Sunshine streams in through the window, stabbing me in the eyes. A light breeze caresses my arms, which are sticking out of my blanket.

That’s strange.

Ardglass Palace is surrounded by rock. I’ve never felt any wind, except for in the garden, where there is no roof.

The garden.

It would be nice to wake up now. Maybe I can have breakfast in the garden and share a few pieces of bread with the birds and the squirrels.

I peel my eyes open, but it’s difficult. It’s like my eyelids have been glued down to my eyeballs.

When I finally look around me, I realize I’m home.

Except it doesn’t feel like home. It feels strange, unfamiliar. My bedroom in the palace has become more familiar to me than this one.

Strange.

I’m still wearing the dress I came home in, the one I got from the wardrobe in my palace bedroom.

Why didn’t I change before going to bed?

I’d walked through the woods. I’d stepped in mud.

I sit up in bed as I try to remember the events of last night.

I remember talking to the reporters. I managed to fool them, just as planned.

I remember Clara and Irina getting suspicious over my dress. They didn’t buy it when I told them I’d bought it as a treat for myself, with my wages from the inn.

I remember Father lighting up when he saw me, rushing up from his big recliner and pulling me into a big, warm hug. He just held me and cried for a long time, not saying anything.

I remember Clara telling us it was time for dinner. She herded us to the dining table, where some chicken nuggets and fries have been arranged on plates. The sauce tasted weird, but I was impressed that my sisters could cook at all.

Then… nothing.

I wonder if I’d gorged so much chicken nuggets that I passed out from being so full. And warm. And I was so tired too, after rushing home and going through all that craziness with the press.

The press!

Wow, yesterday was one crazy day.

I guess it wasn’t so strange after all, that I didn’t even bother to change before going to bed.

I stumble out of my bedroom. I should get something to eat. I always wake up hungry the day after a feast.

As I put some bread in the toaster, I hear my father’s loud footsteps down the hallway.

“Morning, Rose. Get me some of that as well, will you?” he asks.

“Morning, Father,” I say as I grab more bread from the bag. “Wow, what a night, huh?”

“Yeah. To be honest, I don’t remember much of last night.” He plops down on the couch, chuckling. “That’s the sign of a good night.”

I laugh. The toaster dings and I put my breakfast onto a plate, then put Father’s bread in. “Should I make more for Clara and Irina?”

“I don’t know,” Father says. “I peeked in their rooms and they weren’t there.”

“Strange. They’re not usually up this early.”

I can’t dwell on my sisters, though. There are too many things on my mind.

It feels so strange to be back home. Even though I’ve only been gone a couple of weeks, everything seems older and smaller. Maybe that’s just because I’ve never been away for such a long time before.

I also don’t have time to think about Prince James, although I’ll admit I did feel a little disappointment when I realized he wasn’t sleeping beside me when I woke up this morning.

No, I have more important things to deal with. Things like… like making sure the press understands that we’re just an ordinary family with zero connections with royalty.

That’s right. I almost forgot I’m a temporary public relations manager.

Hey, maybe that can go on my resumé, on top of my experience gardening at a royal palace. And technically, this unexpected PR job is also work I’m doing for the royal family.

I wonder if I can still mention these things on my job applications, considering all the ruckus around me right now. Maybe that’ll just be used by some gossip tabloids as confirmation that I really am the girl who was seen at a BDSM club with the prince.

Damn gossip tabloids.

I know now why James hates them so much. If he were here, we’d probably share a laugh over my newfound contempt for the gossip press.

Wait, I’m not supposed to have any time to think about that guy. I should… I should check what they’re saying about us on TV today.

“Father, could you please turn on the TV?” I ask as I grab a plate for his toast.

“Oh, I was hoping we could talk this morning,” Father says dejectedly.

I laugh softly as I bring the plates of toast and some butter to the table. “We have plenty of time for that. I just want to see if they’ve got their story straight, after my clarification last night.”

Father gives me a grim look, his expression suddenly serious. “You mean your lie last night?”

“Father, I—”

He waves a hand in the air. “It’s okay. I’m sure you have your reasons. But you don’t have to keep lying in front of me. I haven’t been able to talk about my experience at—” he lowers his volume “—the palace. And now that you’re home, I’m just glad to have someone to talk to about it.”

I give him a smile and take a seat. “I’d love to talk to you about it.”

“Good.”

Father grabs the remote control and turns on the TV. After flipping through a few channels, we finally see Prince James’ handsome face fill the screen. A bunch of microphones are waiting in front of him.

“Pictures have been circulating on the Internet of someone who looks a lot like you, Your Royal Highness. Have you seen these pictures?” asks someone off the screen.

“I’m aware of them, yes,” James says, in that deep, authoritative voice that makes me want to fall to my knees and worship him.

He’s not looking into the camera—maybe there are too many cameras pointing at him, or maybe he’s got his eyes on the person who asked him the question.

My chest tightens as I think about how far apart we are.

It’s not just because the ribbon of text that has appeared at the bottom of the TV screen is indicating that he’s in the capital right now.

