“Look, I know American reporters, and their little interns. I've worked with plenty. You think you can get away with anything as soon as the cameras roll, but let me remind you again. We have rules. No flash, no interruptions, and absolutely no unauthorized social media. His Highness keeps a very strict media presence, and it's my privilege to enforce it.”

How I stopped myself from rolling my eyes at this pompous, self-absorbed bitch, I'll never know.

Serena Hastings flips her long blonde hair back, giving me the stink eye one last time, before she moves through the gaggle of media and finally takes her seat.

Eyeballing the stage, I'm wondering if I made a huge mistake taking my summer off campus to come to Saint Moore.

It's my father's crowning career achievement, though. An interview with Prince Silas Erik Bearington the Third.

It isn't hard to understand dad's excitement. It's taken his whole life to get here, and I'm just along for the ride. A very hellish, testing-my-patience-every-damned-day kind of ride.

From the brutal jet lag flying from LA across the Atlantic, to the correspondence dinners where I have to be on my best behavior to avoid embarrassing him, to the constant entourage around the palace who think they're sent by God...sweet Jesus.

Now, I'm sitting here in these stupid heels that are way too tight, wishing for a miracle. What comes next dwarfs everything.

Don't worry, dad said. He told me he'd show me how it's done. I wanted to follow in his footsteps, didn't I?

When the lighting adjusts and a hot, narrow beam shines on my face, pulling sweat from my pores, I really have to wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.

Of course, dad isn't even sweating before his interview with Prince Playboy himself begins. Yes, that Prince.

The twenty-something, six foot and then some giant who's scandalized several continents. The Prince who's brought the tabloids and dirty blogs more gossip than a hundred celebrity wardrobe malfunctions.

He, who my friends used to swoon over during late night truth-or-dare sessions in our freshmen year dorm, putting him at the top of most eligible celeb bachelors they'd love to have between the sheets. A man I've never been able to stand, much less crush on. A living argument against any country having kings and Queens in modern times, when all they're likely to get out of it are media scoundrels.

Prince Charming, Prince Skirt Chaser, Prince Hung, and a thousand other names.

The Prince, the bastard, the legend.

Silas.

“One minute, Mister Warwick!” the camera man shouts to my father as he climbs up onto the stage, taking one of the two empty chairs beneath the halo.

The other, with the gold and burgundy back, is reserved for the devil himself. I wonder if he's going to walk into this interview late, and throw my dad one more complication.

That would be just like him, wouldn't it? It's not like he takes this Prince thing seriously. It's just the world's biggest license to be a dick, to drink and fuck himself stupid every chance he gets. That's what the blogs have told me, anyway.

None of it fazes dad, ever the professional. He sits up there in his finest suit, his silver hair slicked back, the same prim smile on his lips that I've seen him use in a hundred interviews growing up.

Game time. It's the look that makes me wonder if I'm really cut out to follow in his footsteps. He's wearing the calm, measured, controlled mask I've tried to don before, and failed every time.

I don't have to wonder long because there's new commotion surging through the room. The door off to the side opens, and in walks four strong men in designer suits, the Bearington family crest pinned to their lapels in royal purple and gold. It's a double-headed eagle holding a crown.

A taller, younger, stronger man steps out between them. They part like water, making way for His Highness.

My heart skips a beat. It's him. For real.

Prince Silas, arriving in all his smug, unwavering, damnably sexy glory.

Okay, so maybe the SOB really is what they say in the looks department. If I had any doubt, it's blown to pieces, now that he's quickly stepping toward the stage, taking the five stairs up in two big strides.

My father stands respectfully, extending a hand. The Prince takes it, towering over him by nearly a whole foot, and dad isn't a short guy.

“Charmed, Mister Warwick.” The Prince has that foreign, not-quite-English accent everybody in the kingdom does, except his is somehow thicker, more refined.

“It's my honor, Your Highness. I've been looking forward to this for a long time,” dad says, nodding.

“Twenty seconds!” Another cameraman roars out, flinching for a second in the hopes that his interruption hasn't upset the Prince.

Based on what I've read, I don't think that's even possible. Nothing upsets him. He basks in every scandal and fresh jab the media takes at him like they're triumphs.

