It took a surprising amount of self-control not to call Eva after she asked me to leave. I shouldn't have been so arrogant about my claims that one of her friends must have been responsible for the leak to the media. I was right and I knew it, but I shouldn't have been so insistent. I went to bed worried, but not overly so. We would talk it out when I saw her next. But then she didn't call the next morning. Or that afternoon, when I was informed that she'd left the apartment. After almost twenty-four hours of no contact, I couldn't stand it anymore and gave her a call. It went straight to voicemail. No big deal, I told myself, even as an odd and uncharacteristic hum of anxiety started up in my mind.

To distract myself, I walked down to the offices housed on the Pritchard Palace grounds, to do some paperwork Jason had been bothering me about for days. It ended up taking me about ten minutes. On the way back, I tried Eva again. Straight to voicemail again. Her battery probably died. But Eva was on top of that, all the time, due to her work. Where was she? Was she deliberately ignoring my calls? It didn't seem possible.

I tried her again about an hour later. And again the next hour and so on. It went to voicemail every single time. The last time, before I went to bed, I left a message.

"Eva, it's Killian. Please call me or text me. I'm worried about you. And I – uh, I miss you. So just – please, Eva, call me."

Fuck. I'd stumbled over telling her I missed her. Did it sound insincere? Jesus. I laughed out loud at myself – at the thoughts running through my head. Since when did I worry about things like that? Since never. No, that wasn't right. Since Eva James.

I went to bed at midnight, but didn't get to sleep until almost three as my mind ran like a hamster on a wheel, trying desperately to come up with scenarios that didn't involve her wanting nothing to do with me. The next morning, when I woke up, there were no messages. And I had a whole day of meetings and one engagement outside the Capital to get through. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It was in the car, on my way to my first meeting, that I found out she was gone. Dan had the radio on low volume but I caught my own name – and then what I thought was hers.

"Turn that up," I barked. Dan turned it up. And I caught the end of a conversation between the hosts of the show, mentioning clearly that Eva had been spotted the previous night at Hilldean – Rhenland's main international airport. For a few seconds, my brain just stopped working. It couldn't be. She couldn't be gone. Over a stupid little disagreement about who leaked to the press? That was ridiculous. No, there had to be some mistake. I yanked my phone out to check the news alerts and immediately saw two headlines confirming Eva had been seen at Hilldean. One of them had photos. It was her, snapped from a distance at one of the security gates in the departure terminal.

I sat back in my seat, not breathing, uncomprehending. No way. She couldn't be gone. Forget about me, she had a whole life in the Capital – friends, a good job. But she was gone.

"FUCK!" I shouted, suddenly enraged – at myself? At her? At something else? I didn't know. All I knew was that she had slipped away, without even telling me.

"Sir?" Dan asked, pulling over when I punched the window, remembering too late that the glass was bulletproof as pain shot up to my elbow - which only made me angrier.

"Take me back!" I yelled. "Take me back to Pritchard right now."

"But Sir, you have to be there in –"

I caught Dan's eye in the rearview mirror. "Take me," I panted, trying not to completely lose my shit, "back to Pritchard. Now."

Dan radioed the other drivers in the motorcade and did as he was told, returning me to Pritchard Palace. I stormed into my apartment and slammed the door shut behind me, immediately sinking to the floor with my head in my hands. How could she be gone? She was mine, wasn't she? What was I supposed to do without Eva?

I got up and went straight for the liquor cabinet – more of a liquor room at the Pritchard apartment – and grabbed a bottle of scotch, yanking the cork stopper out with my teeth and barely managing to pour myself a glass before downing it and pouring another. Stupid? Maybe. But I knew one thing for sure – I couldn't handle what was happening. I literally could not remain sober and deal with the fact that she was gone – and without even saying a word to me. Nope. That wasn't a thing I could accept. So I drank scotch until my legs felt a little unsteady, and then I drank some more.

