The motorcycle rips into the parking lot of the hospital. It's the only thing there that's still moving. Most of the cars are older. There are no actual spaces open. Thankfully, Matt's bike doesn't need to get into a parking spot. He pulls it into one of the striped sections where there aren't any cars.

 

An ambulance is going off. The sirens seem dull in comparison to the crashing of his own heart. Matt almost knocks the bike down when he gets off it. His helmet—a recent addition to the outfit—hits the ground.

 

His boots pound against the pavement. He races into the front lobby of the hospital. Harmony Grove Medical Center is a strange thing because it's too big compared to the other buildings around it. It's the only hospital in the tri-county area, and the parking lot is always full. The waiting room is always packed.

 

Right now, the front lobby seems crowded. The walls are white. The floor is white. It reeks of disinfectant, the sort of bitter clean that burns the back of Matt's throat. A plump, older woman sits behind the counter. Her shirt is covered in kittens, and she has makeup plastered on her face that is three shades too dark.

 

“Hello,” she says in a sickly sweet voice. “What can I do to help you, young man?”

 

Matt puts both hands on the counter. “I'm looking for my wife, Victoria.”

 

“Can I get a last name?”

 

It's a horrible moment, to be so worked up you can't even remember your last name. Matt's mind has suddenly gone completely blank. He stares at the nurse like she's just asked him the answer to the world's greatest, most ridiculous question.

 

The nurse gives him a smile. She has dark purple lipstick smeared over her front teeth. Her fingers are already click-clacking on the keyboard. “Just give me a second. What's she in here for? An accident?”

 

“Fuck,” spits Matt. “She's having a baby. She's having our baby!”

 

This is the right hospital, isn't it? They were supposed to go to a different one, but their impromptu road trip changed things around.

 

There's this dreadful moment of silence. It presses down on Matt's shoulders. He leans onto the counter, even though he knows getting closer won't get him answers any quicker. “Please, just tell me where the maternity ward is!”

 

“On the third floor,” answers the nurse. “Sign in there. Someone should be able to tell you what’s going on.”

 

Matt spits out a thank you, but he's already made it halfway across the room. The elevator takes too long and requires too much standing still. He races up three flights of stairs instead and bursts into the maternity ward as a huffing, puffing mess.

 

Meg greets him. She throws her arms around Matt's neck and says, “I was worried you weren't going to make it!”

 

“What did I miss? Is she doing okay?”

 

“They say she's doing fine. Just—” Meg is cut off by the nearby hospital door opening. It's a doctor. He's wearing a pair of green scrubs.

 

The doctor asks, “Is there a Matt in the room?”

 

“That's me,” blurts Matt, racing over to the man. “It's Victoria, right? Is she okay? Is my baby girl okay?”

 

“Your baby girl?” The doctor laughs. “Sir, allow me to be the first to tell you you're now the proud father of a strong, healthy baby boy.”

 

“A boy,” echoes Matt, suddenly feeling numb. The entire world crashes down around him. He looks over his shoulder. “It's a boy! It's a boy!”

 

Meg screeches. She jumps up and down, clapping her hands. “It's a boy! A boy! Go see him; go see both of them!”

 

Matt turns to the doctor. “Can I?”

 

“Of course,” says the doctor. He escorts Matt through a hall of closed doors. Finally, he pushes over one labeled twenty-seven.

 

Inside, Victoria is stretched out on a bed. There's a white cotton sheet thrown over her body. Her face is still flushed, cheeks red. There's sweat matting her beautiful golden hair and a smile on her face that makes the entire world light up.

 

And in her arms, there's a swaddled baby boy. His cheeks are full. A few wisps of golden hair curl at the top of his head.

 

Victoria says, “You made it. Look, sweetie, it's your father.”

 

“Holy shit,” says Matt. He walks over to the bed and sits down on the edge of it. Matt brushes his fingers over Victoria's forehead, runs them down the side of her cheek. “We've got a baby boy.”

 

“I know we only had girl names picked out. I waited to choose a name for certain until you got here.”

 

“Thanks, sweet cheeks. Damn, you look so perfect right now.”

 

Victoria laughs. “I look horrible, and I know it. Now, quit with your flattery! This little fellow needs a name.”

 

Matt asks, “Did you have something in mind?”

 

“Yeah, actually. I was thinking George.”

 

“George. That's pretty princely.”

 

Victoria smiles. “My parents might have cut me off, but they never went through proper channels to disown me. Technically, this little fellow is a prince.”

 

“Then George it is,” says Matt agreeably. He picks up the baby, holding him against his chest. “Hey there, little guy. I'm your daddy. I'm your daddy, and you are so damn perfect.”