They both take their seats across from each other. I can't believe they look so casual, like it's the most natural thing in the world, when there's so much on the line.

If dad pulls this off, he's going to be seen by billions over the next week. Serena, bitch that she is, has reminded us since day one that the Royal Press Corps is looking for a new American correspondent. And with rumors swirling about how much longer Queen Marina will continue to rule before passing the crown to her grandson, my father could be front and center at the Bearington's wild court for a very long time to come.

As for the Prince, it's his time to shine with something besides his dick. It's no secret the world's been holding its breath, waiting for him to shape up, and act like a statesman for one of the wealthiest countries in the world. A future King.

Saint Moore is virtually the last monarchy in Europe where the ruler is more than just a figurehead. For fifty years, Queen Marina has rallied her country to good causes and swayed more than a few votes in their parliament, even if she's been very respectful of democracy.

As for Prince Hung – who knows? He's taken his pleasure demonstrating all the things he'll do with modern day concubines throwing themselves at him. Not politics.

“Five...four...three...two...one...”

Cameras roll. Dad looks into the closest one confidently, and begins to speak.

“Welcome to this special edition of the Warwick Report, ladies and gentleman. Today, I'm coming to you from the Kingdom of Saint Moore, where I'm sitting down with a man who needs no introduction.” He pauses, three seconds, just long enough to let everybody tuning in remember the insanity that surrounds everything Silas. “Prince Silas Erik Bearington, heir to the island's throne, one of the most powerful, scandalized, and adventurous men in the world.”

“Tom, you flatter me too much,” Silas says, that wicked smirk above his chiseled jaw pointing up like pitchfork ends. “Let's get it on, shall we?”

“Absolutely, Your Highness,” dad says. If he's rattled at all by the Prince's need to control the conversation, he doesn't show it. “You're recently back in the kingdom after completing your duty in the Royal Marines, serving in Afghanistan. Tell me, sir, how has that experience changed you? I think everyone was surprised to hear about a Bearington Prince flying into an active combat zone. Thankfully, on our side, this time.”

The Prince smiles. Smug as ever, but a little darkly.

“Yes, we always did like to play both sides, up until the Second World War. It's been good for me, Tom. Reminds me why I'm really here, next in line to the crown, how fortunate I am to be born into this royal lineage. There's pride in serving a man's kingdom, and beyond. I'd never imagined Afghanistan until I stepped foot there. Some truly awful circumstances, just beyond our borders. Life and death. War. Poverty. Terrorism. A lot more exciting than who's wearing last year's style at the next big charity ball, I'm sure you can imagine. Also, a much bigger challenge for me, and I love those.”

“Oh, yes,” dad says, returning the Prince's smile. “They called you a hero in the press after Kandahar. Said you single-handedly thwarted a terrorist attack on an allied base, saving your own troops and dozens more from several different countries, including the United States. What really happened?”

“Please. The media embellishes everything. ” Silas shakes his head, waving it all away, pushing his stern hand through the air. The perfectly tailored gray suit he's wearing fits him like a glove, exposing more of that powerful body each time he moves, even subtly. “I gave the orders, sure, as soon as I saw them creeping up on our base. Still took everyone in uniform that day to stop the attack, to swarm out and hit them at the right moment, before the suicide bomber could plow through the main gate and do God knows what.”

Dad straightens in his seat. I can tell by the look on his face that things are about to get serious. The tension in the palace room thickens, and even the ornate ceilings soaring into the air can't hold it.

God, I wish I'd picked different shoes. These heels are totally strangling me now.

“That's a very modest account for those who know you, Your Highness,” dad says. “Some might say unnaturally modest. More like the kind of attitude a future King should have, rather than the playboy Prince.”

“Look, Tom, we all know what's bound to happen one day. Truth is, any talk about it now is shoveling Her Majesty in her grave while she's still very much alive and kicking ass.” Prince Silas pauses, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. He knows he's about to blow his carefully crafted tact.

Several people behind me suppress snickers. A woman coughs. I'm trying to pay attention to the interview, read dad's body language, to see how he's going to handle things if they take a nasty turn.

But damn, I can't take my eyes off Silas' face. Those deep blue eyes of his betray nothing, perfect royal compliments to his dark black hair, and a day's worth of shadowy stubble on his chin that probably makes every woman in the room wonder what it feels like against their skin.

