by Jillian Dodd
I wash my face and then steal one of his T-shirts since I didn’t pack pajamas.
When I come back into our bedroom, which has two queen beds, Daniel shakes his head at me. “Oh, no. That won’t do.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, looking down at myself.
He gets up, grabs a light-blue dress shirt from the closet, and hands it to me. It’s the same kind of shirt I stole the night we met.
“That’s my lucky T-shirt, and I have to wear it tomorrow.” He grins at me. “Well, one of us has to wear it tomorrow.”
“Maybe it could be me. I have a pair of jeans in my backpack, but that’s about all I brought that’s appropriate.”
After I change shirts, he pulls me onto his bed.
I’m nervous I’ll have to fend him off, but he lies on his side, facing me, and says, “Lizzie and I hung out in Paris recently. It was”—he gets a faraway look in his eye—“like I could see my whole life all laid out in front of me for the first time. Us, living together in Paris. Lizzie has a beautiful pied-à-terre there. We made love with the lights of the Eiffel Tower as the backdrop. I’m talking no more Swiss bikini team, Huntley.”
“True love?”
“Yeah,” he says sadly.
“So, you’re heartbroken, too?”
“The fact that I haven’t made a single move on you should be a pretty clear indication of that.”
“I know. And I’m not sure if I should be offended or relieved,” I reply.
“I care for you, Huntley.”
“And I care for you.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” He kisses my forehead and then pulls me into a hug. The hug is tight and seems to be an attempt to comfort himself more than to comfort me.
He sighs and buries his head in my chest. He doesn’t cry, but his breathing is ragged, and I know his heartbreak and sadness equal mine. I hug him and gently stroke his hair.
His breathing evens, and I assume that he’s fallen asleep until he says, “Do you think we should do anything about it?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Storm the castle and take back what’s ours? Did you know that she’s moving in?”
“I mean, I assumed she would after they were married.”
“Nope. As of today, she will be living in the queen’s guest quarters to oversee a palace renovation as well as see to the wedding details.”
I think about the turret that Lorenzo was supposed to have redone in my honor. Our turret.
“Then we’re both screwed,” I say.
Once he’s asleep, I slip out of bed and go into the living room, my mind on the press conference.
I watch it again—first, with no sound, only to watch their body language, and then again, over and over, just to hear Lorenzo’s voice.
I look down at my left hand, thinking about how her ring couldn’t be more different than the one he placed on my finger. At some point last night, Lorenzo held it up and told me how it was part of a suite of jewels including a tiara that I would wear on our wedding day.
I grab my phone and do a quick search, knowing most of the royal jewels are cataloged online.
It takes me a bit of searching through the database to find a sparkling and delicate tiara composed of seven graduated heart-shaped designs that I recognize as larger versions of my ring.
I scroll below the picture to read the history.
The Arcadian tiara features over a thousand brilliant-cut diamonds and four hundred rose-cut diamonds and was a gift to King Lorenzo the Magnificent’s bride, the future Queen Marchesa Vallenta, on their wedding day. This suite also contained a matching diamond brooch, necklace, and earrings. Centuries later, King Alberto Vallenta, the great-great-grandfather of our current king, had the brooch remade into an engagement ring for his bride, Amalia Serafina. This ring features a twelve-carat rose-cut diamond wrapped in the distinctive flaming hearts design.
While I’m shocked by the name of the crown, all my mind can focus on are the words flaming hearts.
How fitting, I think, knowing that our love, unlike Alberto and Amalia’s, has already gone down in flames.
MISSION:DAY TWO
I wake up the next morning, tangled up on the couch with Daniel.
“What time is it?” he asks groggily, noticing that the sun is starting to rise.
I grab my phone. “Almost six. What are you doing on the couch with me?”
“I woke up and you were gone. Didn’t want you to be alone.”
“Didn’t want me to be alone? Or you didn’t want to be alone?” I tease.
“Both, probably,” he says seriously. “Will you order us breakfast? I need to shower and be at the pool in an hour.”
“Sure. The usual?”
“What’s the usual?” he asks, looking confused.
“Everything on the menu.”
“Hmm. How about a six-egg omelet with spinach, ham, mushrooms, and provolone; an order of French toast; some hash browns; and two glasses of milk?”
“Are you sure that’s enough?” I tease.
He takes me seriously. “You’re right. Better add a bowl of oatmeal and a side of mixed berries.”
“Uh, okay,” I say, secretly wishing I could eat that much food.
Just as I pick up the phone to dial room service, he sticks his head back out of the bathroom. “Chocolate chip pancakes and some orange juice sound really good, too.”
I order all his food, adding a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with hash browns for myself, my stomach still on European time and wanting lunch.
After fueling our bodies, we head to the convention center. Daniel is taken to the locker room to prepare while I’m led to a box suite by a couple of Secret Service agents.
“The First Lady will be here shortly, and Marlin will use this spot to relax in between heats,” one of them tells me. “Catering will bring food in throughout the day.”
“Marlin?” I ask.
“The First Son’s code name. Really, the sailfish is the fastest in the water with the marlin running second, but Sailfish just didn’t sound good, and he got pissed when we tried to call him Guppy.”
I laugh along with the agent and then take a seat by the windows overlooking the pool.
I watch Daniel’s first heat of the day from the box and am surprised by how poorly he is swimming. It’s obvious that the whole Lizzie thing is weighing heavily on his mind. The announcers go crazy, speculating what will happen if Daniel Spear doesn’t qualify and what that will mean for the American team.
Fortunately, he comes from behind in the race to just make it into the semifinals that will be held this afternoon.
He comes to the suite after his post-race ritual to refuel.
His blue eyes are still brilliant, but his defeated demeanor has added a darkness to them that I’ve never seen before.
“So you had one bad race. You made the next round.”
“This is all messing with my head. My times have been horrible. Give me something to swim for.”
“Me? How am I supposed to do that? Besides, you should be swimming for yourself.”
“She was going to be here to cheer me on.”
“And I’m here instead. I mean, I know it’s not the same but—”
“I need you in the stands for the next heat,” he interrupts. “My vision was that I would see her as I crossed the finish line and came out of the pool.”
“You want me in the stands? I don’t think—”
“Huntley, please help me,” he says, his voice cracking with emotion. “I need you.”
The stadium is full of fans cheering for their favorite swimmers, and Daniel is downstairs prepping for the semifinals, when Mike Burnes, the director of the CIA, magically appears in the seat next to me. And I’m pretty sure I know what he wants.
“I didn’t know you were a big fan of swimming.”
“I heard you wanted to talk to me.” He smirks.
“I do. I wanted you to know that I don’t appr
eciate you trying to use my friends. If you want something from me, please just call me yourself.”
“I am a little busy, running a pretty important governmental agency.”
“I’m glad that you are getting some well-deserved time off to come to this great sporting event.”
He glances down at the pool. “I’m actually here to enlist your help.”
“You could have just called. Daniel mentioned something about my biological father’s company.”
“Would you mind discussing it with me in private?”
“This is about as private as it’s going to get,” I say, glancing around at the mostly empty suite. “But we’ll have to do it later. Daniel is up next. I was just getting ready to walk down to the pool deck to wish him luck.”
Burnes lets out a heavy sigh. I respond by glancing at my dad’s watch to verify the time.
“Fine. I’d like to discuss a vote at the upcoming Von Allister Industries board meeting, covering the renewal of an important contract.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “I probably don’t have clearance for that.”
“Actually, you do. Granted, it’s on a need-to-know basis.”
That means I’m probably only going to get half the story.
“Cool. Do I get a special card to carry around that I can pull out to impress partygoers?”
“I really need you to take this seriously.”
“Maybe you should take me seriously,” I fire back. “I get it. You think I’m some dumb kid who, through the luck of the genetic draw, ended up a billionaire.”
“I don’t think that. I’ve been very impressed with your ability to seamlessly glide through the upper echelon of the population. Everyone who has met you and your brother has been charmed by a combination of your good looks, smarts, and surprising social grace.” He glances at my T-shirt. “And, from what I’ve heard, your fashion sense.”
I pull the T-shirt I’m wearing away from my chest. “This is Daniel’s lucky shirt. That’s why I have to get down there. He needs it near him.”
“I thought you were dating the King of Montrovia.”
“Yeah, so did I until—what was it? Oh, yes. He announced his engagement to someone else.”
Lorenzo is exhausted. Broken.
The last few days have been a whirlwind of emotion—from the most breathtakingly exquisite love to the deepest depths of despair.
He’s in his study, pacing behind his desk, trying to figure out how to make things right.
Lizzie barges into the room with a designer in tow. Her face is flushed, and she looks happy. His mother is right. She would make a good queen.
“Oh, I hope we aren’t interrupting. We just needed to measure your quarters for the remodel.”
She introduces him to the designer, who wanders over to his chess set.
“Looks like you’re missing a piece. No worries. We’ll just get a new one.”
“No!” Lorenzo shouts, causing the woman to take a step back. “Nothing in my quarters is to be touched.”
“Very well, Your Majesty,” the designer says politely. “We will only need a word with you about the design ideas we have for the turret.”
Lorenzo covers his eyes with his hands, pushing them up his forehead and back through his hair, trying to keep from coming undone at the seams.
“I am calling off the renovations for the time being,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“But I have a contract,” the woman says.
“I’m sure there is a contingency for what happens if one party wants to break it. Lizzie, please have Juan give her the name of our attorney when you show her the way out.”
A few moments later, Lizzie comes back in his office, finding him still pacing. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong?” He laughs, practically manically. “I like my home the way it is. It has too many memories, and everything is still so fresh.”
“Are you referring to your father’s death or your relationship with Huntley?”
“I can’t go through with this,” he says to her. “I can’t marry you.”
“You don’t have much choice at this point, Lorenzo,” she says. “Once your mother announced it to the world, we lost our choices.”
