Chey stared at her bedroom ceiling, one arm flung across her forehead. It was the wee hours of the ninth day after Sander left, and still no word. No text, no phone call, not even an email update. Nothing. She didn't know whether to be worried or annoyed, and settled for a little of both.

Any information she'd been able to pull up on the computer about Aksel's health was vague and largely unhelpful. Certainly there was no mention of an accident, nor that Sander had replaced his father as King. In fact, there was a distinct lack of stories barring human interest pieces that had nothing to do with Royalty. She decided it was probably a planned blackout, so the news didn't circulate among the elite of the world until the Latvala Royals were ready.

Glancing at her window, she stared at the milky stream of moonlight falling in through the panes. It reminded her of how she'd sat at the side of the bed that night and studied Sander's shape among the sheets. How the same moonlight bathed the contours and illuminated muscle. She wondered what he was doing, and whether he was thinking of her, too.

A hard series of knocks at her door startled Chey into an upright position. Clutching the covers against her body, eyes wide, she listened for sounds of the knob jostling. Panicked that someone might be trying to break in, she reached for her cell phone on the nightstand. Minutes crept by. She heard no more knocks, no knob being twisted with someone's intent to come in.

Had it been someone at the wrong door? Once, and only once, a stranger had tried to walk in after confusing her apartment with someone else's.

Sliding out of bed, she put her feet on the floor, phone in hand, and inched toward the doorway. Peering around into the living room, she saw nothing out of place. Glancing at the door itself, she saw the corner of what looked to be a manila envelope poking through the crack. The weathering on the frame of the door wasn't so great that a sliver of paper couldn't be pushed through.

Wary, she tiptoed to the door and eased the envelope out of the crack. Looking through the peephole, she saw no one on her landing. No body, no silhouette. Drawing back, she took the envelope into her bedroom and snapped on a small Tiffany lamp. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she turned the envelope over. On the front, someone had written her name in slanting script. It was a bold stroke, with black ink.

Opening the latch, she held her breath and fished around inside. What she pulled out was a thin stack of money and a folded piece of paper. Setting the money aside, she opened the note and read.

Under intense pressure. Cannot contact you any other way than this. Be prepared for bad news in the coming week. This is to see you through while I contend with the K.

Chey read it three times. It had to be Sander, although he hadn't so much as signed his initial to the paper. K stood for King, unless she missed her guess. Uncomfortable with the idea that bad news was coming, she set the note aside and picked up the bundle of money. Five thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills was the sum of his gift.

Unsure how she felt about accepting it, she nevertheless understood his intent. It came across as charming and caring instead of overbearing and domineering. He knew she was out of a job, and perhaps whatever bad news was on the horizon would affect her ability to find one.

What the hell was going on? Frustrated at being kept in the dark, Chey tucked the money back into the envelope and brought the paper he'd written on to her nose.

It smelled like him. The scent was subtle, but definable.

Had he left one of his trusted men behind in the United States to do his bidding while he was half a world away? That was the only scenario that seemed plausible. He wouldn't risk sending cash, plus the note, to just any delivery service.

Rubbing her head, Chey slid the note in with the money and placed the envelope inside her nightstand. Turning out the light, she flopped back against the bed and pulled the covers to her chin.

At least she didn't have to worry about keeping the power on or buying food.

Small comfort.

---

---

Five days after the arrival of the envelope, Chey returned from a trip to the grocery store and let herself into the apartment. Everything she'd needed fit into one bag that she carried into the kitchen. Putting away fruit, lettuce for salad and fresh chicken, she was just about to make herself a cup of tea when her doorbell rang.

Leaving the kitchen, she walked back to the door and peered through the peephole. It was just before noon, which told her it was either a salesman, the mailman or another mysterious delivery.

It was neither.

Chey opened the door with a smile for Wynn and stood aside to let her enter. “It's been a week since I've seen you, what's up?”

“I know, that's what I told myself this morning when I went to work.” Wynn paused to hug Chey on her way inside. She worked for her father in his law offices, and pretty much set whatever hours she wanted to. If she needed half the day off, she took it.

“It's good to see you. I just got home like ten minutes ago.” Chey glanced along the landing and out to the parking lot, but didn't see anything familiar or suspicious. Closing the door, she engaged the bolt and followed Wynn into the living room.

“I know. I was out in the parking lot, waiting. Except I got a call from mom and you know how that goes. Tough to get her off the phone.” Wynn dropped her purse on the floor, smoothed a palm down the hip of her black slacks, then peeled out of the crocheted sweater of ash gray and draped it over the back of the couch.

“I didn't see your car.” Chey kicked her shoes off, walked to the kitchen to shut the light off, then headed back into the living room. She felt bad that she'd not told Wynn about Sander at the Halloween party or the ensuing note. Sander wanted her to keep a low profile, however, so she adhered to his wish.

“That's because mine's in the shop. I have Dad's today.” Wynn sat on the edge of the sofa and removed her sunglasses. Setting those aside, she glanced at Chey again in a way that indicated she was searching for something.

“What?” Chey glanced down at herself while at the same time running a palm over her hair. The ponytail swayed past her nape, free of twigs or other unexpected debris. The jeans she wore with a sweater in autumn colors, nothing special or notable, lacked stains, rips or bugs that might be causing Wynn to watch her so curiously.

“I take it you haven't been on the internet yet today,” Wynn said.

