ABIGAIL

I stumble up the stairs of the small jet, practically climbing them on my hands and knees, and the stewardess helps me through the door. As she presses a series of buttons to pull up the steps, I pause to catch my breath, bent over, sucking in air. After a moment I realize the only sounds are my ragged breath and the low whir and clicks of the stairs sealing into place.

The silence inside the small plane is too heavy to be anything but intentional. I gather myself, straightening my shirt and brushing my windswept hair behind an ear, before I look up in order to make my way down the narrow aisle to my seat.

It only lasts half a second, but in that short span of time, every head on the plane is pointed in my direction, mouths hanging open, eyes staring at me. Then, as one, the passengers snap to and look away, entering back into conversations or opening a paperback.

“Right this way, ma’am,” the stewardess’s hand touches the small of my back, guiding me to my seat. “If you can get buckled quickly, please — the tower has signaled we’re next for takeoff.”

With a start, I realize I’ve been standing in the aisle, frozen in a state of teenage stage-fright. I manage to put one foot after the other — my legs suddenly feeling heavy as concrete — and scoot past a large gentleman to take my seat at the window. Reality coming back into place, I quickly fumble for my seatbelt and snap it into place and cinch it down.

As soon as one stewardess is gone, there is another. Her eyes are kind, but there is no pity in her voice, and I bless her for that. Her Ostwyn accent is clear as she speaks softly. “Water or some reading material, Lady Strathmore?”

“Sure. Yes. Thanks.” She’s recognized me, and I should be displaying better manners, but short sentences are all I can manage to croak out to keep from bursting out in a fit of ugly crying.

She politely accepts my confusing answer without asking for clarification and hands over both, favoring me with a gracious smile before she turns to the front of the plane.

The condensation of the chilled water bottle is cold and wet in my hand, and I realize I’m parched. I twist the top off and suck down three big gulps. There, that’s a little better. As I lift the bottle again, I glance around. A dozen people are stealing peeks at me, curious sideways looks. When my eyes meet theirs, they look away, only to turn their head and stare again a moment later.

I wiggle my butt and draw in my shoulders, sinking as far down into my seat as a I can. Lowering my head, I clutch the paper and unfold it, ready to bury my face inside the pages. Just ignore the stares. It’s a long flight — they’ll grow tired of looking at you eventually.

One glance down at the paper, which is supposed to help take my mind off all this, if only for an hour, and I have to stifle a nervous chortle — the kind of exasperated laugh that wells up from the bitter irony of a situation you thought couldn’t get any worse, until it does.

The lead story is devoted to the closing ceremonies of the Grand Harvest Festival. It’s plastered across the entire front page — and no doubt many of the pages inside, too, but I have no desire to see it. I shake my head and begin to roll the paper up, planning to wedge it beside my seat so it’s out of sight for the rest of the flight. But a small teaser across the top catches my eye: The End of Prince Henry’s Royal Escapades? Page 9.

My fingers twitch nervously, plucking at the edge of the thin paper. Biting my lip, knowing I shouldn’t, I open the paper with a flourish and skip straight to page nine. The heading is repeated at the top of the page, and there he is, the Crown Prince in all his glory staring right back at me. They’ve chosen a flattering picture — but is there really any other kind of Henry? — and his Royal Highness, gorgeous and in full-color is staring at me from the page. His hair is tousled, his eyes hard and unwavering, three days of stubble on his strong jaw, and his lips are parted as though he’s going to speak — or to groan in that throaty rasp that sets my insides on fire.

Suppressing a whimper and ignoring the tingling pulse between my thighs, I graze over the columns, not having the fortitude to slowly digest every word.

For months, Prince Henry has been lying low, rarely seen in public.

In an unusual turn, there have been no reports of troublemaking or scandal…

Except for the crowds entering for the Grand Harvest Festival, not one of his former female favorites have been reported past the gates of Pridemore Palace.

…his attendance documented in the minutes of every daily Council meeting for months now…

Is it true that our Playboy Prince is finally settling down to his role as this nation’s rightful ruler?

