“Your father will explain it better than I ever could. He’s waiting on the jet.”
Of course he is.
Of course he’s playing the benevolent monarch coming to retrieve his rebellious son. My chest goes tight as though I’m no longer in an ugly beige hotel room, but I’m thirteen again, standing outside his study waiting to hear what he thinks of my speech therapist’s report. An ugly anticipation bubbles in my gut. If he’s come himself, the decision’s already been made, and I won’t be able to fight against it.
That realisation leaves me feeling very different from the man I was two nights ago, the one who promised himself he would never abandon Francesca.
Anthony’s close enough now to reach for the duffel, and I let him take it. “Come, there’s a car outside.”
I can taste my own humiliation when I beg him, “Anthony, please.” He freezes. “You can drag me back to the palace after, but I need to get to Redford. I need to see her.”
His brow arches, and he tilts his head a fraction. “You didn’t receive the email, I take it.”
I blink. “What email?”
The mocking tone is nonexistent now. “Yesterday, the King’s office received word that an article will be released later today, unless we remove you from Sheffolk.” He shifts his grip on the duffel. “Your father decided it would be best not to test whether they’re bluffing. We’ve been operating under the assumption that the same email was sent to Redford’s office.”
Something cold slides under my ribs. Even though Anthony’s stare makes me doubt myself, I’m sure I could survive if Charlie and his vulture of a mother ran to the press. I can still walk straight to Sylvaine and tell her that Charlie’s the one who strangled the fuck out of her heir. Charlie’s the one who planted that candle in Francesca’s room, and he was going to do it again. Charlie’s a weapon being held by the traitor, and weapons can be traced back to their owners.
He—or some other replacement—is going to do somethingworseif I don’t get to her.
That’s the logic of it, one that I cling to.
But logic doesn’t explain why nobody at Redford has been answering me.
Unless, of course, this email Anthony references is worse than I give it credit for.
Somewhere beyond my room, the rest of the building seemingly wakes up. I hadn’t noticed it through my panic before, but there’s a commotion outside. Raised voices drifting in from the pavements below. Anthony tips his head towards the door, mumbling something about how he’ll be waiting in the foyer but I’m immune to everything except the fact that I can’t get toFrancesca. I stand there for a moment longer, willing my brain to pull itself together so I can sort this shit out.
Scratch.
The fucking tag again. My nerves spike, and I drive my hand down the back of my neck in search of the irritating piece of shit. I rip it out, hearing a portion of the sizing label come with it. I look down at my palm, expecting to see a cardstock with the price printed there, but what I actually see is a piece of paper folded thrice into a compact square.
Held together by the string I just pulled free.
Stitched into the jumper that was ‘bought from the mall’.
A letter that’s been breathing against my spine this entire time.
Remember what I first warned you, Your Highness? You didn’t think much of it then, but look at you now: dragged out, just like I promised. Probably wishing Redford was still yours, right? I almost prefer the earlier version of you, when you thought she was beneath you, because it appears you have forgotten you were only a visitor here.
But you were useful, I have to admit, making Francesca believe there’s someone out there who still hears her beating heart. Thank you for softening her up, because now I get to remind her that she’s dead, and you get to watch from a safe distance like an obedient little prince.
I’m not naive enough to think that this is goodbye, however. That pride of yours won’t let you leave this game unfinished, especially when the last move was mine.
So come back, Prince Eric. I look forward to you stepping back into my world.
I’m waiting for the real game.
I fold the note carefully, slip it into my pocket and begin taking the room apart. Mentally, of course. Anything to help the way my lungs have shrivelled up. I count the windows, the doors and the light fixtures, then I focus on how many steps it takes me to get to the window. The glass is cool against my forehead as I struggle to inhale. I see my reflection in it, and I find it repulsive that nothing about my inner panic is visible from the outside. I feel… wrong, like my skin is also two sizes too small, and it’s stretching around too much bone.
The traitor could be with Francesca right now.
Despite knowing it’s only about a fifteen-minute drive, she feels further away than ever. My brain fixates on that distance, making it measurable. Manageable. But it isn’t enough because my father’s patience is already at its limit. Two assaults, two political altercations. He won’t tolerate another fuck-up, especially when he’s here as a supportive father for damage control.
One wrong move, and he’ll tighten the leash until I can no longer breathe.
Until I can’t reach Francesca anymore.