* * *

It was still light out when I woke up with a pounding headache and a sour feeling in my stomach. I was also on the floor. A sense of deep self-loathing overtook me immediately upon consciousness. Twenty-nine years old – a Prince, yes, but still the kind of immature asshole whose only coping strategy appeared to be punching windows and alcohol consumption. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone, hoping against hope that there might be something from Eva. There wasn't. So in my hung-over state, I decided to call the one person who I knew would understand how I was feeling – Tristan. My best friend. The best friend I'd badly let down. He sounded happy enough when he picked up.

"Killian? What's up?"

"Hey, Tristan."

"Oh shit," he said, hearing my voice. "What's going on, man? You sound terrible."

I sighed and rubbed my bleary eyes. "Yeah, something's going on. And I suppose it would be a little too late – and a little too convenient – for me to apologize for the way I handled things with you and that Spanish girl."

"Isabella."

"Yeah, Isabella."

"You want to hear something funny?" Tristan asked cheerily. "Only if you promise to keep your big mouth shut – and that means with everyone, including my sister."

"Uh, sure." I hadn't really called Tristan to talk about his life, because my own was in a shambles and I was grasping at straws, but I was in no position to just launch into my own tale of woe right off the bat.

"I'm here with her right now. She's just in the – oh, no, here she is. Hello, beautiful! It's my friend Killian." There was some movement in the background and then a female voice from a distance. "Hola, Killian!"

I lay back down on the floor because even sitting halfway up was making my head hurt even more. "Wait," I said. "You're – Tristan, you're with her right now? Where are you? I thought your family –"

"Fuck my family. I mean, not really – but on this particular point? Yeah, fuck 'em. We're here in Majorca at the estate. Just us, I mean. What can I say? I'm done, Killian. I'm done pretending I don't love this girl, I'm done drinking myself half to death on a daily basis and making an ass of myself in front of everyone I know. I proposed three days ago. And get this – she said yes!"

I'm not sure I've ever heard Tristan sound so happy. But it was a lot of information to take in, and although he didn't sound drunk part of me still thought he might be. "But," I started, confused, "what about – Tristan, what about your father? You can't just –"

"Can't what? Can't propose to the woman I love? Can't be with her? Says who? Listen to me, Killian. I respect my family. I even love the rigid, hidebound fuckers. But if they want to force this – and hey, my father just might – I know what my choice is. I've already made it."

I paused, trying to take in what I was hearing. "So you – you're OK if –"

"If my dad cuts me out of the inheritance? If I have to give up the land and the houses and all the money? Yeah. I am. I know you're thinking this was some stupid, drunken idea on my part but it wasn't – I've been thinking about this for months. I'm their only son. If they want my children to go through life as regular people, so be it. Almost everyone else on this planet does. And what did my title ever get me? A great lifestyle, a first class education, yeah, that's true. But it also meant I had to abandon the only woman I've ever loved. And I've just decided I can't have that. I won't have it. You can come to the wedding if you like, I was going to call you anyway, but I understand if it's too much of a hot potato for you – as you can imagine, it's not going to be in Rhenland, and it won't be a society event."

"Uhhh..." I said, hardly believing what I was hearing. Tristan was making this decision? Tristan Smythson, the man I'd known since I was born, the one who practically broke out in hives at the mere thought of flying commercial? That Tristan? He was just going to give it all up, just like that, to marry the daughter of a pair of housecleaners?"

"I know what you're thinking," he said, laughing. "Believe me, I know. I can almost hear it. You think I'm crazy or drunk or both, right?"

"I, uh – Tristan, I don't know. This is huge news, I'm just taking it in."

"I'm not, for what it's worth. Crazy, or drunk. I'm not sure if I've ever felt more clarity in my life, to be honest. There's nothing like a stark choice to show a man who he is, is there? And let's be honest, neither you nor I have ever had to make any stark choices, have we? Not with our lives."

I chuckled. "I don't know, man. You don't know why I'm calling."

"Why are you calling? Sorry if I'm being rude – I haven't told anyone about this, not yet, and I'm kind of bursting with it, you know? But no, Killian, what's up?"

