by Amelia Wilde
Alec’s words–his cruel dismissal–have left me in shock.
“I’m not the man for you. I’m sure you’ll find someone who is perfect for you back in New York.”
I don’t want to cry, but one ragged sob wells up and bursts from the very depths of my soul before I can stop it.
He doesn’t look back at me.
He doesn’t turn around.
He leaves.
He’s gone.
It must be his grief, the absolute exhaustion he’s feeling, the weight of the world on his shoulders, that made him say those awful things to me. He couldn’t possibly have meant those things–any of it–not after all we’ve done together, not after this grand adventure of coming halfway across the world together, and definitely not after we’ve come to care so deeply for one another.
“I do mean it,” he’d said. He might not have meant those final spiteful words that came out of his mouth, but there was one thing he was adamant about.
“Maybe it would be best if you went back to New York for a while. So we could sort this out without so much bickering.”
His words continue echoing, snowballing one on top of the other inside my head, building into a cacophony of heartbreak.
I can’t believe it’s come to this. That I’m the one he blames for all the bickering. That he said I was whining. I cough out a bitter laugh. Until yesterday, we weren’t bickering. We weren’t disagreeing. We were hardly speaking because Alec has been so consumed by his obligations as the crown prince and I’ve been dutifully following the relentless schedule of a royal trophy girlfriend.
Don’t get me wrong. There are perks. There are glorious perks that I love. The beautiful clothes. The meals prepared to my liking. The gorgeous, glorious rooms that I get to stay in at Sainthall Palace, which is an honest-to-God fairy tale castle. Watching the sun rise over the rolling hills to the south is like being the star of a Disney movie, and that Disney movie is your life story.
What they don’t tell you in the movies is that being the prince’s girlfriend, much less a princess, is not always easy.
Once the initial waves of pain and shock subside enough for me to wipe the tears from my eyes and no more take their place, I shake my head in disbelief.
Think, Jessica.
My bruised, aching heart wants to run after Alec, to find him wherever he is, and plead with him that what he did, what he said, was a terrible mistake and we can get through it.
No matter how hard I try, though, I can’t convince myself that we can work things out.
How can I go out on a limb for him—again—if there’s any chance he could reach this point again where he thinks he’s not the right man for me, and I’m not the right woman for him?
I want Alec so badly. That’s what caused the friction between us to escalate, that I wanted more from him than what he can give right now.
Maybe he’s right.
Something has to change, and that something should be me. He can’t change what’s expected of him, so it’s up to me.
“Maybe it would be best if you went back to New York for a while,” I tell myself.
Yes. I’ll go back to New York.
Once I’ve made the decision, my body swiftly moves into action.
The motions seem familiar, somehow comforting. I’ve uprooted and changed my circumstances enough times over the years that I know the process as well as I know how to navigate my own room in the dark.
The first thing for me to do is pack.
I don’t have much to take back with me because, aside from my wallet and a few personal belongings, Alec bought everything for me when we arrived in Saintland. After a brief search through the closets and drawers—it’s hard to know where everything is when you have a staff not allowing you to lift a finger—I pull out a small duffel bag from the bottom drawer of an antique wardrobe. I stuff in a couple of pairs of panties, a plain t-shirt, and the yoga pants I wore on the flight here. I toss in the book I’ve been reading—they won’t miss it—my phone charger, and a pair of low-heeled, casual shoes. Another shirt. My hairbrush, toothbrush, and a small tube of toothpaste…I throw in a few other essentials and then zip the bag closed.
I decide to take a quick shower–it takes me under three minutes–and then pin my hair up into a bun on top of my head.
I pull out a pair of comfortable, somewhat dressy grey pants from the dresser, a silky light blue camisole top, and a navy blue exercise hoodie I haven’t had the chance to wear yet. I stuff the hoodie into the bag. It’s summer in Saintland, but I may need it on the plane.
I grab my passport, shove it into the side pocket of the duffel bag, and take one final look around the rooms, committing to memory the way the sun beams in around the curtains, the angles to the dark cherry finish of the headboard.
Then, I’m ready.
My heart feels numb.
I need to get out of here before a chink appears in the armor of pain and numbness that’s drowning me and I cave to the love hidden beneath it all and go after Alec.
I open the door to my rooms and step out into the hallway, duffel bag in hand, only to run straight into Claire.
“Oh!” she says, stumbling back.
“I’m sorry, Claire,” I say, stepping to the side before continuing down the hall.
“Jessica? Where are you going?” she asks, a surprised look on her face when she notices the duffel bag.
“I’m leaving.”
“To go where?” She hurries after me.
“Home.”
“What?”
“Alec—Prince Alexander and I—” When I say his name, my throat restricts painfully. “We’re not going to be continuing our relationship. I need to get back to New York.” I try to keep my voice level, but it dips and wavers.
“Jessica, wait,” Claire says, a note of panic in her voice. She reaches out and catches me by the arm. “Wait. You can’t leave.”