In this journalist’s opinion, there is only one explanation of what can reform a notorious lady killer with a penchant for trouble...

...who is she?

My heart matches my stomach in a rather unsavory palpitation as I flip to the last page of the article. Bile rises as the cornucopia of women is laid out before me. He hasn’t been particularly picky. Prince Henry likes them in all varieties. Blonde, brunette, thin, plump, evening gowns and short sundresses.

Of all the women Prince Henry has been previously linked to, no recent events bring any contender to the front of the pack.

With his reformed ways, does the Crown Prince have his eyes on a new woman?

Has a dark horse captured the Prince’s heart?

I try not to let my eyes linger over the pictures of him with other women. I console myself with the fact that they all feature the long haired, stubble wearing version of Henry, from before, when he was still the notorious bad boy fighting in bars and leading wild parties, from before he sequestered himself at the palace this year.

Even... holy shit!

I hold the magazine page up to my face for closer inspection. That blonde. I’ve seen her. Not in real life, but in this exact same picture. A picture from the folder Mr. Kingston handed to me as he convinced me to choose that snake, Finley Prescott.

It’s the royal stables, but the trees outside the barn door — they don’t have fall leaves coloring them like they did in the photo from the folder. No, the trees in the press photo are barren, and there is a dusting of winter snow on the ground. Not only that, but Henry — he’s the same Henry in the captivating picture which leads the article — long, wavy locks and a three-day shadow of stubble across his jaw. Former Henry, not current Henry with his shorter, tousled hair and clean-shaven face.

I lower the paper to my lap with shaky hands as my stomach turns slowly and a wave of nausea hits me. My mind is racing so fast I can barely breath.

Would he? Would Mr. Kingston, my parents’ trusted advisor, would he deceive me? If he thought it was for the benefit of the Strathmore family, yes, I believe he would.

Panic takes hold of me as the plane begins to move. I look out the window and see that we’re taxiing to the runway. Adrenaline surges through me, raw and insistent. My stomach is churning relentlessly, and I unbuckle, ready to make a run for the small airplane bathroom.

The large man beside me is looking at me with incredulity and people are craning their heads to stare openly again, but I don’t care. My life’s been swallowed up by a lie, and my sensitive stomach can’t handle it.

As I twist in my seat, my left thigh rolls across something solid. I reach under my leg, and my hand closes around a small glass vial. The shape and feel of it is familiar, and I vaguely recall Henry pressing something into my hand before I ran away. I must have dropped it in the seat in my haste to get buckled quickly. What is it?

I pull my hand from under my leg and bring it up, opening my fist. Nestled in my palm is a small perfume bottle, an artist’s watercolor of a delicate Japanese honeysuckle blossom decorating the glass.

I’m aware of the breath leaving my lungs in a rush, but my tight throat makes it difficult to take in more. My palm is sweating, and the glass is warm as I grasp the graceful curves of the bottle in my fingers and turn it over. Two words are etched into the glass with swirling, elegant script.

Marry Me.

My body and my mind go numb. I stare at the words. My eyes burn, and I watch in dumb astonishment as my fingers begin to tremble. Then it all happens at once. A series of sobs convulse in my chest, burning there as they pile up. “Oh my God,” I gasp, and the sobs escape. I can feel the eyes of all the passengers on me once more.

There’s a sideways motion of the small plane turning onto the runway, rocking me back in the seat, and every nerve in my body leaps desperately into a flurry of action. “Stop!”

I fling the seatbelt the rest of the way off my lap and stand. The stewardesses at the front of the plane pop their heads from behind the curtain.

“Stop the plane!” I shout.

The woman who helped me up the steps purses her lips, and shakes her head. “Ma’am, you need to sit down and buckle right now, we’re about to take off!”

The other stewardess, the one with kind eyes who recognized me, looks back and forth between her colleague and I, but I can see it on her face — there’s nothing she can do.