"Yeah," I began. "About those stark choices. Eva left. She went back to America – flew back yesterday, didn't even tell me. And now, now –" I broke off, horrified by the sudden lump that had appeared in my throat.

"Eva? That girl from the party, right? The one I was a total asshole to? Yeah, I think I saw her in one of the papers. Rumbled again, huh? You're free to come down here for a few days, if you need to get away – the weather's great."

I opened my mouth to respond, to explain, but I couldn't speak. If I spoke, it would be obvious how emotional I was. And best friends or not, Tristan and I were Rhennish. Overt displays of emotion – especially uncomfortable emotions – were just not something we did.

"Killian?" Tristan asked after a few more seconds of silence.

I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. "Yeah. That girl from the party –" My voice broke before I could go any further and I grimaced. "God fucking damnit, Tristan. Goddamnit. I –"

"Killian. Aw, shit. I didn't realize. Shit, we barely talk anymore. But if I'm understanding this correctly, you liked this girl? I mean, you liked this one?"

"Yes I fucking liked her!" I shouted, unable to keep the sound of tears – tears! – out of my voice. "Sorry. I'm sorry, man. I'm just sorry for what a callous asshole I was to you. I'm sorry we were all callous assholes to you. Because damn, I definitely understand now, you know? I understand. And yes, I liked her. I like her, I mean. Hell, I think I love her."

There was a pause on the other end. When Tristan spoke again his tone was serious. "Alright. You love her? Well, shit. You need to get the fuck out of the Capital. You need to get away from all those courtiers and advisors. You want to come down here? Yeah, come down here. Let's talk about this. I'll send the jet back up there right now, you can fly out of Capital Airport – no one will know."

I blinked and looked around the sitting room I was in as the pale Rhennish light poured in through the windows, making me wince, and a large, whiskey-colored stain dried into the rug near the door. Majorca. Yes. My best friend, the warm Mediterranean sunshine, no one in my face hounding me with self-interested advice. Yes.

"Yeah," I replied. "Yeah, that sounds good, man. That sounds – sorry, I'm a little drunk, still, and that's making me incoherent. What I'm saying is yes. Send the jet up. I'll get some stuff together and go right now."

"Right. Good man. I'll come pick you up when you land – call me when you take-off."

"Will do."

* * *

Two hours later I was on Tristan's private jet, sipping soda water and looking out over the tops of the clouds. The thought that had been lurking in the back of my mind, the one I had never even allowed myself to consider, had moved up a little closer to the surface. But it still didn't seem like one I could actually face, because it was impossible. And it was impossible. Wasn't it? I grew up thinking it was. Knowing it was. How does a person do that? Just reject everything they've ever known? Strength? What did I, the Prince of Rhenland, born into a life of privilege and luxury and automatic deference from everyone around me – know about strength?

But Eva was gone. The answer was right there, staring me in the face, and I still somehow couldn't bring myself to ask the question because there was a lifetime of pressure and 'truth' blinding me to it.

Tristan picked me up in one of his vintage sports cars – a baby blue convertible Triumph. I felt strangely awkward at first, embarrassed by my earlier display of emotions. "Nice car," I commented when we were on the road, zooming down the curving, narrow roads of Majorca. "What is this, the '58?"

"It's the '55," Tristan responded. "And you're my best friend, Killian. We don't have to make small talk."

I laughed – mostly at myself. "OK. Sorry. I'm just – dude, I feel like I'm losing my fucking mind. I don't know what to think and that's scaring the shit out of me."

But it was too windy and noisy to talk in the car so I just tried to relax for the rest of the drive. It was nice feeling the Majorcan sun on my face. And despite all the turmoil inside me, all I could think about was how much Eva would love it there.

Eva, Eva, Eva. There was going to be no getting that girl out of my mind.

When we got to the villa, Tristan introduced me to Isabella. She was short, with jet-black hair and a bright yellow sundress on. And there was no mistaking the way she looked at Tristan, with love and patience in her eyes. I recognized that look – it was the one I'd caught Eva giving me a few times, when she thought I wasn't looking. A pang of deep envy seized me as I watched them together in the kitchen, putting together a fruit plate and treating each other with the kind of tender solicitousness that made me ache for the girl from Oshwego.