“I can, and I’m going to. You can’t stop me, Claire. I’m going to the airport.” My eyes are filling with tears. How embarrassing.
Claire runs her hand up and down my arm in long comforting strokes. “I understand,” she says slowly. “But listen to me, Jessica. You want a flight back to New York, right?”
“Yes.”
“You could be waiting there for hours, maybe even until tomorrow, and there will be reporters…let me make the flight arrangements for you.”
“Don’t do this, Claire. Any minute, I’m sure the prince will call and say your time with me is over.”
Her eyes are filled with determination. “Let me help you.”
“Okay.” I’m too tired and drained to argue.
“Come back to your rooms.”
“They’re not my rooms anymore.”
“They’re still your rooms. When did the two of you make this…decision?”
Claire puts gentle pressure on my arm, guiding me back to the doors of the queen’s rooms.
“An hour ago?”
“All right. Wait here,” she says, steering me to the table next to the window seat. “Sit here while I have breakfast sent up.”
“Okay,” I say, as she takes the duffel bag from my hand and sets it gently on the floor by the table.
“I’ll be back soon,” she says kindly.
Claire flits from the room, her face already buried in her tablet, leaving me alone again, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, the ragged sound echoing the agony that courses through my body.
The waiting nearly kills me.
38
Alec
You think you’ve changed, and then your old habits come rushing back to the surface.
After Marcus died—Jesus, has it only been two weeks?—I swore to myself that I was done with my raging anger, my bitter resentment, and these knee-jerk reactions that never get me anywhere.
With the exception of that one time.
There was only one time when anything positive resulted from expressing my anger, when I became so sick of the bullshit I was constantly fac
ing at the hands of Marcus and my father, and that was when I escaped to New York.
That one time was when I went to New York…because I met Jessica.
And now, for her own good, I’ve destroyed all of it by telling her to leave.
I half expect her to come running after me.
To fight with me.
To fight for me.
To fight for us.
Even if it means she takes drastic actions. Jessica has a fiery spirit. If she thought it was necessary, she’d go so far as to slap me across the face. I’m sure of it.
But she doesn’t come running after me.
Instead, I thunder through the third level of the palace, snapping at anyone who crosses my path. Phillip is only one of the many people who finds himself in that unfortunate position.
“Your highness,” he says to me when I burst into my rooms, half-dressed from last night and filled with fury at myself for what I’ve done.
“Not now, Phillip,” I bellow, heading for the bathroom.
“But you have a meeting with—.”
“I said not now. If you want to keep your job, you’ll find somewhere else to be until I tell you otherwise.”
By the time the last words escape my mouth, my voice has reached a ragged roar, and Phillip’s eyes are huge and round in alarm. He opens his mouth, thinks better of whatever he was going to say and closes it, before bobbing his head and making a dash for the door.
In the shower, the almost intolerable heat of the water does nothing to soothe me. It only further stokes the fire of my rage and heightens the shame of my sadness. I turn the water to cold and let it pummel me. I’m shivering almost instantly, but force myself to stand under the deluge.
The cold blast against my skin reminds me of a fishing trip I took with my father and Marcus years ago, before he was crowned king, before we moved into Sainthall Palace, and maybe even before my mother died.
We’d dropped anchor, far from shore, when my attention wandered long enough that I failed to notice a rolling wave coming our way. I lost my balance when the wave hit our boat, and I plunged into the frigid water, the cold driving the air from my lungs. I’d already taken off the life jacket my father had insisted that both of us wear while we were underway. The water instantly soaked my clothes, their weight dragging me down.
It all happened so fast and I was only underwater for a few moments at most because Marcus, always the stronger swimmer, jumped in after me. How old could he have been? Eleven, maybe twelve? Yet he shoved my father out of the way and was in the lake coming to my rescue before my father had time to react.
Marcus hauled me to the surface as he fought against the rough surface of his own life jacket—he was still wearing his; leave it to Marcus to follow the rules long after their parameters had expired—and together the two of them dragged me back over the side of the boat to safety.
Within a few minutes, we were all laughing at the fact that I’d managed to go over the edge with barely any encouragement.
My father, a wide smile dancing on his face, clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “You’re going to be fine, aren’t you, son?” he said, another guffaw rising up from his broad chest. “You never think. You know the right thing to do.”
Marcus beamed with pride as I shivered under the scratchy blanket my father had pulled out from the boat’s storage compartment to wrap me in.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, my body shuddering from the chill of the shower. “Fuck.”
When Jessica’s face drifts into my mind, her eyes filled with tears because of my asshole decisions—never mind that they’re for her own good—I turn off the water with a shout of anger and disappointment.
Dried off and back in my rooms with a towel still wrapped around my waist, I slam my way through my dresser drawers, pulling out the first clothes I see. I quickly get dressed, stopping long enough to send Nate a message. I know he’s been antsy lately—now that I’m stuck inside the palace from dawn until dusk attending these endless meetings, there’s not much need for him to be driving me anywhere.
