, but relents after a moment and joins my side again. The security team parts to let us pass then falls in behind us as we exit out of the corridor. I turn toward the doors leading out to the tarmac and walk to the large glass panes, watching forlornly as Abi’s plane slowly rolls away to its place in line, waiting for a turn on the runway.
Behind me, the press is in a clamor, and I hear shouts and curses as the paparazzi trip over one another for position. Calls of ‘Your Highness!’ and ‘Prince Henry!’ ricochet off the glass in front of me.
“I hope Africa loves her as much as I do,” I say quietly, a prayer more than a comment to Pierre.
He nods silently, his back to the glass, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd of reporters.
“Prince Henry! Tell us what you’ve been up to!” a voice shouts over the din of noise.
I glance at my chief of security. “You know what? I think I will.”
Pierre raises an eyebrow. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
I turn to face the frenzy. There’s a momentary lull as they pause, waiting to see what I’ll do. Then the frenzy erupts again, shutters clicking and bulbs flashing, a barrage of questions thrown at me.
“Your Highness! Why are you at the airport today?”
“Prince Henry, can tell us why you were meeting with the Baron’s daughter?”
“Yeah, what’s the story with you and Lady Strathmore?”
I square my shoulders and draw a deep breath. I’m going to give them a story, all right. For the first time since that humbling Royal Council meeting when my Kingship was put on the line, I don’t care if I create headlines or fuel the gossip for the talk shows.
Today, I do whatever it takes to set things right.
If
the media thinks I’m a lovesick fool, that’s fine.
Because that’s exactly what I am.
Chapter 25
ABIGAIL
I stumble up the stairs of the small jet, practically climbing them on my hands and knees, and the stewardess helps me through the door. As she presses a series of buttons to pull up the steps, I pause to catch my breath, bent over, sucking in air. After a moment I realize the only sounds are my ragged breath and the low whir and clicks of the stairs sealing into place.
The silence inside the small plane is too heavy to be anything but intentional. I gather myself, straightening my shirt and brushing my windswept hair behind an ear, before I look up in order to make my way down the narrow aisle to my seat.
It only lasts half a second, but in that short span of time, every head on the plane is pointed in my direction, mouths hanging open, eyes staring at me. Then, as one, the passengers snap to and look away, entering back into conversations or opening a paperback.
“Right this way, ma’am,” the stewardess’s hand touches the small of my back, guiding me to my seat. “If you can get buckled quickly, please — the tower has signaled we’re next for takeoff.”
With a start, I realize I’ve been standing in the aisle, frozen in a state of teenage stage-fright. I manage to put one foot after the other — my legs suddenly feeling heavy as concrete — and scoot past a large gentleman to take my seat at the window. Reality coming back into place, I quickly fumble for my seatbelt and snap it into place and cinch it down.
As soon as one stewardess is gone, there is another. Her eyes are kind, but there is no pity in her voice, and I bless her for that. Her Ostwyn accent is clear as she speaks softly. “Water or some reading material, Lady Strathmore?”
“Sure. Yes. Thanks.” She’s recognized me, and I should be displaying better manners, but short sentences are all I can manage to croak out to keep from bursting out in a fit of ugly crying.
She politely accepts my confusing answer without asking for clarification and hands over both, favoring me with a gracious smile before she turns to the front of the plane.
The condensation of the chilled water bottle is cold and wet in my hand, and I realize I’m parched. I twist the top off and suck down three big gulps. There, that’s a little better. As I lift the bottle again, I glance around. A dozen people are stealing peeks at me, curious sideways looks. When my eyes meet theirs, they look away, only to turn their head and stare again a moment later.
I wiggle my butt and draw in my shoulders, sinking as far down into my seat as a I can. Lowering my head, I clutch the paper and unfold it, ready to bury my face inside the pages. Just ignore the stares. It’s a long flight — they’ll grow tired of looking at you eventually.
One glance down at the paper, which is supposed to help take my mind off all this, if only for an hour, and I have to stifle a nervous chortle — the kind of exasperated laugh that wells up from the bitter irony of a situation you thought couldn’t get any worse, until it does.
The lead story is devoted to the closing ceremonies of the Grand Harvest Festival. It’s plastered across the entire front page — and no doubt many of the pages inside, too, but I have no desire to see it. I shake my head and begin to roll the paper up, planning to wedge it beside my seat so it’s out of sight for the rest of the flight. But a small teaser across the top catches my eye: The End of Prince Henry’s Royal Escapades? Page 9.
My fingers twitch nervously, plucking at the edge of the thin paper. Biting my lip, knowing I shouldn’t, I open the paper with a flourish and skip straight to page nine. The heading is repeated at the top of the page, and there he is, the Crown Prince in all his glory staring right back at me. They’ve chosen a flattering picture — but is there really any other kind of Henry? — and his Royal Highness, gorgeous and in full-color is staring at me from the page. His hair is tousled, his eyes hard and unwavering, three days of stubble on his strong jaw, and his lips are parted as though he’s going to speak — or to groan in that throaty rasp that sets my insides on fire.