Myself included. Shamefully.

“Certainly, Your Highness. We all hope Queen Marina will be around for another hundred years, but you and I both know what's realistic.” Dad pauses, the confident smile on his face disappearing.

He swallows something hard in his throat. “Frankly, you have people in your own kingdom saying you may be the last Prince, and your grandmother could well be its final Queen. They want a referendum once she's gone. That could mean trouble in a time when royals are an endangered species all over Europe, and indeed, the world. Let me just come out and ask – are you trying to save the monarchy?”

“Really, Tom? You think my bloodline needs saving from a joke protest movement like Republic First?” Silas' dark blue eyes storm angry, full of disbelief. “The Bearingtons have ruled this island for over a thousand years. We'll do it again for a thousand more, when we can all drive across bridges to Scotland and Iceland. We've kept our people safe in war and guided them into the modern age with wealth, class, and good sense. I know that might be difficult for someone like you to understand, when your own government has barely been around for three hundred years.”

Dad's chest swells as he quietly inhales a big breath. He sinks back in his chair, his hands tightly folded in his lap, staring at the Prince.

Oh, God. What's going on? He isn't...offended? No, too unprofessional.

But I've never seen him shaken in an interview like this. I can't believe it's happening because he's face-to-face with this Royal Prick.

Prince Silas senses it, too. The tension in his face softens, and he looks at my father, cocking his head ever-so-slightly. “Tom, you're just asking the tough questions, and I appreciate it. That's why I agreed to this interview personally. Let's move on, shall we? You've got plenty of ammo left, I'm sure. Ask me about the latest supermodel I'm bedding, or the hot new custom sports car I've added to my stable. I just broke in one of those things yesterday. We both know how history and politics gets damned boring.”

Silas has a huge grin on his face. I can't tell if he's joking, trying to ease the tension, or if he's just in a mad rush to deflect more questions about the kingdom's future.

Dad doesn't give up that easily, even when his subject is getting pissed. I wonder if he'll press on with the same questions, or circle back to them later, after he's probed the bastard Prince a little more.

For the first time in my life, I'm not sure who'll crack first.

He doesn't do either. Instead, he grabs the sides of his chair, his hands visibly shaking.

Jesus. Something's wrong.

Stiffening in my seat, I watch him lean forward, reaching for something that isn't there. The shadows shift around him, changing the bright light.

For the first time, I notice he's completely drenched in sweat, the collar around his jacket stained wet.

Time to panic. Several murmurs run through the crowd.

The Prince stands up at the same time I do, and he sees me, several rows behind the other journalists. Our eyes lock for one intense second. We share our confusion, dismay, and utter shock before dad rolls out of his chair and goes crashing down on the podium.

Everybody jumps out of their seat, searching for a better view, chattering away. Cameras snap, hyenas feasting on daddy's suffering. Several swarms of guards flood the stage, surrounding my father and the Prince, one carrying a small white box with a red cross on its side.

I can't see what's happening. My heart races, and I try to push forward, shuffling through the purple rope separating the media from the interview stage.

The kingdom's official cameras have got to be off by now. Even if they aren't, it's too late to worry about embarrassing myself or my dad any further, when he's up there seizing up, sick or dying or maybe both.

I don't bother with the tiny staircase. I move right past it before anybody can notice and haul me away. My hands clench the edge of the podium, and I pull myself up, cursing the skirt I'm wearing for tangling up when my leg finally gets enough leverage.

Somehow, I manage it, without getting yanked away by the guard. My eyes turn to dad and the little crowd hunched around him, barking orders back and forth in that rich, regal accent that's becoming chalkboard on my ears.

“Hurry, boys, hoist him up! Get this man the hell out of here. I want an ambulance out front in the next sixty seconds.”

No, I can't just stare. I have to move.

One step forward, and my fucking heel catches on the stage's edge, throwing me backward. It's a long enough fall to do some damage if I slip, so I throw my weight forward.

I don't know what's worse. The fact that my dad is having a stroke or a heart attack right in front of me, or that these stupid, stupid shoes are twisting my ankle, sending me crashing to the floor next to him.

There's no time to brace for impact. Next thing I know, I'm falling, face first into the podium's hard black surface. I wonder if I'll get to share a room at the hospital with dad when I break something.