It’s the fact that I used to have him all to myself, and now he’s… Well, he’s a prince, and he belongs to the kingdom. He’s exactly where he should be, at the capital, and it pains me to know that his proper place is away from me.

“Is that you in those pictures, Your Highness?” another reporter asks.

“No,” he says curtly, with barely hidden contempt. Obviously, he doesn’t like this line of questioning.

His steel-blue eyes sweep across what I assume is a row of cameras pointed at his face. My heart skips a beat when he looks straight into the camera currently broadcasting the channel we’re watching.

“Have you ever been to The Dungeon in Malvern, Your Highness? It’s a club for people with, uh, certain tastes.”

I’m surprised to hear the name of the club mentioned on TV.

When Elizabeth asked me to go there with her, I’d never heard of the club. It was supposed to be a secret to be kept among people in the lifestyle. Elizabeth had told me it wasn’t marketed in any way other than through word of mouth.

But come to think of it, it would be naïve to believe journalists don’t have a way of finding out about these things.

And obviously not everyone who has been to The Dungeon can be trusted to keep a secret, considering what has happened.

I mean, it should be common knowledge that you’re not supposed to snap pictures of people in sex clubs.

“What’s your relationship with Rosemary Wilson, Your Highness?” someone asks.

“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that name,” he says calmly.

My chest pangs with pain at his answer. Somebody has just mentioned my name, and he has just dismissed it so casually. He didn’t even flinch.

Does he know how I feel every time someone says his name? How could he be so unaffected?

I guess I’ve always hoped that there could be something more to our relationship, that it’s more than just about penance.

I know it’s stupid. I mean, he’s a prince.

No, scratch that. He’s the prince. The crown prince. The future king.

Did I really think I was going to be by his side forever? Was I really so arrogant as to imagine myself as a queen?

I’d laugh if it didn’t also hurt like a bitch.

We can never be anything more than just two strangers. We’re too different. We come from such different worlds.

He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and I’ve been struggling my whole life.

He’s royalty, and I’m a commoner.

He lives in a palace, and I’m always broke.

I should count my lucky stars that I got the chance to spend any time with him at all. I’m just like one of his groupies, to be forgotten and discarded after he’s had his fun.

“Rosemary Wilson,” says a reporter, “was the one who gave us clues about the location of the mysterious door, Your Highness. And she looks a lot like the woman in the pictures. And she lives in a town very close to Malvern. Any of these ring a bell?”

What?

I can’t believe my ears.

I stare at the TV screen with wide eyes and an open mouth.

They’ve just mentioned my name, right? And they said… I’d given them clues about where a secret door is?

What is going on?

“Rose, you’re going to run out of nails soon,” Father says as he pulls my hand away from my mouth.

“Father, did they… Did they find the palace?” I ask as blood rushes from my face.

“I don’t know, honey. I haven’t been keeping up with the news at all. Didn’t you tell them about the palace?”

No!” I say, louder than I intended. “I’d never do that.”

Shit.

I pat at the pockets of my dress.

Nothing. They’re empty. Both of them.

Oh, no.

I get up, letting my chair legs scratch loudly against the floor, and rush to my bedroom. My heart is hammering so hard in my chest that everything feels shaky.

Maybe the compact is on my bedside table.

Yeah, that’s… It should be there, right?

But they found the palace, and they said I…

There’s only one thing that could’ve led them there.

There’s nothing on my bedside table, so I open the drawer. It only has all my usual things in there.

I go through my bedroom, yanking open drawers and cabinet doors in a terrified frenzy.

How did I lose the compact?

Who could’ve known about it?

I didn’t tell anybody, did I? I mean, how could I have? The only people I’ve talked to since I got home are Father, Graham for a brief moment, and my sisters.

My sisters.

They were suspicious of me last night. And they could’ve searched my dress last night to find the compact.

The button is well hidden, from what I can remember. But maybe they turned it over and over again in their hands, looking for answers about my disappearance.

Oh, shit.

I’m the one responsible for leaking the location of Ardglass Palace.

I grab my phone from the drawer in my bedside table and sit on the edge of the bed. Firing up the phone, I look for the emails the prince sent me on that first night, the ones with the directions to the palace.

I type a short note to him, then I erase it.

I stare at the blank, white screen and start to type a few letters… then I delete all the words again.

What am I supposed to write? What if someone hacks into my email account? Should I try to hide my real message in some way? Should I use some kind of a code?

I’m probably overthinking this.

I start to type again, deciding to write something short and vague, something that wouldn’t immediately be linked with Prince James or the palace.

There’s so much more I want to say, but I keep erasing everything I write beyond those two words.

I can’t be too obvious. This email could fall into the wrong hands, just like the compact did.

I press the send button.

I stare at the screen for a few seconds, holding my breath.

What am I even waiting for?

James isn’t going to reply right away. He’s busy fielding reporters’ questions right now.

Oh, a new email!

My heart pounds, even before I finish reading the subject line.

Your message could not be delivered…?

I tap on the email and read the lines of technical words that don’t make any sense.

I spot one sentence that was written in English.

Email address does not exist.

I slump my shoulders.

He has deleted his email account.

There’s no way for me to contact him now.

I can never apologize, not even with a shitty two-word email.