 

# # #

 

The thing about stories is just that. They aren't real. Fairytales have perfect endings because they have been crafted for the ears of the young, for the craving minds of the inexperienced. It's made to soothe the hearts of children and to give you something to look for.

 

Victoria, she spent her entire life looking for her fairytale. In the end, she found something better than that. She found a biker boy and a family to fall back on.

 

And maybe even more important than any of that, she found herself. But right then, in that moment, things are okay. Fairytale endings come with money and gold and dragons slain. But real life never truly ends. George is three years old when Victoria finally gets up the gumption to start up her own fashion design company.

 

She takes all of the sketches she's made over the years and gains an investor in the first week. Princess Victoria's line of clothing is a big hit; it's the ritzy look made on a cheap budget—thrift store prices and Paris-chic looks.

 

She's so thrilled with herself, even though work is long. Today, for example, has Victoria working until almost eleven. She's the last one out of the building.

 

Marshall, the security guard, nods at her when she goes past. He says, “Have a good evening, ma'am.”

 

“Thank you, Marshall. You too. Enjoy the weekend.” Victoria smiles at him. She adjusts the strap on her art bag and heads for the car. Her heels clack against the pavement. There's no fear walking through here. There's nothing but steady comfort and a constant sort of peace. Bright lights leave the parking lot flooded.

 

Victoria gets into the driver's side of her golden Prius and smiles. “It's been a good day.”

 

Her feet hurt. She turns on the radio. It starts blaring some tune from a Disney show. It's a strange tune, but Victoria knows every word by heart. This is George's favorite station. The car smells like the McDonalds they got earlier in the week, a reminder that she needs to clean it out soon.

 

Three years, this sort of life is only starting to be normal. Three years of doing things for herself, which is only now becoming a comfort. There are no more dreams of the past, but there are memories.

 

The note, for example.

 

Victoria will never forget the note.

 

# # #

 

Gabriella has never gotten back in touch with Victoria. She's never met her grandson, never held him or spoken to him. It's sad, but only for the Queen. Times like this, on the long drive back to her apartment suite, Victoria almost pities her mother.

 

Being such a cruel woman, it must have been difficult to never have any real friends, never have anyone to fall back on. Now that Victoria can think about the subject with a mostly clear head, she often finds herself wondering if the Queen had always been like that, or if it was a position of power that had driven her to such horrible lengths.

 

Whatever the state, it was a fault that lay firmly on the shoulders of the older woman. She still sniffed in disdain whenever the news spoke about the Vertsean royal family.

 

And her father, well, he had never been a very outspoken man. It's no doubt why the couple has been able to mostly comfortably live together for all these years. They do what needs to be done, and he keeps his mouth shut, his gaze down.

 

He's never spoken to his grandson either.

 

At this point in her life, Victoria has come to terms with the fact that they most likely never will.

 

It takes almost an hour to pull into her own parking lot. This one is a little less brightly lit, but the security gate set up around it makes the comfort levels sky rocket. It's code activated, and the code changes every four months.

 

Victoria pops in the numbers without even having to think. She parks her car and then, almost giddily, heads into the main lobby. While she still lives in an apartment building, this one is a much better step up from the one that she and Matt used to share.

 

The elevator works in this building. Someone is always sitting at the front lobby. Most importantly, the entire place doesn't look like it's about to come crumbling down at any given moment.

 

The young woman sitting behind the front desk nods. “Evening, Victoria.”

 

“Now,” huffs Victoria, “I keep telling you, just call me Tori!”

 

“That's so impolite,” says the woman. Her name is Brenda. Brenda is short and plump, with a love for vintage clothing and her rainbow dyed hair shaved to the scalp on one half of her head, pulled into a braid on the other. She's a young thing that only just started working in the building.

 

It's her first job. If Brenda plays her cards right, Victoria has plans on asking her to babysit George in the near future. At the moment, Meg gets stuck with that job most of the time.

 

While Meg is a very good friend, she's also not the best at watching small children. Plus, this would be far more convenient and no doubt a boon to the teenager’s burgeoning responsibilities and sense of pride.

 

“It's only impolite if I say it is,” says Victoria. “Now, try again.”

 

Brenda rolls her eyes but humors the princess. “All right, fine. Evening, Tori.”

 

“That's better.”

 

“You seem to be working later every day.”

 

“Just for now.”

 

“Think things will change by the holidays?”

 

“I know they will,” says Victoria, smugly. “I'm the boss, after all!”

 

Brenda laughs, even though it wasn't much of a joke. She tugs at her braid. “The little one was down here earlier. He's just growing like a weed!”

 

“Yes he is,” says Victoria, agreeably. “Yes, he most certainly is.”