But I don't hit the surface. Something catches me, yanks me back, saving me from hitting the floor.

Make that two big somethings.

Hands. Thick, strong, determined, and locked around me.

Blinking back the dizzying confusion, I open my eyes. Prince Silas' dark blue irises widen when they see my face.

Like my heart wasn't already beating a hundred miles an hour. I'm lost for words.

Any words.

He's holding me in his arms like we've just done the last move in a fiery dance. His fingers press into my skin, tense and surprised, but completely unshaken. In control.

What the hell does a woman say when she's literally been swept off her feet by one of the most powerful, handsome, and arrogant men in the world? A man I'd scoffed at every time he showed up in the tabloids or in clickbait on the web?

The Prince, the heir to the throne, who's probably laid the female population of a small country. The Prince, with those ridiculously deep, beautiful blue eyes that are always saying fuck me.

And right now, they're trained on me.

Me, Erin Warwick. Intern. Nobody. Damsel in distress.

She, with the worst heels in the world. Him, with the icy, dominating eyes a woman could lose herself in forever.

“That's my father!” I stammer, trying to explain, hoping I'm not about to get tasered and thrown to the floor when the royal guards catch up to me.

“Don't move, love,” he says, never breaking eye contact. “Everything's going to be fine.”

Easy for you to say, I want to tell him. But I can't find the words.

Everything starts spinning again. This time, it's got nothing to do with the crappy shoes. I'm on the verge of blacking out.

“Stay with me,” Prince Silas growls, his fingers pressing harder in my skin.

Dad groans, several feet away, reminding me why I'm up here, mysteriously thrown into a Prince's arms by my own clumsiness in these God forsaken heels. They're starting to move him.

Wait, damn it – dad! I have to follow him. I have to –

I never get a chance to do anything. The guards I've been expecting surround us, but the Prince holds one hand up, telling them to stand down. His hands tighten on me one last time.

One on my shoulder. One against my lower back, holding me up, helping me back on my feet.

“See that she has a ride to the Royal hospital, and wherever she'd like to go after that,” Silas snaps, looking away from me at last.

I'm barely able to stand on my own without collapsing again. Thankfully, I don't have to support my own weight for long.

“Right this way, madame.”

Several guards tug sternly, but gently on my arms, leading me down the stairs, right behind the entourage that's ferrying dad away.

Just a few minutes later, I'm outside the palace, led down the hundred marble steps, and into one of the sleek black sedans below. A man sits next to me in the back. The driver stomps the gas as soon as my seat belt is on, without saying a word.

I'm grateful for the silence. I hate it, too, because it lets me think. Exactly what I can't afford to do just yet.

I won't let myself comprehend what a complete disaster this is until I know dad's going to be okay.

* * *

A couple hours go by just waiting. Then, I'm in his room, staring at my father laying feebly in bed. It's a tiny, clean, white chamber. Sterile looking. Maybe just a little more stylish than the bland, depressing places I'd find back home in LA.

Nobody ever said the kingdom didn't have a great medical system. Its reforms and upgrades were personally encouraged by Her Majesty, whose reign has always turned a lot of attention to her subjects' health and wellness.

That's what the Wikipedia article says, anyway, something I lazily gloss over while I wait for dad to wake up.

His hand feels so cold in mine. Whatever they've given him, he's out like a light.

It's early morning the next day, and I haven't slept a wink. We're both waiting for the initial test results to come in.

They've checked his heart, done several x-rays, and determined there's no need for immediate surgery. I'm not sure if that's good news, or a sign there's something worse lurking in his system. Something much harder to fix.

Morning light drifts over us, somber as it is bright. I'm starting to drift off myself, when dad finally groans. He sits up while my grip tightens on his hand, easing him awake.

“Christ. Feels like I got hit by a damned freight train. How long was I out, Erin?”

I shrug. “All night. It's early morning now.”

Dad reaches up, running a shaky hand across his face. About a second later, his eyes stretch huge, and suddenly his fingers tangle around mine.

“The interview – shit!” He pauses, like it takes the full horror several seconds to set in. “I blew it, didn't I? Jesus Christ.”