Right away, Chey knew this was the 'something bad' Sander had cautioned her about. Wynn would have blurted whatever news it was otherwise without hesitation. She reminded herself that Wynn didn't know about Sander's visit and pretended that she knew nothing about what was to come. Which wasn't all a lie; Chey didn't have specific details, only a generic warning.

“No, I haven't,” Chey said. “Why?”

Wynn rubbed her hands together. “I stumbled across it by accident myself. I figured you might need a shoulder to cry on or something.”

“Wynn, what is it?” Chey braced herself. Scared senseless that Wynn would tell her Sander had been the one in an 'accident', she hugged her arms around her middle.

“The article was dated several days ago, but it announced that the Heir to Latvala's wedding was going to be streamed live on the internet. Like...tomorrow. I think it's happening tomorrow.” Wynn winced.

Chey sat forward, shocked. “What?”

“I know babe, I really do. It's a good thing you've cut all contact with him, right? I mean, obviously he was lying to you when he said he wasn't going to marry that Princess.”

Feeling like her head was going to start spinning around Exorcist style, Chey buried her forehead into her palms. This couldn't be happening. Sander, marrying Valentina. Why hadn't he told her? He must have known when he'd spent the night in her bed.

“It must have been a mistake, Wynn. An old article from--”

“No, it was recent. Published a few days ago. I'm sure of it,” Wynn said. “That whole thing is a mess. It's probably better that you're not involved anymore.”

Chey surged up off the couch. “But I am involved! He was here, Wynn. That man I was dancing with half the night at the Halloween party? That was Sander. He spent time here with me, spent the night after flying to Sacramento and back. We went to Milford's, went to the flea market. We had plans.”

Wynn's mouth fell open. “That was Sander? Why didn't you tell me? This whole time, I thought you were getting over him and moving on.” She paused, then added, “He spent the night here?”

“Yes. Yes. He planned to spend two whole days with me, except he got a call while we were at the flea market that his father had an accident. We weren't sure that he hadn't just become King. I still don't know if he is, or he isn't! King I mean. I never found any information about Aksel when I searched online.” Chey paced through the living room, distraught and disturbed. Sander wouldn't have lied to her. It didn't make sense. He needn't fly across the world to be with a lover for one night. Sander had his pick of women and he didn't have to set foot out of the castle to get them with the way they flocked to his side.

“Oh man, I can't believe I'm hearing this.” Wynn slouched back against the cushions.

“He sent a delivery person to my door in the middle of the night about five or six days ago. There was five grand in cash he wanted me to have, along with a note. He predicted that this week would be rough—I guess this is what he was talking about.” It was rough all right. Chey didn't know what to think, what to believe.

“I hate to play devil's advocate here,” Wynn said. “But are you sure that's not a payoff? To keep quiet, to keep your legs open whenever he wants to get laid while he's in town?”

Chey stopped pacing and stared at Wynn. “Absolutely not. He doesn't need to do those things. He can get any number of different women at any time, all without having to leave the comfort of his home. I'm sure the same applies when he travels. Women make it known when they're 'open for business', you know?”

Wynn flashed her palms. “I'm just saying. It's something to consider. If you really think he's serious about you, then maybe this whole wedding thing is just...”

Chey waited for Wynn to continue. She didn't.

“I don't know what it is. All I can think is that the King succeeded in brow beating him to the altar. Maybe he didn't know how to tell me. Didn't want to hurt me.” None of it made sense to Chey.

“Maybe. Are you going to watch it tomorrow on the internet?” Wynn asked, pushing to her feet.

“I'm...I don't know.” Chey considered it a moment. “I suppose I will, if it really happens. I'll need to see it for myself.” Morose at the thought, she decided it was a necessary evil. That way, she could once and for all put Sander behind her. Whatever else she was or wasn't, Chey would not sleep with a married man. Vows were vows and a trip down the aisle meant Sander was off limits forever. Chey couldn't decide whether she was feeling heartbroken or homicidal.

Had Sander known the whole time, and neglected to tell her?

Chey pressed a palm against her forehead. She felt hot. Sick. Dizzy. Denial raged around inside like a dervish.

Wynn stepped over and pulled Chey into a hug. The women embraced for long minutes.

“I know it's hard, Chey. I know you're suffering. Maybe this is for the best, although I'm sure that's not what you want to hear. This thing needs resolution and it needs resolution now.” Wynn leaned back with a compassionate smile. “I'll stop by tomorrow, okay? We'll watch together.”

“Yeah. I'll figure out what time and everything and text you later, all right?” Chey couldn't work up a smile for Wynn in return. She couldn't meet her best friend's eyes, didn't want to see the sympathy she knew must be lurking there.

“Good. I'll be waiting. I'm going to get back to work so I can get off a little early and stop by to have dinner with you.” Wynn kissed Chey's brow in a sisterly manner, then gathered her things and headed to the door.

“It's just chicken and vegetables,” Chey said. She wouldn't be eating a thing. Her stomach wouldn't allow it. But she would make it for Wynn regardless.

“It'll taste like sawdust, but you have to eat. I'll bring dinner instead, how's that? Some deli sandwiches so you don't have to cook.” Wynn paused at the door.

“All right. Drive safe.” Chey hovered near the couch. She watched Wynn head out, then crossed the room to throw the bolt over. Tilting her forehead against the door, Chey closed her eyes and swallowed back more tears.

Could it be real? Was it true?

Was Sander Ahtissari, one of ten most eligible bachelors in the world—her lover—walking down the aisle tomorrow?