Nate drives aimlessly for five minutes, and then he seems to make up his mind about a destination. He doesn’t say a word. The man always understands when I’m not in the mood for chatter, and he’s known me long enough to know intuitively where to go when I’m having one of my moods.

Ninety minutes later, we’re pulling into Forestbridge, a quaint fishing village on the shore of a massive lake. It’s the kind of place even a crown prince can go without getting mobbed by the media.

That general depiction of the media may be a bit callous and undeserving. With a few exceptions—that idiot climbing the palace wall immediately comes to mind—the media in Saintland are a different animal from the rabid paparazzi in the United States. Even when the news broke about my fight with Marcus and everyone in the country was talking about it, the television reporters never left their designated spot outside the palace. The photographer who climbed the wall had his credentials revoked immediately. His punishment would have been far greater except, I found out later, he had not been arrested for trespassing on palace grounds at Marcus’s urging.

Still, Forestbridge is a haven. It’s a town with more pubs than churches, which makes it the perfect destination for a prince on the run from the weight of his own jackass behavior.

Even if it was, ultimately, the right thing to do.

But was it?

That line of thought is interrupted as Nate parks the car by the curb in front of the first of the five or six pubs we’d eventually visit in Forestbridge that day, moving on whenever the mood struck us.

It’s late afternoon and I’m tired, still feeling the effects of the last pint, when we decide to walk out on the public docks in Forestbridge.

The summer light is golden and hazy, reflecting its vivid hues on the ripples of the water.

“That’s a beautiful sight,” Nate says admiringly, crossing his arms over his chest as a breeze plays over us.

“Can’t argue with you there.” It’s true; the lake is gorgeous. I’ve been desperate for this type of serenity since Marcus died and everything was thrown into chaos.

But there’s something missing, and I know exactly who it is.

Jessica.

It was a stupid thing I did earlier, saying those things to her. And I can’t take them back. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to make things right between us.

I’m gripped by a sudden and frantic urgency. I reach out and slap Nate on the shoulder, turning quickly away from the picturesque lakeside scene. “Let’s go.”

“Where to this time?” He hurries to match my stride.

“The palace.”

“Miss it already?” Nate jokes.

“Not a bit.”

He catches my meaning and walks faster.

Soon we’re back at the car and I slide into the back seat. Ninety minutes will be an eternity, but then I’ll be with Jessica again, and we can sort all of this out.

Nate drives at the very outer edge of the speed limit all the way back to Sainthall. The royal town car, with its flags flapping harshly in the breeze, didn’t draw more than a few sidelong looks in Forestbridge—they pride themselves on treating everyone equally there—but in Sainthall, the sight of the royal vehicle parts traffic like the Red Sea. For once, it pays to be the prince.

I ignore everyone as I race my way up to the third floor of the palace, my impatience finally getting the best of me. I have to fix this. Or at least do everything in my power to try.

Jesus. Will I ever be finished getting myself into these situations?

The door to Jessica’s rooms is propped open. I burst inside, my heart pounding painfully, desperate to see her.

Her rooms are a hive of activity. There are people coming and going, and at first I can’t understand what the hell is going on. Then I see Claire in the center of it all, directing two assistants, their arms full of clothing.

“Anything unworn, hang it back on the racks. Then—.” She breaks off as she sees me, dipping her head, fire in her eyes. “Your highness.”

“What’s going on here?” I demand.

Claire claps her hands twice, and the motion in the main room comes to a stop. “Give us a minute,” she says, and within seconds everyone has filed out into the hall leaving us alone.

“Claire,” I say, cold fear mixing with hot anger in my chest. “What in the name of God is happening here? Did Jessica go back to the Diamond Circle?”

The woman I hired to be Jessica’s companion and personal assistant squares her shoulders in a steely stance. “She’s gone back to the United States, your highness.”

“What?” The anger goes white-hot, spiking through my gut, making my stomach clench. I feel as if I might vomit. “When?” My voice comes out as a low growl.

“Her flight left an hour ago.”

Claire isn’t backing down, and when I see her rigidity, my first instinct is to lash out, shout at her, and tell her she’ll never work in Sainthall Palace again.

Then it finally dawns on me. This is exactly the kind of shit that gets me in trouble in the first place. With Marcus, with my father—every single time I’ve been hurt, resentful, pissed off, I’ve let my emotions get the best of me.

It also occurs to me that Jessica likely couldn’t leave the country without help from someone, and it would have been next to impossible for no one to notice her leaving the palace to go to the airport, yet no one alerted me. Claire must have helped her. As my employee, she shouldn’t have done that without consulting me first.

Yet how can I blame Jessica? After the things I said to her, it’s no surprise she felt her only option was going back to New York City.

And this isn’t Claire’s fault for helping her leave.

It’s mine.

All mine.

I’m the one who did this.

Defeated, I blow my breath out through my lips, then turn my attention back to Claire. Her shoulders are braced. She’s waiting for me to yell at her. She’s waiting for the characteristic Prince Alexander blowup.

Those days are over.

So are my days with Jessica.

“All right,” I say lamely, and her determine expression changes to one of confusion. “Go on with what you’re doing. Let me know when you’ve finished, and I’ll make sure you get reassigned to another position on the palace staff.”

“Thank you, your highness,” Claire says, bewildered. She’s speaking to my back. I’m already retreating, heading for the door and out to what can only be a lonely life.