by J Santiago
“They’ve reassigned Robert,” Millie blurted out.
Ele gasped. And her heart squeezed. And then her hands curled in on themselves, fisting. Her eyes narrowed, and ire boiled in her stomach like a nasty, acid brew. “I beg your fucking pardon?” she snapped.
Jamie blinked in shock, his mask shriveling under the heat of her anger. He turned his gaze to her, and she saw the shock. But it was fleeting.
Like the monarch he’d trained his whole life to be, he rose up from his knees and loomed over Ele. “He left his post and allowed you to be exposed in the worst possible manner. The transfer has already occurred, and there is nothing you can do about it. While you and Millie are caught up in the personal nature of your relationship with him, let me relieve you of the burden of feeling guilty. Robert understood his dereliction of duty. He did not protest the reassignment. He acknowledged his mistakes, packed his bag, and boarded the plane this morning.”
“You will get him back here,” Ele said.
“No, I will not. We should have reassigned him years ago, Ele. You two are too close to each other. He has increasingly given in to your whims and allowed you to place yourself in danger.”
“Where is he?” she asked, her tone reasonable, belying the fear, anger, and disbelief lurking under the surface.
“It’s classified.”
Ele kept her eyes trained on her brother. A sheen of film lingered between them, so she couldn’t see him clearly. What she knew was that her twin wasn’t with her; instead, his alter ego, Crown Prince James, stood in front of her, trying to shield her from the harsh world.
As much as it wasn’t the time for revelations as she floated in a post-sedative haze, they began to bombard her. She had as much power as he did, and she had something the queen would need desperately as the years went on. Because of the treatments for his leukemia, Jamie’s ability to have children was doubtful. Which meant it was her future child who would be heir to the throne. She could make demands, and the queen would have to honor them. But first … first, she had to deal with the past.
“I’m going to Chicago.”
“We’re sending you to Africa.”
Both of them paused, equally astounded at what had come from the other’s mouth.
Millie gasped from the other side of the room.
“Chicago?” Jamie repeated, brow furrowed.
“Africa?”
“A long overdue goodwill tour. Eight countries, eight weeks. You’ll return with plenty of time to get prepared for the Christmas gala.”
There was something unspoken in his decree.
Ele tilted her head to the side and had a fleeting thought of Tristan. Have I already adopted his mannerisms?
She shook it off, resolute in her desire to stay focused on the problem in front of her rather than the one she knew she must leave behind. “What aren’t you saying? What are you hoping will happen in the eight weeks I’m gone?”
His ice-blue eyes clashed with hers, an inferno igniting in the midst. If they were superheroes, sparks and angry flares would have been dancing between them, exploding like fireworks.
“I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
“Like you did last night?”
That stung. It wasn’t like Jamie to be deliberately mean. But instead of hangry, he had a tendency to get scangry. When he was scared, he lashed out, like a fire-breathing dragon, scalding everyone in his path. She suddenly remembered that, and even though she was pissed at him, it assuaged some of the hurt. Ele had terrified him the night before. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that or relay the events. Searching his face, she could see the grooves of exhaustion and helplessness painted there like foundation and blush.
She reached forward and grabbed his hand, holding on lightly. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“The press.” He wrapped his fingers around her hand, squeezing, releasing some of his fear. “The queen and I think it would be better if you weren’t around to be in the spotlight for a while.”
For the queen, Ele’s exile was about protecting the public image, but she knew it was something else entirely for her brother. He wanted her safe, away from the prying eyes of the staff, the public, the government.
He stepped to the bed and sat on the side of it. He drew his knees together and stuffed his hands between them.
“I didn’t see it.” He was talking to her but from memory, so he pulled in on himself, like if he were smaller, the recitation wouldn’t hurt as much. “I was working the room, speaking to people. Then, I ended up talking to Sir Nico, and then, there was commotion. I didn’t know it was you. When Robert came flying through the ballroom, Noah appeared and tried to get me out of the way. But I watched as Robert exited out the west side. I’d seen you duck out, but I was certain you were back. But it was Robert, which meant it was you, so I followed. When I exited, you were surrounded by the paps. You looked wild and scared. Then, you clutched your neck, and my whole world stopped.”
He stopped talking, and Ele could hardly move. She wanted to reach out to him but sensed he didn’t want any contact. Yet.
“I’m not even sure what happened after that. Robert got you out of there, and even when you weren’t in the situation, you couldn’t seem to calm down. You passed out. But when you came to, you were still hysterical. It was … unsettling.”
The perfect description of the shitshow of the night before. She was sure she was better, more confident, not afraid. But she definitely wasn’t, and she needed to do something to try to fix it.
“Right now”—he finally looked at her again—“it’s best if you do the tour.”
She pretended to consider it. It wasn’t difficult. She was weighing her options, but doing anything for the crown wasn’t at play. For the first time, she had different priorities than Jamie’s. Or maybe not different priorities, but a decidedly different idea of how she wanted to handle them.
“One more thing, Ele.”
“What’s that?”
Jamie paused, and Ele realized she was going to hate whatever he had to say.
“No more Tristan Davenport.”
Yep, she hated it.
But he hadn’t had to tell her that. She’d already known. Ele had realized the night before that she wasn’t ready for Tristan Davenport. He was a blinding, powerful sun, and she was a tiny nebula, swirling gas and dust trying to form into something. His pull was too great, and if she entered his orbit, she would never quite become who she was supposed to. For the first time, she didn’t want to share something with Jamie.
She nodded at her brother. “You look like you didn’t sleep last night. You should go.”
He eyed her, his indecision apparent. His exhaustion must have won out because he stood. Leaning down, he dropped a kiss on her forehead.
When he stood up, he looked at Millie. “Please make arrangements with Will regarding your travel plans.”
Millie nodded, but Ele could almost feel the frostiness of the glare her assistant leveled at Jamie.
“I’ll check in tomorrow.”
Silence filled the room in the wake of Jamie’s departure. Ele kept her gaze trained on the door. Millie began to fuss with things. Straightening the desk, gathering up her stuff.
“Would you like me to send for Beatrix?”
Ele’s hands rose to her face, feeling for the remnants of the previous night’s makeup.
“We washed your face last night. When the sedative kicked in.”
“I must have looked a fright.”
Millie shot her a tender smile. “Not your best look.”
“I assume not.”
“Would you like to shower?”
“Yes. But first, we need to talk.”
Millie dropped into the desk chair. She looked as neat and put together as usual. No little or big crisis could really ruffle her. When she was settled, with her iPad in hand, she looked to Ele.
Ele held out her hand, and Millie clutched the iPad closer to her chest.
“Millie.�
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“Your Highness, perhaps you should wait.”
“For what?”
“I’m not really sure.”
Ele chuckled. “No time like the present.”
Millie’s hands tightened on the iPad in futility. Then, she handed it over.
Ele scanned through the headlines she knew Millie would have meticulously assembled. The woman in the pictures wasn’t someone Ele recognized. Her eyes were wide and frightened, rung with mascara that surely was not waterproof. She was ghostly pale, but her hair remained shockingly in place, defying the wildness of the rest of the scene. Ele refused to cringe.
“THE ICE PRINCESS CRACKED.”
“THE ICE AGE RETURNS.”
“ELE FROZEN OVER.”
There were others, but the haze of exhaustion descended, so Ele handed the tablet to Millie.
“I’m positive it could have been more … damaging.”
Millie merely shrugged, her way of agreeing without saying out loud how bad it could have been.
Although Ele really wanted to escape into the oblivion of sleep, she knew if she didn’t start to put plans into action, she might not follow through. She raked her hair into a ponytail and twisted it, arranging it on her shoulder. She could feel the grit of her forced slumber, the dried sweat of her panic attack, the residue of grease layered on her face like Beatrix’s mixture of foundation. Most of all though, she felt resolve, like a steel rod inserted into her spine, making her stand tall while being impervious to any force trying to push her off course.
Ele looked to her assistant, her friend, part of her ragtag family. What she was about to propose would likely get Millie fired. At least until Ele played her trump card. Loyalty would make Millie hold her tongue, and love would force her to support Ele’s plan.
“I’m not going to Africa,” Ele announced. Watching Millie’s expression, Ele continued, “I am going to go to Chicago. I’m going to take the eight weeks I am being given, and I am going to”—she paused, knowing what she was asking but asking anyway—“be you.”
Millie’s delicately arched brows met in an angry line. “I don’t think I understand.”
“I can’t go as Princess Eleanor. We both know that. But you can rent an apartment, and I can use your credit cards. I can”—she shrugged—“just live.”
“Is this about Tristan?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s about getting help, getting better. I need to be better. I hate being afraid all the time, of not knowing when something I fear is going to push me over the edge. I feel like a ticking bomb, and I have for the last twelve years. It’s bloody exhausting.”
“But why Chicago? You could do that here.”
“Millie.”
“I just …” Millie stood and placed her trusty tablet on the corner of the desk. “You’re asking me to send you out into the world. Alone.”
“Yes.”
Millie clearly thought Ele was crazy or perhaps still groggy from the sedative. Her face reflected both her worry and disbelief. Maybe Ele would wake up tomorrow and agree with Millie, but she didn’t think so.
“You really think we can pull this off?” Millie asked.
A tremulous smile formed on Ele’s face. “One more thing.”
Millie nodded.
“Find Robert for me.”
“So he can join you there?”
Ele looked away from her, toward the windows. “No. So he won’t worry.”
31
12 August
Hartesfield United Stadium
For the fourth time in as many days, Tristan pulled up Robert’s contact information and called him. When it immediately defaulted to voice mail, he didn’t attempt to smother his disgruntled curse.
But rather than hanging up, like he’d done all the days before, he waited for the beep and spoke, “Mate, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to talk to me. But I just need to know she’s okay. Just … let me know.”
He jabbed the End button on his cell phone, surprised he hadn’t cracked the fragile screen with his frustrated poking.
When he’d returned from America, he’d quickly learned Ele’s temporary cell phone had been disconnected the moment her flight took to the air. With Robert screening his calls, Tristan’s last connection to Ele seemed to be severed. He didn’t know where else to turn for information about her. For the hundredth time, he rued the day he had fallen in love with a motherfucking princess.
Yep, fallen in love with.
There was so little real information out there. The headlines were still maligning her and the spectacle of her meltdown. For a country claiming to love their monarchy, they took a perverse pleasure in seeing her falter. Those for succession were using the incident as a rationale for leaving the union. There were theories; of course, there were theories. And erroneous conclusions. The history of her family, the assassination of her parents, and the reign of Queen Lilian had filled columns and columns of virtual real estate this week. But there was not one mention of Ele’s presence when her parents had met their untimely end, nor of her kidnapping. They’d buried the whole thing. No one could sympathize with her. She was alone.
His inability to contact anyone who could tell him anything real highlighted the impossibility of having a relationship with her. The realist in him knew that. But he never really listened to that part of himself. He couldn’t help it. He wouldn’t be where he was now if he’d listened to doubts and reality checks from his consciousness.
His phone rang in his hand, and his hope blossomed, even as he tried to keep it in check. But when Sheena’s name flashed on the screen, he heaved a resigned sigh.
“Cheers,” he said in greeting.
“How are you?”
“Good,” he replied as he glanced up at the clock. “I’ve gotta leave.”
“You haven’t left yet? Normally, you are first in.”
He was. Not usually. Always. But he’d been completely distracted, his head not in the game. But it was opening day, and he needed to let all this go. Suddenly, he remembered Ele’s contention that she couldn’t just show up and apologize to him after their first meeting. While he would have loved to walk up to the massive front door of the palace, pound on it, and demand to see Princess Eleanor, he knew that scenario would only exist as a scene in his mind.
He tuned back in to what his sister was saying.
“I just want to be prepared if I have to head to the palace to bail you out. Do they have a dungeon?”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you are going to confront him, just be respectful.”
“Confront who?”
“The crown prince. He always attends opening day.”
Tristan’s body bowed straight like he’d been zapped with a stun gun for hunching over. He’d been so concerned with trying to get ahold of Robert that he hadn’t even considered Jamie. It was true; the crown prince hadn’t missed an opening day since he was a youngster and he would accompany his father. As he was a die-hard Hartesfield United fan, it had become a tradition for the team and the fans. If the prince didn’t attend, Tristan knew the whole of United fandom would consider it a bad omen. And Jamie always came to the changing room to wish the lads luck.
“That’s brilliant, Sheena.”
An odd silence lingered.
“You hadn’t even thought of it.” It was a statement, and he could almost hear the gears in Sheena’s head clicking together, drawing conclusions. He heard an intake of air and braced himself. “You’d better have your bloody head on straight when you step onto the pitch tonight. I told you to be careful, and you refused to listen to me.”
Tristan, mindful of her inability to actually see him, moved his head and mouth, imitating her.
“I’m going to flick your ear off when I see you,” she snapped.
And Tristan laughed. For the first time in days, he actually laughed.
“Sheena, I have to go. See you after the game.”
With a renewed energy and
a smattering of hope, Tristan grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and hurried out the door. On the ride, he plotted. They followed a strict match-day timeline. Stealing some time to track down the prince wouldn’t be as easy as it seemed. He would need help. No way in hell the Skipper would help him. Rowan’s disdain for the monarchy would preclude him from doing anything to allow Tristan such an incredible distraction on opening day. He thought of Caleb, but Caleb came with his own set of risks. Tristan ran scenarios in his head, but he didn’t want to share this particular burden.
As he entered the training center, he was no closer to a solution. The second he walked through the door, Rowan was on him.
“You’re late.”
He was scowling, and normally, Tristan would have wheedled him to snap him out of his funk, but he didn’t have the patience for Grumps today.
“I’m not.”
Rowan was taken aback by his tone, as if he’d been hoping for Tristan’s characteristic shenanigans. As much as he wanted to slip into his role of resident jokester, he needed all of his wits to come up with a master plan. Tristan continued at a brisk pace to the changing room. Dropping his bag into the locker space, he strode to the physiology room, a completely diabolical plan beginning to take shape.
“Brendan,” he said as soon as he crossed the threshold.
“T-Dav!” the training crew chorused.
He fought his smile. Tristan appreciated the support people around him. He liked to leave them funny gifts in appreciation for their work, which made him a favorite. Knowing that, he thought maybe he could just be honest, and they would help him out. But he hastily discarded the notion because he didn’t want them to be blamed for anything.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Brendan’s bushy eyebrows curled up like a caterpillar on his forehead. At Brendan’s questioning look, Tristan reconsidered. He wasn’t shy—about anything. Normally, he would just say what was up.
With an imperceptible nod, he blurted, “I got the shits.”
Brendan didn’t bat an eye, and his furrowed brow returned to its normal position.