But I need to get out of here right now.
“Ready in two,” he writes back, and as soon as I read his response, I shove the phone in my pocket and leave the room.
My jaw is clenched tight as I make my way to the private entrance. People hurry out of my way as I stalk down the palace corridors. At one point, I see Phillip standing at the end of a hallway, but when he catches sight of me, he disappears around the corner, whispering quickly out of the corner of his mouth to the member of the staff with whom he was conferring.
Outside, Nate is waiting. I open the door of the town car and slide into the back seat without a word. I catch a glimpse of his eyes in the rearview mirror, noticing the furrows denting his forehead. To his credit, he doesn’t say a word about my disheveled hair, my hastily chosen outfit, or the fact that we are not scheduled to be going anywhere. “Where to?”
“Drive, Nate. Go.”
He nods curtly and steers the car away from the Palace. As the Palace gets smaller out the back window of the car the farther we drive, another wave of sharp, aching grief slams into me like a tidal wave. I slam a fist against the car door, then bury my face in my hands, a painful lump catching in my throat.
What have I done?
What am I going to do?
It’s more clear to me now than it’s ever been. I’m no Marcus. I don’t automatically know the right thing to do.
Go back to the Palace and apologize to Jessica.
The thought keeps echoing in my mind, and it’s coupled with what feels like continual stabs of guilt into my heart like a knife. I need to get my head on straight before I do anything else.
Before I ruin anything else.
I’ve already ruined the most important thing in the world to me.
39
Jessica
The minutes crawl by while I wait for Claire to return, every moment expanding into what seems like an hour.
The breakfast tray arrives after twenty minutes. I don’t feel like eating. I feel sick to my stomach over what happened and what’s likely going to happen, but I need to do something to stifle my urgent need to get out of here. I need to leave the palace, get away, I need to go, go, go. So I force myself to eat what I can on the tray, taking small bites, eating deliberately.
I try to enjoy it.
Even what’s considered a simple breakfast at Sainthall Palace is of superior quality and presented magnificently. You think you know all there is to know about English muffins, for example—I mean an English muffin is an English muffin, right? —and then you find out that there’s a “royal” version that makes any English muffin you’ve ever tasted before taste like cardboard toast.
I know the food served here is excellent, unbelievably good, but it’s tasteless and bland to me right now.
When I’ve finally eaten about half the food on the tray, I push it away from me and stare out the window.
I have no desire to flick through social media profiles on my phone like I usually do in the morning. The book I’ve been reading in the evenings while I wait for Alec has no appeal to me either. I’m hollow and numb.
It’s not that I want to dwell on the fight Alec and I had, the way he turned and stomped out of the room without looking back, the horrible, and aching pain that is crushing me beneath its veneer of numbness. I can’t force myself to do anything else.
Alec was the one.
It sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But he was.
I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from crying.
I wish none of this had happened—coming to Saintland, meeting Alec, deciding to open that dating app in the first place.
If none of this had happened, I’d still be in New York with my friends and my job and my independence, and not sitting here in Saintland waiting for Claire to book an escape route for me that won’t cause an embarrassing ruckus for the royal family.
I wonder if she can pull it off.
I’m still sta
ring out the window, lost in thought, when she returns some time later—it may have been minutes or hours, I’m not sure.
“Jessica,” she says, startling me from my thoughts. “I have a plane ticket and a plan.”
The plan involves getting me to the airport using something other than a vehicle from the royal fleet. It involves me leaving via the palace’s private back exit and meeting a taxi three blocks away.
She hands me an envelope containing my airplane ticket and a pair of dark sunglasses. She puts her hand on top of mine and looks me straight in the eye. “Do you need anything else? Truly, Jessica, is there anything else I can do for you?”
I’m going to miss Claire. She’s the only friend I have in Saintland, and how she has helped me so selflessly today has proven this is more than a job for her.
I shake my head. “No. You’ve done so much.” Her kindness is making me a little choked up.
She gives my hand a brisk pat and stands up from where she’s been sitting beside me. “Let’s be on our way, then. The flight leaves in an hour and a half. It’s a small airport, so you should still have plenty of time for customs.”
Claire accompanies me to the back entrance, then surprises me by giving me a quick hug. “Three blocks that way,” she says, pointing in the correct direction, and I nod in understanding.
“It’s been really nice knowing you, Claire,” I say as I slip on the sunglasses. “And thank you…for everything.”
A small smile flashes across her face. “You know where to find me if you ever want to chat,” she answers, a hitch catching in her usual perky voice, and then she quickly disappears back into the palace.
I probably won’t see her—or Saintland, for that matter—ever again.
My heart heavy, I set off at a brisk pace in the direction Claire pointed.
As I near the end of the second block, my heart starts to race.
Not one but two photographers are heading in my direction down the block on the other side of the street. They look like they’re heading toward the palace to cover some event or another, but I know photographers—they’ll stop if they recognize me.