Salim was at a loss. In many ways, things in London had gone to plan, and he was confident, at this point, that he’d piqued Ophelia’s interest. He’d gotten her talking. She’d been happy for him to carry her all the way back to the hotel. Exactly what he’d wanted to do, he knew he was on the way to accomplishing. If he could get her to be thinking only of him, then Nikolai had no chance at bedding her and leaving her as he intended.

And yet, at the same time, none of it had gone to plan. He hadn’t waited until the end of their time in London. Why hadn’t he been able to? He had a system, and intention. It was all timed out to interest her just enough to keep her from Nikolai’s clutches, but not enough that her heart would be seriously wounded in his wake. He didn’t want to hurt her. What would the point of all of this be if he just ended up hurting her in the end, himself?

And the way he’d gotten her attention bothered him. He’d given her too much of himself. He’d told her things he hadn’t told anyone else. He was invested more than he should have been in a woman who he only intended to help, to minimize the damage his friend would do.

And then there was the issue with the company. How he’d let it take over his life so quickly. It had moved him, sure. But so had how many other pieces? He always responded the same way: he bought the piece, did right by it, and moved on. He didn’t pour himself into personally restoring it. He found the right people to do that for him, and he focused his attention where it would do the most good: on the next work.

Always onto the next work. He never let one piece slow him down. He never let it get that far. How was it right that he should be doing this now? His rules of operation in one artistic medium shouldn’t differ from the next.

He didn’t know which bothered him more: the things he had told Ophelia about how personally invested he was—and intended to remain—in the company and her career, or that he found, as he thought back on it all, that he meant them. He had gotten into this with one clear goal. And that goal had become hopelessly muddled and crowded with other things.

With one thing, he thought wryly. His goals had become muddled and overcrowded with Ophelia.

She wasn’t as straightforward as he had expected her to be. He’d known her talent going into it, sure, and that had made her one-dimensional for him, he realized now, looking back. He’d done what he imagined countless other men had done in her life: reduced her to a dancer and nothing more.

But she was so much more. She was spontaneous and dedicated, but it wasn’t the kind of soulless, automatic dedication he’d imagined. Her artistry was hard fought. He found he admired her more and more—not for the talent she’d been born with, but for the way she’d nurtured it, even when it hadn’t been her choice at first. He admired her for not resenting the art or her family for pushing her to pursue it.

And he admired her for the way she had flourished in this life, when he’d seen so many in competitive fields get burned out. She was in it for the long haul. And he knew, deep within him, that she would succeed, even if he didn’t nurture her talent. But he knew, with an equal certainty, that he would nurture that talent.

That admiration, that dedication, wasn’t part of the plan. None of it was. Salim needed some perspective. He needed a chance to clear his head.

So he made the best, healthiest choice for his current frame of mind. He stayed away from Ophelia for the rest of their stay in London. It was possible, he thought, that he already had her sufficiently on the hook to thwart Nikolai. And, besides, what was the point if he beat out his rival, only to lose himself?

He busied himself with the other things he liked to do in London. He met up with his friends, although he never did get around to seeing that woman he’d been thinking he’d pursue. Something about it didn’t seem right just now. He blamed that on Ophelia, and told himself that the next time he would be in London, he’d be out from under whatever Nikolai had gotten him into, and he’d be able to get back to normal.

On the day he and the company were to fly to Madrid, he almost didn’t go. The trip to Madrid felt, strangely enough, like a threat. Some part of him felt as though staying in London would be safer, somehow.

He shook off the unaccountable worry. There wasn’t much he’d ever been afraid of in his life, and with good reason. He was the son of the ruler of a small but powerful nation. And Madrid was a perfectly fine city. There was nothing he had to be afraid of.

Then, there was the bet with Nikolai. He had Ophelia going in the right direction, but it had all happened when Nikolai was nowhere to be seen. Salim had to be there, to be certain that Nikolai would not be successful. Without actually seeing him, there was no way he could be sure.

So, he went. But still, as he boarded his plane, he couldn’t help but feel that all the clarity he’d been seeking in London by staying away from the company, and staying away from Ophelia, was doomed to swiftly evaporate. He was back in whatever this was, now. And there was nothing he could do about it, prince or not.