The ballroom near Central Park was generally reserved for celebrity birthday parties, or else for those celebrities’ children’s bat and bar mitzvah’s. Lisa had attended events there only three times throughout her career, and had always been amazed at the spectacle. At a party thrown by an Indian princess, the birthday girl had had a tiger in a cage, growling coolly at Lisa as she took his photograph. The look in the tiger’s eye had been embittered, angry. But around him, the party guests had danced on without notice, twirling madly, their jewelry jangling.

A few hours before the rehearsal dinner was due to begin, Lisa dressed in a simple black maternity dress, and then called a cab, recognizing that she had to avoid sweating as much as possible if she was going to be taken seriously. She slid her hands over her rotund belly as she waited for the cab to arrive, gazing out the window, surrounded by the boxes she’d already packed. She was at the very end of her time in New York City, and she had nothing more to lose.

The moment the taxi driver saw her, he burst from the cab and rushed around to the sidewalk, eyeing her body with a strange mix of fear and humor. “You’re going out like that?” he asked.

“I suppose it’s the only way I can go,” Lisa said, trying to joke. She held her camera bag tightly and eased into the backseat. “If you could take me to the Central Park ballroom, that would be wonderful,” she said, smiling up at him, reminding him that he had a job to do—and that he was staring.

“Sorry,” the driver muttered. He rushed around and revved the engine before bolting into traffic, heading north. They sat in silence, and Lisa prayed the man would turn on the radio station, for any sort of background noise, but he didn’t. She felt the clock ticking too quickly, propelling her closer and closer to Francesco.

They neared the ballroom, and Lisa instructed the cabbie to let her out at the back entrance, so that she would remain unseen. She slid out onto the pavement, waddling toward the doors and still feeling the driver’s eyes upon her. She wanted to tell him that she would be okay; that she didn’t need help. But suddenly she wasn’t too sure of herself.

The back entrance foyer buzzed with paparazzi, alongside other, more professional photographers, some gobbling last-minute snacks before the event, others chatting and bragging about their past projects. The moment Lisa entered, several of them looked at her with shock and horror—this woman about to pop, in the middle of their professional environment.

She gave them a bright smile. “Can you tell me where pick up is for press passes?” she asked.

A man with a red tie pointed toward the far hallway, sending her waddling away. As she walked, she sensed the whispers that followed her. But they thrilled her, strangely: as if, finally, she was worthy of being seen.

After Lisa picked up her press pass, which read “Us Weekly, Chris,” and thankfully didn’t include a photograph, she meandered toward the ballroom, wanting to peek at the decorations and map the room. That way, she could sneak over to Francesco easily in the coming hours, and perhaps tug him away from the crowd.

But as she neared the entrance of the ballroom proper, she heard the high-pitched tones of a woman shrieking. The woman’s cries were raspy, filled with anger and annoyance.

Lisa peeked through the massive, decorative ballroom doors, and her eyes focused on a shocking scene. Just 20 feet ahead of her, the Prince and the Princess were standing by the head table, clearly at-odds with each other. Beside the Princess, a tired-looking wedding planner with frizzy hair cowered, apologizing.

“We ordered the cream napkins. We thought that was what you requested, Princess. And I’m afraid we’ll be unable to order ivory by the time of the event this evening. I am terribly sorry about the mistake. You must know that we will do everything else in our power to make this evening the absolute perfect—”

“No. You see, that’s what you don’t get,” Princess Rose said quickly, cutting her off. “You’ve already not done everything in your power. You were lazy, and you didn’t listen to my requests. And for that, I must deduct a great deal of my payment to you and your company. Am I making myself clear?”

The wedding planner blinked rapidly, clearly nervous; she must surely have worked with celebrity clientele before, but Princess Rose’s attitude was on another level, almost demonic.

“I think we’ll be all right if we don’t have ivory napkins,” the Prince said then. He turned to the wedding planner and shrugged. “I really don’t see the difference in color. Do you?”

This caused Princess Rose to scream uproariously. “You have to be on my side, Francesco!” she yelled. “We’re supposed to be a team. Husband and wife. Do you understand that? If not, why don’t you just marry this bimbo here?” She pointed to the shivering wedding planner in front of her before storming toward the other entrance of the ballroom and disappearing from sight.

No sooner had the Princess slammed the door behind her, the Prince’s shoulders slumped forward. The wedding planner whispered something to him, and he nodded, clearly seething. “Please, don’t worry about it,” he murmured. “I’m sorry for putting you through so much stress.”

Lisa watched him in awe. Her lips parted. She hadn’t been this close to him in nearly nine months, and yet she trembled with sudden desire for him. It was clear that reports that the two were “deeply in love” since their reunion were completely false.

This thrilled Lisa, at least momentarily, but she knew she had to keep things in perspective. She was the one who’d had to sneak in, eight months pregnant with triplets, with a shallow puddle of a bank account, to attempt to talk to him.

The Prince turned toward the other entrance, then, his eyes landing on Lisa as she stood, visible, in the doorway. She stumbled backward, suddenly unable to breathe, praying he hadn’t recognized her.

Moments later, the Prince appeared in the doorway, becoming a full-formed human before her, rather than his normal state, as a painful memory; a figment of her imagination.

His face looked stricken. He recognized her immediately, even as he eyed her pregnant form. His tongue tapped at the top of his mouth as seconds stretched to nearly a minute. Neither of them made a move to eliminate the distance between them.

Finally, