by Zoey Oliver
“I know we’ve had our issues, Henry, but I know you. I’ve never seen you like this before over a woman, ever. Don’t you fucking tell me the Crown Prince doesn’t fall in love, because I see it all over your face,” he says, his words crackling with intensity.
We stand side by side as only men can, watching the corners of the tent being folded in on one another, unspoken volumes passing between us. We don’t dare to look at one another, not with mist in our eyes.
After a long while, Spencer takes a deep break and clears his throat. He smacks his head on the wrought-iron railing and turns to me with fervor in his voice. “Be selfish, damn it.”
“She deserves better than me. You know that, Spencer.”
“No,” he insists. “I don’t know that. You’re a good man, Henry. I didn’t listen when you told me Abi needed me. Don’t repeat my mistake. She needs you — I’ve seen it on her face, too. So just get the fuck out of here before I have to kick your ass.”
I do the only thing I can. I give Spencer two hard slaps on the back of his shoulder and turn to go.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ABIGAIL
Today is the first day of the rest of my life. A fresh start, which I so desperately want. I need to get as far away from Ostwyn as possible — and to do it as soon as possible. Fortunately, I’m about to get my wish.
As I walked through the airport terminal, there were scores of journalists and tabloid photographers angling for post-festival interviews and pictures of all the departing dignitaries and extended royal family. Only the royal press is allowed to enter the grounds of Pridemore Palace, so the regular media have had to gather here at the airport.
Very few approached me. As the daughter of a Baron, my title only impresses those who were born without the constraints of nobility, or those, like Finley, who are desperate to add any officiality to their status that they can.
So, the media mostly left me alone as I made my way through the airport, but when a couple small press outlets aimed their microphones and cameras at me, I smiled politely and rattled off a few lies about how delightful the festival was.
I wasn’t about to let the press or anything else make me late for the beginning of the rest of my life. Africa is calling, dammit!
So I kept moving, pushing through the crowd to the baggage check. My lone suitcase contains the barest of items — personal essentials, some jeans and shirts Emily lent to me, and a pair of boots I stopped along the way to purchase. I won’t need fancy ball gowns or high heels where I’m going, thank goodness.
There’s only one flight leaving for a connection to Johannesburg, and it’s smaller than the rest, so I’m waiting out on the tarmac for my turn to board instead of inside the heated terminals. I shiver in the chilly air and bounce from foot to foot, both to warm myself and to dispel my nervous energy.
Soon, I won’t be worrying about the coming snow, or attending royal festivals, or sleeping in big, empty beds that remind me how lonely I am without Henry.
I’ll be sweating my ass off all day and will consider myself lucky if I’m able to reconnoiter a field cot at night. It’s what I’ve signed up for, though, and I’ll happily sleep on the ground if that’s what I need to do.
Emily is staying behind for a few days to see to the transfer of our belongings from the palace back to my family’s estate. From there, she’ll work through the packing list. Most of my belongings will be kept at Beauregard, tucked away in storage indefinitely. God knows when I’ll ever want to return. The small remainder of items will accompany her to Africa when she comes to meet up with me, as soon as the non-profit decides which of the project locations they’re placing us at.
I’m not expected at the headquarters for several days, but I have no desire to stay here a moment longer. As soon as Finley signed the paperwork to void the Goutley agreement, I booked the first flight out.
Up ahead, a flight attendant is lowering the stairs to the small jet, and once they’re in place, she signals that boarding can begin.
The first few people in line shuffle forward and start ascending the steps, but they’re chatting and laughing and taking pictures of each other posing on the stairs. They aren’t moving fast enough for me.
Even light speed wouldn’t be fast enough for me right now. I’ve wanted to return to Africa ever since I left Uganda fourteen months ago, but even more urgently, I have to get out this country.
Everything reminds me of Henry — from the currency bearing his family crest to the goddamn street signs in that brilliant, shimmering shade of blue, which I swear the transportation department matched to his eyes. I can’t take it another second of it.
“Honey, are you sure you have our passports?” the woman in front of me asks a tall man beside her.
“Yes, dear, I’ve got them right here,” he says, patting a pouch buckled to his waist.
Walk faster, I urge them silently. Let’s go! My new life is waiting, people!
I never expected my return to Africa to be so bittersweet. I can’t help but feel that my departure right now is more about running away from my life than it is about chasing after my dreams.
But, whatever gets me out of Ostwyn. That’s my new mantra.
I hope the sweat and dust and back-breaking hard work of digging new water wells in rural villages eventually numb my memories of Henry and this heartache that won’t stop. I need the sheer physical exertion and geographical distance to wear away at them until they’re dull and faded.
“Holy shit, honey, look!”
I glance up at the whispered profanity of the tall man in front of me. He’s turned around, staring past me to the nearest airport terminal, frantically nudging the woman beside him. I look over my shoulder, but several large men are clustered together behind me, deep in conversation, and I can’t see anything from my place in line.
“What is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head, eyes wide. “It must be a movie star or the King and Queen or something.”
“What?” the question leaves my mouth in a daze. I strain on my tiptoes to see past the men, but they are a wall of thick necks and bulky jackets. I finally duck out of line for a peek.
One glance and I know instantly it’s not the King or Queen, nor a celebrity.
Pierre and half a dozen other imposing members of Henry’s security team, dressed in their trademark solid black suits, have emerged from the sliding glass doors of the airport’s east terminal and are walking across the tarmac, their eyes scanning the small crowd in line for the flight. A few reporters are trailing them at a distance, cameras at the ready, microphones in hand, watching excitedly.
As I look, more paparazzi come running through the sliding doors of the airport. My eyes widen, and though I’ve been shivering from the cold, heat fills my cheeks. I step back in line, cowering behind the cluster of men who were blocking my view.
If his security team is here, I know Henry is probably somewhere nearby. What the hell is going on?
People around me stir excitedly, looking curiously at one another, craning their heads to see what the commotion’s about.
The thought that something might be wrong with Spencer or my parents hits me like an iron plate to the chest. It doesn’t make sense that Henry’s here unless there’s an emergency — he knows better than any that the airport would be crawling with press today.
I pull out my phone and check for messages, but there’s nothing. I breathe a sigh of relief, but my reprieve is short lived when I look up from my phone to see Pierre beside me.
“Good afternoon, Lady Strathmore,” he says quietly.
“Hello, Pierre,” I manage. Everyone is staring at me now, and I know my face is bright red.
“If you could accompany me inside, please.”
I don’t budge an inch. “What for?”
Pierre clears his throat and gives the tall man and his female companion a hard stare. They take a few steps back, but continue to gawk at us.
“I’ll explain inside,” Pierre says and mot
ions for me to step out of line.
I resist for a long moment, my feet planted like anchors, but eventually acquiesce with a heavy sigh and join him. We walk across the tarmac toward the glass doors, the security team immediately falling in around us.
The crowd is murmuring and pointing, and reporters are scrambling along beside our little convoy, some running ahead to position themselves near the doors. They don’t dare approach me with their microphones, not with the Royal Guard surrounding me, but damn if they aren’t snapping a million pictures.
We step foot inside the east terminal, and Pierre makes a sharp right, guiding me down a small corridor. I glance over my shoulder to see the rest of the security team stop, turning and planting themselves firmly at the entrance to the corridor, blocking the reporters from following.
“Okay, now are you going to tell me what this is about?” I ask Pierre as we continue to walk at a rapid clip.
He gives me a kind look, perhaps the first time I’ve ever seen Pierre’s face soften. “I think you know, my Lady.”
He stops abruptly at a non-descript door and raps the wood with his knuckles. He doesn’t go in, but just swings the door open into the room and gestures for me to enter.
I realize my palms are sweaty and my hands are shaking. Taking a deep breath to steel myself, I walk through the doorway. Inside, there’s a scattering of sleek leather furniture, and a wet bar, with fine art prints hanging on the wall — a private lounge.
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 Twenty-Four
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 t
o 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 Twenty-Five
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.
