by Ember Casey
“No,” I say firmly. “I was very careful to—”
“That could be a problem,” she says. “There’s no physical proof yet that you’re alive and well. We should give it to them.”
“I’m not entirely sure what you’re suggesting, but I have no intention of staying in this country a moment longer than necessary.”
She gives a small shake of her head. “We don’t have to stay here. Just…let them see you as you leave. Give them a smile and a wave. Show them you’re okay.”
“I’m not sure I see the benefit of this. Won’t it only cause more commotion?”
“It’ll keep them from making up any rumors that this is all a sham or that you’re actually dead or something. It’ll give us the chance to control the direction the press takes this story.” She drums her fingers against the tray. “We should also probably tell them who I am. If we try to hide it, the media will only go digging. They’ll make it something it isn’t.”
“What do you mean by that? That they’ll insinuate we have some sort of romantic attachment?”
She shrugs. “Probably. And I can’t imagine that will look very good if you’re trying to find yourself a wife.”
There’s something very strange in her expression, but before I can press her further, she rushes on.
“So I think we should make our departure from the hospital through the main entrance,” she says. “Set the record straight. And we can deal with the rest when we get to Montovia.”
I stand. I’m not sure I like this idea—not at all, to be perfectly frank—but Victoria has earned my trust. If she says this is the best course of action, then it is exactly what we should do.
“I’ll make the arrangements for the car,” I say. “And find something for you to wear. I suspect they burned your old clothes.” I rub my cheek. “I’ll need to find a barber, or at least a razor—”
“No, you should keep the stubble,” she says.
I turn to her. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
“I look like some sort of uncivilized—”
“You look like a normal person, which is exactly how you want to look right now.” She picks up her spoon again. “You don’t want to go out there looking perfectly polished, like none of this ever happened. The entire world will know it’s a front. But this…” She gestures at me with the spoon. “You look like an ordinary person. You look relatable. You’ve been through a hardship, and it’s okay to not be perfectly polished after a hardship. It will make everyone like you more.”
“But—”
“Trust me.”
I give a small shake of my head. “I’ll do it if you insist on it, but I intend to return to my normal grooming habits the moment we set foot in Montovia.”
“That’s fine,” she says. “But today, stay just as you are.”
I’ve never been out in public looking anything less than impeccably groomed, and the thought of stepping out in front of the press looking like this makes my stomach tighten. But Victoria looks so sure, so certain, and I must bow to her expertise on this matter. If I weren’t willing to take her advice, then why even hire her in the first place?
“Fine,” I tell her. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
Within the hour, everything is settled and prepared—the car is ordered, the plane alerted, and a dress is found for Victoria. Once the paperwork is handled, she and I head to the main entrance of the hospital. She’s doing everything she can to hide her limp and the pain she must still be suffering.
“Are you still entirely certain this is the best course of action?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she says.
When I glance over at her, though, I think she looks a touch paler than usual. This is new for her, I remind myself. She’s not used to being the one in front of the camera.
And she’s about to be in front of many.
When the doors slide open, there are nearly two dozen members of the press waiting outside. Some have cameras, some have microphones or digital recorders, and all of them start shouting the moment they recognize me.
“Prince Andrew!”
“Your Highness—why did you try to commit suicide?”
“Look over here!”
“Prince Andrew—are you all right? Were you injured?”
“What happened? Why did you crash your plane?”
The shouts come from every direction, but Victoria and I just smile and forge ahead, toward the town car that is waiting for us at the curb. The driver jumps out and quickly opens the door for us.
Victoria and I discussed exactly what we would do, exactly what each of us would say. Neither of us utters a word until we reach the car, and only then do I turn, still smiling, and offer a small wave.
“Thank you for your concern,” I say. “As you can see, I am quite well, and I’m looking forward to returning home.”
The shouts come even louder now.
“Your Highness—another picture!”
“Are there any injuries?”
“What does your family think about what happened?”
But as Victoria and I discussed, I simply give them another wave and slide into the car. Victoria still stands at the curb, smiling at the reporters.
“As you can see, His Highness is doing great,” she says to the crowd. “I’m Victoria Simpson, and I’m serving as His Highness’s personal press manager for the time being. Yes—I was on the plane with him when it went down. We were on our way to Montovia to discuss an exciting personal development for His Highness. Any further inquiries about the prince will go directly through me.”
The shouting starts up again—this time, with questions for her—but Victoria just slides into the car behind me. The driver pushes the door shut, drowning out the worst of the noise.
“Distasteful leeches,” I mutter. “Have they really nothing better to do than follow people out of a hospital?”
Only after the words have left my mouth do I realize they’re another insult against Victoria’s profession—and while I meant every word, I do not wish to upset her at a moment like this. When I glance over at her, though, she seems not to have heard me at all. She’s fiddling with her dress, frowning.
“Victoria?”
It takes her another moment to realize I’ve spoken. Suddenly she looks over at me. “Oh. Did you say something? I think that went well.”
The wrinkle on her brow belies her words.
“Do you?” I ask. It certainly could have gone worse, I suppose.
“I do.” She sits back in her seat. “I do.”
She sounds distracted. In spite of myself, I find myself reaching over to her, taking her hand in mine. She jumps at my touch but doesn’t pull away.
Her hand is shaking slightly. It takes me a moment to understand, but then it all seems perfectly clear.
“It can be overwhelming,” I say. “Especially if you aren’t used to it.”
She glances over at me. “Huh?”
“The shouting. The flashing cameras. All of it.” My thumb brushes against the back of her hand. “It can be difficult if you don’t know what to expect.”
“I know what to expect. I am a reporter, after all.”
“But you’ve never been on this side of it. It’s different.”
She doesn’t say anything, only turns and watches the scenery rush past the window.
“You can see,” I say quietly, “why it would be preferable to find a wife who’s used to such things. It’s not something I would wish to thrust upon someone who isn’t prepared for it.”
“No, I guess not,” she says, pulling her hand out of mine. “How far is the airstrip?”
“Not far,” I say, sitting back in my seat.
Still, the drive there seems to take an eternity—in no small part, I’m sure, because neither Victoria nor I say anything to each other the entire rest of the way.
It’s a relief when we finally reach the airstrip—but that relief quickly turns to dread when my eyes land on o
ur plane.
This jet is larger than Atalanta, and a fine member of my family’s private fleet, and though I’m sure she’s perfectly safe, I find myself having a very strong physical reaction to the thought of stepping on a plane again so soon.
When I glance over at Victoria, she looks rather pale, and I suspect she’s experiencing something similar.
“What happened to us was a fluke,” I say. “Statistics would say we were more likely to die in the car ride on the way here than we are to experience another plane crash.”
She looks up at me. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I know you didn’t. But I thought I would enlighten you with the odds all the same.” I take a step toward the plane, and my gut tightens. “We’ve had enough bad luck for one week, wouldn’t you say?”
I’m sure she can see through my false bravado, but in truth, I care little. I need to say the words for myself.
Get on the plane. Go home. Handle this public relations disaster. Giving myself a checklist makes it a little easier to set one foot in front of the other toward the plane. Please let there be some alcohol on board. Or, better yet—some sleeping pills. Anything to keep my mind off our last flight.
Victoria
One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.
It isn’t that far to the staircase that sits in front of the small jet, but it feels like it’s a longer walk than the one Andrew and I made to that little cabin a few days ago. The throbbing in my foot with each step isn’t helping, but it feels like nothing compared to the increasing dread I feel with every inch as I move closer to the plane.
And Andrew doesn’t look like he’s doing much better than I am. For as much as he tried to rush me on our two earlier hikes, he’s walking at least as slow as I am now, and I can tell it has nothing to do with my injury.
He slips his hand into mine and squeezes it gently. Part of me wants to pull away from him. Hell, part of me wants to run away—as far away from this or any airplane as possible. And every step closer we get to the plane, it feels more and more like I’m trudging through waist-deep mud.
“I…I don’t think I can, Andrew.” I stop, turning to him. My voice is cracking and I’m barely able to get out any words at all. “I know this is important to you. I know…” I press my lips together, trying to hold back what I’m sure are going to be tears streaming down my cheeks any second. “I just… I can’t do it.”
He pulls my other hand into his and looks down into my eyes. He lets out a long breath—almost a sigh. “I’m not sure I can either, Victoria. But…” His voice trails off, almost as though he isn’t sure he should say what he’s thinking. He gives me a single nod. “But we have each other. And we have little choice if we wish to get to Montovia in a reasonable amount of time. I’m sure we can both agree that Montovia will be a better place at the moment, free of the reporters—”
“Distasteful leeches, you mean?” I give him a weak smile.
He grins. “You were listening.”
I let out a small laugh. “Of course I was listening. I make it a point to listen—most of us distasteful leeches do.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” I smile. “I’m still not sure about flying, though. I mean…” I lower my voice, though there’s no one around to overhear us. “Is there at least alcohol on board? I don’t want you to think I make it a habit to drink or anything, but—”
He lifts a brow, smiling. “There’s only one way to find out. And believe me, Victoria, if there is alcohol on board, I’ll be the first one overindulging.”
Something about his voice, the way he’s holding my hands is almost reassuring. But I know he’s doing it as much for himself as he is for me, even if he would never admit it.
He gives me another nod before releasing one of my hands and turning back toward the plane. I’m positive I see him gulp, though, as he looks back toward the staircase, but he’s covering his fear better than I can.
It feels like it takes us hours to finally get to the bottom of the steps, and he releases my hand, motioning me up first.
Damned gentleman.
I climb the first step, but hesitate. It has nothing to do with my limp or the pain still throbbing in my foot. I just can’t seem to make my legs carry me up at all.
I’m pretty sure I stand there like that for another couple of hours, frozen with terror, before I feel Andrew’s hand on my shoulder.
He dips his head to speak into my ear. “I’m right behind you. I’m not going to leave you.”
I close my eyes for a second. You won’t leave me now. But you’re sure as hell going to leave me eventually.
I can hear the fear in his voice—the same fear I feel in my chest, making my heart race so quickly it feels like it’s about to explode. But there’s something almost reassuring about hearing his fear. Something about knowing he’s feeling the same thing I am gives me the courage to take the next step and the next and the next. And he matches me step for step, his hand never leaving my shoulder.
A man—a steward or something, probably—motions for me to take a seat in one of the leather chairs in the cabin of the airplane. This plane is larger than Andrew’s, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference. It could be the biggest airplane in the world, and my head would still be spinning and the damned thing would still feel far too small—like the walls were about to close in on me.
Andrew seems to sense my impending panic attack and he guides me to one of the chairs before he drops into the seat next to mine.
He says something to the steward, but my ears are ringing so loudly I don’t hear anything either man says. It isn’t until the steward brings us each a drink that I realize what they must have been talking about.
Each glass is about three-quarters of the way full of an amber liquid. I don’t even need to ask what it is—I don’t really even care. I grab mine and down more than half of it in a single gulp, barely even noticing the burning in my throat after I swallow. I down the rest a second later and hand the glass back to the steward.
Andrew smiles before he does the same, downing whatever alcoholic beverage it is in the glass in a few gulps.
I hurriedly fasten my seatbelt and squeeze my eyes shut, almost willing myself to pass out from the quick intake of alcohol, but it doesn’t happen. My hands are clenching the armrests of the chair so tightly that I’m sure my knuckles are white and my fingernails are leaving permanent indentations in the leather.
Andrew does the touching thing again that he seems to like doing so much to me. He traces over the top of my arm, trailing the pad of his finger down to my hand before pulling it into his.
Even though it does the same thing to me as it has every other time he’s done it, it’s hard to pay much attention to the shiver that runs through me. Instead, I let him take my hand and I squeeze it instead of the chair, probably leaving fingernail marks in his skin where they’re digging into his flesh.
I barely pay attention to the pilot on the loud speaker—the alcohol is starting to kick in and my head is swimming again. I’m not sure if it’s the booze or the sheer terror of feeling the plane move, but I can’t open my eyes. Andrew’s grip on my hand tightens as the plane picks up speed.
Without opening my eyes, I turn to him, dipping my head to where I hope his shoulder will be. But instead, he pulls me into his arms as much as he can while we’re both seatbelted, releasing my hand to slide one arm around my waist and the other across my body to stroke my hair. It seems like he’s almost hugging me.
I have no idea how long we stay like that, only that having him hold me somehow keeps my silent sobs to a minimum.
We’re airborne after a little while, but it takes me some time to be able to open my eyes. Andrew silently strokes my hair the entire time until I finally lift my head and open my eyes.
He looks down at me for a long moment before he dips his head, placing a chaste kiss on my lips. He pulls away after that, just far enough to gauge my reaction, I think.
He looks at me for another moment before he does the same thing. He dips his head, gives me a short, closed-mouth kiss—for a little while longer this time—before he pulls away again.
I search his eyes—we both know how wrong this is. How this can’t happen. Why this can’t happen. But it doesn’t seem to matter. Whatever this is—this pull I can’t seem to shake—he seems to feel it, too. And maybe it’s the fear of flying or maybe it’s the new respect we found for each other while we were out in the wilderness together. It’s probably knowing how he’ll never be mine, no matter what we feel. But I want him now in a way that I didn’t before. In a way I can’t seem to hold back.
When he dips his head toward me again, I slide my hands up his chest, grabbing his shirt and pulling him into me. I part my lips, almost begging him to deepen the kiss. And he obliges, sliding his tongue against mine before he trails it over my bottom lip.
I can taste the bite of alcohol on him and I pull him even closer. His hand slides up my back, fisting into my hair as his other fumbles with my seatbelt. He finally frees it and pulls me even closer to him, almost onto his lap.
I gasp against his lips as his hand reaches behind me, sliding the zipper of my dress down. It’s not even a second before he’s sliding it off my shoulders, pulling away from me only enough to help me slide my arms out.
He groans when his hand finds my breast, his other arm reaching behind me again to unfasten my bra. He unhooks it with what seems like a flick of his wrist, and slides his hand underneath, trailing his fingers across my skin from my back around to my breast. He slides my bra off my shoulders, his fingers finding the sensitive skin on my nipples.
I gasp again—almost moaning into his mouth. I think I hear him clear his throat, but I don’t stop kissing him. Instead, I fumble with the buttons on his shirt, trying to bare his chest the way he has bared mine.