“Don't think about that now, daddy!” I lean in, stroking his fingers, kissing him softly on the forehead. “You need to get some more rest. There'll be plenty of time to sort out what happened later with the palace, I'm sure.”

I hate having to lie to him.

He knows damn well nobody gets second chances in this business after a meltdown like that.

Maybe the Warwick name will salvage his career, carrying him to new prospects. But as far as I'm concerned, we probably won't hear a word from the royals, except when they're going to send us on our merry way with impersonal wishes for good health.

“Fuck.” Dad slumps back in his bed, pulling his hand from mine. The IV in his arm stretches as he rubs his eyes.

My heart sinks like a stone. He isn't really...crying...is he?

Oh, God.

“Dad, no,” I say gently, wondering if there's any combination of words to ease the dagger cutting through him. “Work doesn't matter. You have to get well. That's the only thing worth worrying about right now. Whatever else is on your mind, forget it. Don't let it take over. Turn it off. You're a smart man. You'll bounce back from this...all of it. You've got more experience and connections than anybody else in this business. The world won't end just because you need a little time off, I promise. Dad, I –“

“Erin...” he cuts in, a defeated expression turning his face gray. “Shut up.”

I do.

Hell, I don't know what else to do. I've never seen him like this.

His rudeness hurts, but I try not to let it get to me. Standing up, I walk toward the window, staring out into the early sunrise.

The hospital overlooks a ragged shore, where the wind sends foamy waves crashing against the rocks. My hands become fists at my sides, and the only thing that keeps running through my mind is that I have to forgive him.

He isn't in his right mind.

He's hurting.

We don't even know what's wrong.

I won't let myself cry – not even when I hear him gently snoring again after a couple minutes pass.

Holding in tears is worse than anger. They sting my eyes, my soul, make me question everything about why I'm standing in this foreign hospital after watching my father's career self-destruct, waiting to find out how much longer we need to stay here before we jet back to the States, completely humiliated.

There's a TV in the corner. It's been muted since the moment I stepped in, and now the early morning programs are starting. I see two prim reporters at their desks, smiling, going through the latest news on the continent.

Another bailout coming in the Eurozone. Something about nuclear security in Belgium, and then a thirty second segment on military drills near the Russian border.

Then another headline. The one that twists the knot in my belly and the rock in my throat at once without mercy.

BOMBSHELL INTERVIEW! PRINCE GOES FROM HOT WATER TO HERO!

Turning nervously to make sure dad's still asleep, I look up at the screen, that anger in my eyes beginning to pour out in hot, salty streams down my cheeks.

I see it all again.

The painful look on dad's face before he rolled out of his chair, collapsing in front of the Prince.

The swarm of security and paramedics. Panic. Commotion.

A flash of myself jumping onto the stage, my hair a mess, lunging to save myself from toppling off the ledge. I'm less than a foot from planting the ground face first when Prince Silas grabs me, jerks me up, straight into his arms.

Jesus, it looks even more picture perfect seeing it in the third person, like something from a movie. They didn't bother capturing anything after that, the long, awkward stare between us, how I gazed into his deep blue eyes.

The footage cuts off. I storm over to the TV, lean up on my tippy toes, careful not to let these overly tight heels screw me over again. I punch the off button, without bothering to give the other dramas and kids shows from Saint Moore and Europe a chance to take the edge off.

I'm pissed. Hurt. Worried.

Scared.

There's another chair in the corner, and that's where I park my unsettled ass for what seems like the next hour. I wish to God I hadn't flipped on that stupid program.

I should be thinking about dad, brushing off his outburst.

Instead, I'm thinking about the Prince. The first and last time I'll ever be close to him. The way he held me – firm, but gentle. Almost like a decent man should.

Sure, the media was eating up the drama, recasting it as a heroic spectacle.

I wasn't fooled. Even utter bastards can be gentleman in the right time, right place.

Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if Silas drove off the second we were gone, straight to his little mistresses. Maybe that flashy club for royalty and multimillionaires he owns, the one I've read about on the trashy blogs, hosting parties for the most eligible supermodels in Europe.

His own private hunting grounds for sex.

My hand reaches for my phone. I'm about to pull it up, and read more gossip about Prince Not-So-Charming for reasons I don't even understand, when the door pops open. The noise wakes dad, and he groans, sitting up in bed while the visitor enters.

