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“Addison!” He’s struggling against the guards pinning him, his face twisted with anger. “Get your fucking hands off her!”

“Away you go.” One of the guards shoves me toward the car, and I stumble.

“This is bullshit. You’re hurting me—” I try to turn around, try to see Louis, but they’re pushing me forward. “Please, just let me say good?—”

“Get in the car, Miss Cross.”

“I’m not?—”

A hand on the back of my head forces me down, and my shoulder hits the door. I’m shoved inside, and the door is slammed shut. I reach for the handle, but the door is locked. Louis is on the ground with four guards holding him down.

He’s still fighting, still screaming.

I bang my fist on the window. “Let me out! Louis! Don’t you hurt him! Don’t you fucking hurt him!”

For one frozen second, our eyes meet. I see terror and love. I see him trying to tell me everything he can’t say out loud.

I press my palm flat against the window and mouth the words I need him to know.I love you. This isn’t over.

“Addison!” he screams. His wrists are locked behind his back, like they’re arresting him. “I will come for you.”

I scream his name when the car pulls forward as he yells something I can’t hear.

Then the path curves, and I can’t see him anymore.

My entire body is shaking, and I’m hysterical.

“You can’t do this,” I say to the driver, who ignores me.

The tires crunch over gravel as I wipe tears from my face.

I close my eyes, trying to ground myself before I spiral. This is too much and completely unexpected. Now I’m sitting in a ripped ball gown, barefoot, in the back of a car. My arms throb where the guards grabbed me, and I can already see bruises blooming on my skin.

The only sound is the engine and my own ragged breathing.

We pass the rose gardens and a fountain, where Louis kissed me for the first time. The scene fades by the window like a movie about someone else’s life.

My vision blurs, and my throat closes, and for one terrible second, I think I’m going to break. I feel a sob climbing, and I might choke on it. The adrenaline rush makes me sick, and the weight of what just happened has me dry-heaving in the back, but I force it down.

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I count the trees passing outside the window. I dig my fingernails into my palms, hard enough to leave marks.

I will not give the queen the satisfaction of knowing this made me physically ill.

The drive takes forever and no time at all. When the car finally stops, I glance out the window and realize we’re at a private airport. On the runway, there’s a private jet waiting with its stairs lowered.

The guard opens my door and stands there, waiting.

“Where am I going?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Can you at least tell me?—”

His face stays emotionless, like I’m not even a person. Like I’m a package being shipped.

I step out of the car, and the wind off the sea whips my ruined dress around my legs. My feet ache as the guards move me toward the stairs.

I turn and look at the men. “One day, you’ll regret doing this. His Highness will not forget.”