We sat in deck chairs on the stone patio that looked out over the sea. Isabella offered me the fruit plate and, although I wasn't particularly hungry, I thought it was a good idea to eat something.

"You have love for this girl?" she asked me, in heavily-accented English. "Eva?"

I looked at Tristan and he shrugged. "Whatever I know, she knows, man. That's just how it is now. That's how it's going to be in the future, too. Besides, she's smarter than me, her advice will be better."

I grabbed a fat, red strawberry and bit into it, looking at Isabella. There was no reason to lie, so I didn't. "Yes," I said, slowly because I could feel the weight – the meaning – of the words as I spoke them. "Yes, I love her."

Surprisingly, the conversation ended there. Tristan and Isabella understood, without my having to tell them, that I just needed to be still with myself for a little while, to let the truth sink into my own head before I could even begin to talk about it. We stayed out there on the patio, chatting about fruit – much of which had come from Isabella's mother's garden, which I would have been interested in under any other circumstances – and various youthful adventures Tristan and I had got up to on the island.

In the end, after the sun had set and Isabella had gone to bed and the only sound was the insects buzzing in the pine trees, Tristan brought me a beer and looked me in the eye. "I don't even have to say anything, do I?"

"No," I conceded. "You're right, you don't. Holy shit. Just – holy shit, Tristan. How am I – how am I supposed to do this? To actually do this, I mean? Is there a handbook? Does it even matter if it all ends with my father murdering me?"

"I could blow smoke up your ass right now," he replied, "but the truth is, I'm fucking terrified. Not terrified enough not to do it, but still. And you're the Prince, Killian. You're the fucking Prince of Rhenland. This, if you do it, is going to be huge. It is going to be worldwide news. Are you ready for that? Is she?"

"I'm definitely not ready for it," I replied. "But it's true, what I said. I love her. If she's not ready for it then she can tell me to get lost – and maybe she will. I have to do it, though, don't I? I have to try."

Tristan gave me a look. "You don't have to do anything, you know. Well, you have to choose."

I looked out over the sea, where the last few pink rays of the sunset were playing over the waves. "I have chosen. I want her. And I think she wants me. I just never thought it would come to this, which if you think about it is kind of idiotic. Did I think the perfect upper class Rhennish girl was just going to fall into my lap on my thirtieth birthday? My parents are going to lose their minds. So is Charlotte. So is Eva, probably. She's angry at me because I told her it was one of her friends who leaked it all to the press, so there's that, too."

"It wasn't one of her friends, idiot. It was that simpering little twit Pinky – didn't you know that?"

I turned to Tristan sharply. "What?"

"Come on man, she's had it bad for you ages. Millie said she had a fucking meltdown after you showed up at that party with Eva on your arm, started threatening to call the papers. Everyone knows it was her – you've been holed up in your little love-bubble for weeks, you don't know what's been happening."

"Jesus Christ," I breathed. "Damnit. Really? It was Pinky? Well, that's one more thing I fucked up, then."

"I'm starting to get used to fucking things up," Tristan laughed.

"Yeah, me too."

I turned in at just past midnight, sensing that my friend wanted to be with his girl, but I laid awake in bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling while the gentle Mediterranean breeze blew in through the open windows. In the end, after playing out different scenarios in my head, it became clear that I just had to do it. I had to tell the truth. First, I had to go to Eva and tell her the truth to her face. Then, depending on whether or not she would have me, I had to tell my family the truth. After that, it was out of my control.

The next morning, as we drank fresh-squeezed orange juice on the patio, Tristan offered me the jet, to fly to America. To find the woman I loved. It was happening. I didn't have a single clue what I was doing and it didn't matter.

Later that day, the nervous buzz started up in my mind again as I watched the blue Atlantic, from the window of the jet, turn into the checkerboard farmland of America. And it didn't stop – it wouldn't stop, not until I saw her face.