A tall man in a white coat with salt and pepper hair steps in. “Ah, you must be Miss Warwick, I presume. So glad you're here so I can update you both on the news. I'm Doctor Jameson.”

The physician rounds the bed, standing next to dad, and begins pulling something from a manila folder. I'm studying his face. It isn't hard to notice the complete lack of any pleasantries or warmth.

He's serious business. And serious is never good when it comes to medicine.

“Mister Warwick, there's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to come out with it. We've found a shadow near your pancreas in scans.”

My ears start ringing, and his voice fades out. A shadow? A shadow?! What the hell does that mean?

“Shadow?” My dad repeats, just as confused as me.

The doctor holds up three x-rays on a sheet, and begins going through them, pointing at the areas in question.

“Yes, an unusual growth, of sorts. Not benign. We'll know for certain once your labs come back. Regardless, it's something we'll need to deal with shortly.” The doctor pauses, straightens his spectacles, before he goes on. “Regrettably, it's near a nerve cluster that's likely to cause intense nausea and a shock to the system that stresses the heart. That's why you had the attack yesterday. The good news is, it's fully operable. I'm recommending surgery soon, once you decide whether you'd like to have it done here in Saint Moore, or back home.”

“Home,” dad says, without a second's hesitation. “Don't want to spend a second longer on this damned island than I really need to.”

Doctor Jameson's face tightens. Dad gives him a sour look and mutters an apology.

“It's okay. He's been under a lot of stress,” I say weakly, looking at the physician.

“Yes, yes, I understand. Well, the two of you ought to talk things over and try your very best to remain calm. We'll have more news for you this evening. Assuming this isn't anything to really be concerned about beyond the surgery, we can have it done in under a week, wherever you choose. The Warwick Report can be back on the air in no time at all.”

“No, I'm taking time off,” dad snaps, his eyes going dark. “Whatever the outlook here.”

I want to reach out, squeeze his shoulder, but I know him too well. He's always been so high strung, the sort of man who has zero tolerance for failure.

“And if there's more to worry about?” I ask, fighting to ignore the sickly feeling building deep in my stomach.

“We'll deal with that scenario when it's on the table.” He collects the x-rays and shoves them back in his folder. “I have some other business to attend to. Rest assured, Miss Warwick, your father is getting the very best care here. Not just because it's our duty, but because His Highness himself has requested extra attention to detail.”

“The Prince?” I squeak, doing a double take. “Why?”

“I don't know. He didn't divulge any further details, madame. He's requested nothing but the best to handle your father's case by name. Since I'm at the top of this field available at the royal medical center, well, here I am. Suffice it to say, His Highness cares very greatly about all his guests, and he's deeply sorry for the trouble your father ran into the other day.”

“Trouble my ass.” Dad snorts, tips his nose up, and rolls over, facing away from both of us. “He can't possibly be more sorry than I am. Believe me.”

“If you'll excuse me...” Doctor Jameson looks at the door awkwardly.

I nod, and he's gone without another word.

As soon as he's out, I take the chair next to the bed. Dad never turns around to face me, drifting off yet again after a few minutes.

I don't know if I should be grateful he's getting his rest, or worried about his dark attitude.

Just now, my own exhaustion catches up to me. Turning in the chair, I tuck my head against the back, and close my eyes.

Prince Silas Bearington, and the fact that he might know me by name, is the last thing on my mind.

* * *

I don't have a clue how long I'm asleep. It seems like evening by the time I'm awakened by a light tap on the shoulder.

Looking up, I see Doctor Jameson standing over me, his face more grim than before. “Miss Warwick, could I speak to you outside for a moment, please?”

“Of course,” I say, looking down at dad, still fast asleep in his nest of tubes and bedding.

I follow him out and watch as he closes the door gently behind us. We're alone in the long corridor, where it's eerily quiet. I take one look at his face and know I'm about to get bombed.

“What is it? What's wrong?” My heart moves ten times faster than my lips, pure adrenaline in every pulse.

“Your father's growth is cancerous, Miss Warwick. A rare, aggressive cancer. Very difficult to eradicate in this area. Something I've never seen.” He pauses, as if he needs to stoke his bedside manner, to prevent cold scientific fascination from taking over. “I'm very sorry.”

