Page 106 of Heavy Crown

“Prince Alexander seemed to be making a statement with Princess Simone on the balcony. Unless my eyes deceived me, they were holding hands,” one of the male diplomats says while he eases back for me to slide his dessert in front of him.

“I heard they’ve been dating in secret for months,” the woman next to him chimes in. “You know how these royal things work. Date in secret until you’re sure. The opposite of how the rest of us behave.”

Frustration and jealousy war in me while I set another dessert in front of someone else at the table.

“I thought we might get a scandal with the American girl he rescued from the car crash,” another one said, paying no attention to me while I serve their table.

Sometimes being an invisible worker isn’t a perk. The longing to correct my nationality rises to the surface.

“Can I get you anything else?” I ask.

They all peer at their plates, and then the one who isn’t facing me says, “No, I think we’re good. We’re good, right?” He glances around the table.

Everyone else is already picking up their forks and digging in.

When I return to the kitchen, I’m on the verge of tears. With a hand on my diaphragm, I take several deep, steadying breaths.

“You all right?” Bethany, someone I work with in the royal kitchen on Thursdays, peers at me while she rushes around the kitchen putting finishing touches on desserts. “You’re due your break. Tell Claudio you’re taking your break.” She nods toward the head caterer.

Without speaking to him, I rush out of the kitchen into the hallway where the staff bathroom is located. Ahead, out a side exit, Alex appears. The guest bathrooms are in this hallway but farther down.

My steps falter, and we stand staring at each other from a distance. His weight shifts, and I realize he’s coming to speak to me.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

With my head down, I dash into the women’s bathroom. At the mirror over the sink, I glare at myself. My breathing is heavy, and my stomach is queasy. Cornered. Wild with longing. The sight of him is enough to undo every other sensation except love. Zoomed in, enlarged, crowding out my anger, my hurt, my disappointment.

I splash water on my face, and I wash my hands. Go out. Finish my shift. Go home. Fall apart in my apartment. Count my money to see if I can afford a plane ticket and an apartment back in Canada.

Soon. Soon.

If he is marrying her before his coronation, I cannot watch it happen. Seeing them together, imagining their future, is a million times worse than walking in on Derrick with Janessa.

Deep breath. Out you go. I stride out of the bathroom, and a hand snags my elbow.

“Rory.” Alex’s voice is raw and husky.

I whirl toward him, and he drops my elbow as though the contact has scalded him.

“I’m sorry. I just—I...” He trails off, and we stare at each other.

What do we say? What can we say?

Words won’t move past my lips. Not that I’d want them to. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I want you. Please don’t marry her. Run away with me.

Run away with me.

Run away with me.

My heart aches. “I—”

The side door behind Alex pops open, and Simone’s dark head peeks out.

I snap my mouth closed, and I cross my arms, avoiding eye contact. Earlier #AloraisDead was trending on social media. One of the other workers was talking about it within earshot.

Simone must know about me. Everyone knows about me. My first instinct is to apologize, but I didn’t know about her, did I?

And I’m not actually sorry.