I reach for my phone and scan through my contacts. There. Pierre. Henry slipped his number into my phone back when we were still sneaking around the palace, stealing away for private trysts and secret rendezvous whenever we could.

I punch out a hurried message. Get me off this plane!

Time ticks by in slow motion as I wait for a reply. The first stewardess has disappeared back behind the curtain, no doubt to inform the pilots of my disobedience, and the second stewardess is making her way down the aisle toward me, her faced furrowed with worry.

Come on, Pierre, please see my message.

I lurch forward slightly as the plane hits the brakes in a rather dramatic fashion. A mixture of angry and excited murmurs rise from the passengers.

My phone dings, and a laugh bursts from my chest with hysterical relief as I see Pierre’s reply — a big, yellow hand with the thumbs up gesture. The hardass Chief Royal Guard of Pridemore has texted me back in emoji. Who the hell would have thought?

The stewardess reaches my seat and gives me a concerned frown. “Are you okay, Lady Strathmore?”

I hold out a hand. “Yes. I’m fine. I’m great, actually! But I’m so sorry — I need to get off the plane.”

“I’m so sorry, but that’s not possible.”

The curtain at the front of the plane whips open, and the first stewardess glares into the cabin. She gives me a disapproving frown, then nods at her co-worker and jerks her head toward the exit.

Laughter bubbles up again before I clap my hand over my mouth. She waves me forward and works to open the cabin door.

As I make my way up the aisle, I dip my head, bowing to the other passengers with apology. “I am so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

I reach the exit and turn back to them with a wave, my lips breaking into a wide grin, joy bubbling up from my chest for the first time in ages. “Have a great flight!”

Is this what it feels like to be in love? Giddy and scared and ready to jump off a plane if they don’t hurry up with those damned stairs.

The first stewardess glares at me as the doorway unseals and the steps begin to lower. “You must be something special, darlin’. They’ve halted all ground traffic just for you.” There’s a snarl in her voice and she continues muttering to herself as we wait for the stairs to lower, but no amount of grumbling is going to wipe this grin off my face.

I bounce on my feet impatiently and as soon as the stairs are lowered enough to create an open wedge, I poke my head out and scan the tarmac. A company of black suited men burst from the airport, Pierre at the head, pointing toward the plane and speaking over his shoulder.

A hand appears on Pierre’s shoulder, and he’s pulled to the side, exposing Henry. The plane’s steps finally touch the pavement, and I skip every other one as I stumble down them.

When he catches sight of me, Henry lowers his head and shoulders and rockets into a sprint. I can’t hear it, but a curse forms on Pierre’s mouth, and he takes off after Henry at a dead run, issuing orders to the security detail as he goes.

I run, and my legs and lungs are burning by the time we draw close. Henry opens his arms, and I fly into them, hitting his chest with such force it knocks him backward into Pierre. The security chief steadies us then steps back to give us space.

From behind the security team the airport doors have burst open, and dozens of paparazzi are spilling out. Photographers trying to snap pictures as they race toward us, journalist holding microphones, their suits flapping as they run, reporters shouting at their cameramen to hurry up.

But I don’t care who’s watching. I plant my lips on Henry and dive in. My hands are in his hair, and Henry squeezes me tightly to his chest, my feet leaving the ground.

I gasp in a breath, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave. I should have listened to my gut. I knew, I knew all along it wasn’t true! I should have—”

Henry’s lips crush against mine, drowning my guilt and remorse in one heady wave of passion.

“No more should have’s,” he says, sweeping a lock of my hair behind my ear, cradling my face in his hands. “I’ve had enough of those in my life. I want to move forward with you, not look back on should have’s. Can we do that?”

I nod as quickly as my jittering muscles will allow. “Yes. Please, yes!” It comes tumbling out in a torrid rush. “I love you, Henry. I’ve loved you my whole life. Of course, I’ll marry you – now, tomorrow, always.”

His eyes shine with tears as he stares at me with a wide, sexy grin, shaking his head in awe. “You are my everything, Abi.”