That's it then. Cancer.

What was that word he used again? Aggressive?

I'm devastated.

Or else, I should be. The weird thing is, I just feel numb, standing there underneath the bright white lights overhead while the doctor waits for some kind of reaction.

“How does this change things?” I ask softly.

“He'll need additional treatment, of course. If it were up to me, I'd recommend a full round of chemotherapy immediately after surgery, a regimen we call...”

I'm listening, but all the terminology washes over me. So does the pain, the disappointment, the sad realization our nightmare isn't over. I thought the worst was behind us when dad collapsed during his interview, and I fell into the royal bad boy's arms.

No, it's only beginning. I couldn't be more wrong.

“Let me assure you once again, Miss Warwick, your father is more than welcome to make full use of our facilities and expertise. We have plenty of experience working with American insurance. But just between you and me...” He pauses, looking around, and leans in when he's sure nobody else is around. “I told you this is rare. We have our own research wing, yes, and we're doing well, all things considered. However...we can't make miracles happen. If it were me, I'd go abroad. Opt for something more experimental. Only the best of the best.”

Experimental? Abroad? Obviously, he's used to dealing with billionaire royals who never think twice about their finances. Even more obvious he doesn't have as much experience working with insurance as he let on.

Despite his success, daddy isn't a rich man.

He's done well as a journalist, sure. He's comfortable. But his last divorce took him to the cleaners not so long ago.

He barely has the money for globe trekking and time off if he wants to keep his condo. Let alone for things like experimental treatments abroad.

“I don't know if we can afford it,” I say, trying to stop the anger from creeping into my voice.

Doctor Jameson cocks his head, quickly scratching his nose. He looks at me like I've lost my mind.

I still can't believe it. How a perfectly normal trip, the highlight of dad's career, has turned into this.

“Well, you certainly don't have to decide now, Miss Warwick,” the doctor says reassuringly. “You have time – a little time – before any difficult decisions need to be made. Know that they do need to be decided in a timely manner, though. As soon as you're able, if I'm frank. The quicker you move against this sort of the thing, the better his chances.”

God. The people on this island all seem to have a way with being 'frank.' They're too honest, everybody from Prince Playboy to his subjects, and always in that haughty not-quite-English accent that makes me want to slap them across the face.

You can't get angry, I tell myself. For dad's sake.

“I understand,” I lie, right before a new worry takes over. “Should I tell him the news?”

“No, no, that's my responsibility,” he says, surprise flashing in his eyes. “We'll let him rest awhile longer. I'll make the rounds later today, and inform him when he's awake. Better to get the shock out of the way so both of you can begin running through your options in earnest. I'll bring you more details about the experimental option, if you'd like. Now, if you'll excuse me...”

You have no idea. I'd love to excuse you, Doctor Dick, and this whole stupid, pompous island.

I'd love to excuse my father's cancer, his heartbreak, and these brutal heels still attached to my feet.

Raw emotion paralyzes me while he disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone.

Slumping against the wall, I try to hang onto the anger, the frustration. It's the only thing that's stopping me from breaking down into an ugly crying fit right here.

That's twice as hard to hold back when I realize just how achingly alone I'm about to be. More lonely than I've ever been in my entire life once dad starts to go through treatment.

Not to mention if it doesn't work. If, God forbid...

No, I won't let myself think the rest.

I won't let myself cry.

I definitely won't let the scream I'm holding in out, even though it's tearing me to pieces.

Several people walk past, nurses holding charts, slinging medical jargon back and forth. It's just another day for them, and why shouldn't it be?

They belong in this twisted fairytale kingdom where even the Prince is bad when he isn't playing hero for the cameras.

I want to go home. I want to help dad get well. And then, I never want to hear about Saint Moore or any of the royal assholes running this place ever again.

They've brought nothing but terrible luck into our lives.

When I finally force myself to move, retreating to his room, my right foot is so numb it almost drags across the floor. My heel catches, and I barely stop myself from tripping yet again.

I have to be more careful. I definitely need to pick some better shoes.

There's no Prince waiting for me if I stumble again. And there damned sure isn't a glass slipper at the end of all this suffering. There's no reward, no magic, except my father's survival.

I'll do anything to make sure he's got a fighting chance.