“Then why did he help?”
“Because he’ll do whatever he can to fuck the Crown.” The car peels away into the darkness, and Davis shrugs. “But also, everyone is rooting for you, Louis.”
Davis pulls out his phone and does a quick search, then hands it to me. Headlines fill the screen, one after another, all time-stamped within the last twelve hours.
CROWN PRINCE CHOOSES
LOVE OVER DUTY
AMERICAN PAINTER CLAIMS
HER PRINCE
THE PORTRAIT THAT SHOCKED
A KINGDOM
THE WOMAN WHO “CROSS”ED
HIS HEART
“Photosof the canvas were posted online within an hour of the reveal,” Davis says. “People want to buy the artwork. Someone offered a billion dollars.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s historic. Half the world thinks the story is romantic. The other half thinks you’ve lost your mind.”
I scroll through more articles, more photos of the painting from different angles, of Addison, of me, along with all the speculation.
“My mother said it was a PR nightmare,” I tell him.
“For her,” he says.
“I had no idea.”
Last night, I was occupied with Addison, and I’ve been locked away all day with no phone, no laptop, no contact with the outside world. Seeing the headlines and the thousands of people rallying behind us makes me feel like maybe this isn’t as hopeless as I thought.
We climb the stairs and duck into the cabin, where a flight attendant greets us with a polite smile.
“Mr. Banks is expecting you in New York,” she says. “We didn’t expect another guest.”
“This is my personal bodyguard for this trip,” I explain.
“Great, Your Highness. Welcome aboard. We’ll be departing shortly. Please, both of you, make yourselves comfortable.”
I sink into one of the leather seats, and Davis takes the one across from me. He looks around at the polished wood and cream leather like he can’t believe this.
“You always travel this way?”
“It depends.”
Eventually, the flight attendant closes the door, and the engines get louder as we taxi onto the runway. Minutes later, we’re in the air, and I watch through the window as Montclaire disappears beneath us. The countryside spreads out in patches, and there, on the hill in the distance, the palace sits, lit up, like it’s waiting for me to come back. For a brief moment, I feel a tinge of guilt, knowing I should’ve tried harder to speak to my father. The last thing I want to do is stress him more than he needs to be, but I can’t. In my heart, I know he’d want me to choose this above anything else.
I watch it until the clouds swallow it whole, and then there’s nothing.
Nine hours later,we land at a private airfield outside the city, where a car is waiting to take us into Manhattan. The sun hangs over the skyline as we pull up to The Park—the high-rise on Billionaires’Row, where Dyson lives. It’s just after eight in the evening when we arrive.
The car pulls up, and paparazzi are already gathered outside with their cameras ready, like they were waiting for me.