“I asked Huntley to marry me, and she accepted.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me that? I could have been in Omaha right now, watching Daniel swim.” She glances at her watch. “He’s about ready to race. I recorded it and was going to watch it once I finished with the designer, but I might be able to catch it live. Want to join me?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because Huntley is there.”
Her comment knocks the wind from Lorenzo’s chest.
Lizzie doesn’t bother to wait for his reply. She’s already grabbing the remote. The announcer is discussing the upcoming semifinals and how Daniel barely scraped his way into the heat.
The camera is panning the crowd when it stops on Daniel, who is strutting down the side of the pool, holding Huntley’s hand. He guides her to a specific spot and speaks to the person sitting in a front-row bleacher. The man gets up, and Huntley sits in his place.
“What’s he doing?” Lorenzo asks.
“She’s got on his lucky shirt,” Lizzie replies mournfully, her stomach feeling sick. “He’s seating her at the end of his lane, so he can swim the final lap straight toward her.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I was supposed to be the girl he swam to.”
Lorenzo studies Lizzie’s face. “I’m sorry for being so surly.”
“It’s okay. I’m not at my best right now either. Your mother has my calendar booked down to the second, it seems. I thought I was prepared for this, but I’m not sure that I am.”
“Particularly the emotional side of things,” Lorenzo states.
“Particularly that.” She sits on the sofa in front of the television and watches Daniel dive into the water at the start of the heat. “This is too close,” she says, coming back to her feet. “Faster. Go faster! Eek! He’s pulling ahead! He’s won!”
She smiles broadly, proud of Daniel’s accomplishment, but her lips turn down to a frown very quickly, and tears fill her eyes when a soaking wet Daniel plucks Huntley from the crowd, gleefully pulling her into his arms and nuzzling his face in her neck.
Then he’s twirling her around in the way young lovers do.
Lorenzo can’t bear to watch. He leaves the room with no idea where he’s going, but soon, he finds himself at the staircase that wraps around the turret. Halfway up, he considers tossing himself over the edge but knows that would sort of defeat the purpose. Although, right now, he’s not sure the purpose he’s referring to.
All he can feel is rage. Rage at himself. Rage for not standing up to his mother. Rage for letting Huntley go. For not immediately following her to the ends of the earth to prove his love.
By the time he’s at the top, tears blur his vision. He gazes out the window on the cold and lonely sea, wishing the light would guide his love safely home.
He recites the poem he wrote for her over and over in his head.
Glimmering waters beckon,
Cliffs come into view.
The ocean kisses the shoreline,
As I dream of you.
Because the only thing he saw on the television that gave him any hope was the fact that she was still wearing the poem necklace he had made for her.
Daniel pulls me into his arms, his heart beating wildly. He nuzzles his face into my neck, and I can feel his relief. I can relate—my career and love pulling me in opposite directions.
It’s strange what we do in the name of love.
While he goes to the training room to do his post-race routine, I return to the suite, feeling like a bit of a wreck. Daniel’s emotional embrace brought all my feelings for Lorenzo back to the surface.
I’m trying to mentally prep to finish my conversation with Burnes. I know I need to be on my game
whenever he’s around. Instead, I find Daniel’s mother in the suite, alone, other than the two servicemen who protect her.
I let out a sigh of relief and drop my guard.
“He’s off, making mental mistakes,” she says to me. “But he pulled through in the end.”
“Thank goodness. You should have seen the heat this morning. He barely made the semis.”
“Why?” Her countenance hardens. “Did you keep him out late?”
“No. I’ve never been able to distract Daniel from his training. Probably why we’re just friends.”
Her harsh gaze softens. “I thought—it wasn’t you in Paris?”
“No. It was Lady Elizabeth Palomar.”
“But she and King Lorenzo just announced—” Her eyes widen with realization. “Oh.”
“It’s my understanding she is in love with Daniel but chose duty to her country over him.”
Daniel’s mother abruptly sits down. “He’s never cared enough—”
“About a girl to interfere with his swimming. I know. He’s very committed. What he and Lizzie had was brief but powerful. That I understand.”
She looks up at me, and I brace for her to ask about Lorenzo, but instead, she says, “Are you bleeding, or is Daniel?”
My hand reacts by touching my side, and I realize my wound must have split open when I threw my arms around Daniel’s neck. “Uh, I think it’s me. I’ll go clean up in the bathroom.”
She stands and blocks my way. “Let me take a look at it.” She turns to the servicemen. “Can you wait outside, please?”
As soon as they leave, I pull Daniel’s lucky T-shirt up over my side. The superglue that I used to seal up the wound I’d received during my last mission has come undone.
“This needs stitches,” Daniel’s mother says. “What did you do?”
It’s an innocent question. A doctoral question. I’m not sure what to tell her exactly, so I go with a version of the truth.
“I was being chauffeured in the back of an SUV that got T-boned on the passenger side, and I didn’t have on a seat belt—”
