I’m never going to be able to wear a bikini again. From this moment on, it’s a one-piece. Or maybe a tankini. We’ll have to see how well my scar heals.

I’m sure a lot of women would be devastated—rolling my eyes here—by the inability to strut their stuff in a revealing bikini, but I’m not. I’m just happy my transplant was a success. Because I only received a partial liver, there’s far less risk of my body rejecting it.

So far, so good. 

Today marks the one-week anniversary of the surgery. I’m finally out of isolation, which means people can visit me without wearing masks, gloves, and paper gowns.

Dr. Barchon says I’m recovering ahead of schedule. It’s amazing how much better I feel, though I’m still sore.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my hospital suite, I study the scar that crisscrosses my stomach, just under my ribs. It looks like an upside-down T, at least eight inches wide and ten inches tall.

No one promised the surgery wouldn’t leave a mark, and I consider it a badge of honor. If anyone ever asks me about it, I’ll just tell them the T stands for Tessa. 

I wonder if Leo has the same scar. His room is right next to mine, but I haven’t seen him or talked to him.  

It’s impossible to think of Leo as His Royal Highness or Prince Leo now. I’m not sure why. Maybe because he saved my life. Maybe because there’s a piece of him inside me now.

My memories of the time right before the surgery are hazy—all except those of Leo. I remember being flat on a gurney as it was wheeled down the corridor. I remember turning my head when another gurney slid past. I remember seeing Leo’s face and seeing my reflection in his obsidian eyes.

I remember reaching for his hand and trying to hold on to his fingers as our gurneys took us in opposite directions. I remember mouthing “thank you” to him, but I don’t know if he caught my words or remembers them.

After the surgery, when I came out from under anesthesia, I was desperate to know how Leo was doing, but no one would tell me. They all said: Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.

Finally, Dr. Barchon told me that Leo’s surgery had gone well. He explained that he couldn’t say anything more because it would violate Alsania’s health privacy laws. But that didn’t stop me from asking about Leo.

On the third day after the surgery, the day nurse, Mena, mentioned her neighbor—a handsome man who lives next door. She said this man helped a woman renovate her house, and he was very tired and sore afterward. Since I was doped up on pain meds, it took me a moment to figure out that she was feeding me information about Leo by talking about her invented neighbor.

According to Mena, Leo is healing faster than expected and scheduled to be discharged from the hospital tomorrow. I can’t let him leave without telling him how grateful I am.

I hear the phrase “announcement from the royal family” drift from the TV hanging from the wall. Letting my gown fall around my hips, I maneuver in front of the screen. King Carlo is there, standing behind a podium and looking a lot like his older son.

“I have a brief statement to make about Prince Leo,” he says.

Even though I know Leo’s fine, my legs feel a little wobbly. I drop down on the side of the bed with my eyes fixed on the TV.

“As many of you know, Prince Leo recently registered to be an organ donor. He was a perfect match for someone who needed a partial liver transplant. Last week, he underwent surgery to remove roughly sixty percent of his liver, which was then transplanted into someone who would have died without it. He and the recipient are both doing well. As soon as Prince Leo is feeling up to it, he will address the Alsanian people. My family and I appreciate your thoughts and prayers for his continued recovery. Thank you.”

King Carlo exits the room, and the news anchor takes the screen. As she discusses the king’s bombshell announcement, I tune her out.

I wonder why the royal family decided to disclose this information now. Were they concerned the news would be leaked and wanted to get ahead of it?

I hear a knock on the door a moment before it opens. The first thing I see is Mena’s backside, covered in hot pink scrubs, followed by a medical cart.   

Mena is Turkish, but she moved to Circo when her husband’s company transferred him ten years ago. She loves Alsania and is a huge fan of the royal family.

“Tessa, my love, how are you feeling today?” she asks, flicking her long gray braid over her shoulder.

“Stronger.”

“Your body’s getting stronger, but you’ve never been weak.”

That one sentence explains why Mena is not only my favorite nurse but one of my favorite people. It’s easy to get attached to someone who takes such good care of you.

The thought of not seeing Mena every day saddens me. Tears burn my eyes, and I blink them away. Dr. Barchon assured me that it’s normal to be more emotional during recovery than I usually am.

After Mena checks my IV and incisions, she logs onto the computer built into the wall. While she records my vitals, I shrug on my robe.

“How’s your neighbor today?” I ask, code for How’s Leo today?

“I just saw him.” The dark skin around Mena’s eyes crinkles as she smiles. “He’s much better. Hungry all the time. And cranky. I think he’s bored.” Her smile widens. “When we’re finished, why don’t you take a little walk down to the recreation room?”

I stare at her for a moment. “Is your neighbor going to be there?”

Mena nods. “He probably could use some company.”

The beep that tracks my pulse increases. The thought of seeing Leo makes my heart beat faster. I can’t hide my response when a machine is monitoring my vital signs.

A little laugh gurgles out of Mena. “Make sure to brush your hair before you go.”

Five minutes later, I shuffle down the corridor in my slippers. There’s not a lot of activity in this part of the hospital, which is designated for VIP patients. Except for the antiseptic smell, it feels like a luxury hotel.

The portable IV pole barely makes a sound as it rolls across the flooring. It looks like distressed oak planks, but it’s really porcelain tile. I pass several framed paintings by a couple of famous Alsanian artists. I’m fairly certain they’re not reproductions.

I should be on a different floor—one where non-VIP patients recover. But Mena told me that Leo demanded that I be placed in the room next to him.

What Prince Leo wants, Prince Leo gets. Must be nice.

Finally, I arrive at the recreation room. Furnished with oversized brown leather sofas and chairs upholstered in muted plaids and florals, it reminds me of a country home.

A big-screen TV hangs on one wall, the channel tuned to a muted cooking show. Another wall features a massive aquarium filled with colorful fish and a dark bookcase stuffed with paperbacks and board games. 

Leo is sitting in one of the armchairs, doing nothing except staring off into space. Every breath of the air seems to rush from my lungs when I see him. His head jerks up at the sound, and our eyes connect across the room.

He doesn’t look anything like the perfect, polished prince I met ten days ago. His hair has grown out a bit. It’s kinda messy ... kinda sexy. Inky stubble shadows his jaw and surrounds his mouth.

My eyes lock on his lips as they stretch into a gorgeous smile that shows just the edge of his white teeth. I can’t help thinking, if this is what he looks like when he smiles, I never want to see him frown again.