Suppressing a whimper and ignoring the tingling pulse between my thighs, I graze over the columns, not having the fortitude to slowly digest every word.
For months, Prince Henry has been lying low, rarely seen in public.
In an unusual turn, there have been no reports of troublemaking or scandal…
Except for the crowds entering for the Grand Harvest Festival, not one of his former female favorites have been reported past the gates of Pridemore Palace.
…his attendance documented in the minutes of every daily Council meeting for months now…
Is it true that our Playboy Prince is finally settling down to his role as this nation’s rightful ruler?
In this journalist’s opinion, there is only one explanation of what can reform a notorious lady killer with a penchant for trouble...
...who is she?
My heart matches my stomach in a rather unsavory palpitation as I flip to the last page of the article. Bile rises as the cornucopia of women is laid out before me. He hasn’t been particularly picky. Prince Henry likes them in all varieties. Blonde, brunette, thin, plump, evening gowns and short sundresses.
Of all the women Prince Henry has been previously linked to, no recent events bring any contender to the front of the pack.
With his reformed ways, does the Crown Prince have his eyes on a new woman?
Has a dark horse captured the Prince’s heart?
I try not to let my eyes linger over the pictures of him with other women. I console myself with the fact that they all feature the long haired, stubble wearing version of Henry, from before, when he was still the notorious bad boy fighting in bars and leading wild parties, from before he sequestered himself at the palace this year.
Even... holy shit!
I hold the magazine page up to my face for closer inspection. That blonde. I’ve seen her. Not in real life, but in this exact same picture. A picture from the folder Mr. Kingston handed to me as he convinced me to choose that snake, Finley Prescott.
It’s the royal stables, but the trees outside the barn door — they don’t have fall leaves coloring them like they did in the photo from the folder. No, the trees in the press photo are barren, and there is a dusting of winter snow on the ground. Not only that, but Henry — he’s the same Henry in the captivating picture which leads the article — long, wavy locks and a three-day shadow of stubble across his jaw. Former Henry, not current Henry with his shorter, tousled hair and clean-shaven face.
I lower the paper to my lap with shaky hands as my stomach turns slowly and a wave of nausea hits me. My mind is racing so fast I can barely breath.
Would he? Would Mr. Kingston, my parents’ trusted advisor, would he deceive me? If he thought it was for the benefit of the Strathmore family, yes, I believe he would.
Panic takes hold of me as the plane begins to move. I look out the window and see that we’re taxiing to the runway. Adrenaline surges through me, raw and insistent. My stomach is churning relentlessly, and I unbuckle, ready to make a run for the small airplane bathroom.
The large man beside me is looking at me with incredulity and people are craning their heads to stare openly again, but I don’t care. My life’s been swallowed up by a lie, and my sensitive stomach can’t handle it.
As I twist in my seat, my left thigh rolls across something solid. I reach under my leg, and my hand closes around a small glass vial. The shape and feel of it is familiar, and I vaguely recall Henry pressing something into my hand before I ran away. I must have dropped it in the seat in my haste to get buckled quickly. What is it?
I pull my hand from under my leg and bring it up, opening my fist. Nestled in my palm is a small perfume bottle, an artist’s watercolor of a delicate Japanese honeysuckle blossom decorating the glass.
I’m aware of the breath leaving my lungs in a rush, but my tight throat makes it difficult to take in more. My palm is sweating, and the glass is warm as I grasp the gracef
ul curves of the bottle in my fingers and turn it over. Two words are etched into the glass with swirling, elegant script.
Marry Me.
My body and my mind go numb. I stare at the words. My eyes burn, and I watch in dumb astonishment as my fingers begin to tremble. Then it all happens at once. A series of sobs convulse in my chest, burning there as they pile up. “Oh my God,” I gasp, and the sobs escape. I can feel the eyes of all the passengers on me once more.
There’s a sideways motion of the small plane turning onto the runway, rocking me back in the seat, and every nerve in my body leaps desperately into a flurry of action. “Stop!”
I fling the seatbelt the rest of the way off my lap and stand. The stewardesses at the front of the plane pop their heads from behind the curtain.
“Stop the plane!” I shout.
The woman who helped me up the steps purses her lips, and shakes her head. “Ma’am, you need to sit down and buckle right now, we’re about to take off!”
The other stewardess, the one with kind eyes who recognized me, looks back and forth between her colleague and I, but I can see it on her face — there’s nothing she can do.
I reach for my phone and scan through my contacts. There. Pierre. Henry slipped his number into my phone back when we were still sneaking around the palace, stealing away for private trysts and secret rendezvous whenever we could.
I punch out a hurried message. Get me off this plane!
Time ticks by in slow motion as I wait for a reply. The first stewardess has disappeared back behind the curtain, no doubt to inform the pilots of my disobedience, and the second stewardess is making her way down the aisle toward me, her faced furrowed with worry.
Come on, Pierre, please see my message.
I lurch forward slightly as the plane hits the brakes in a rather dramatic fashion. A mixture of angry and excited murmurs rise from the passengers.
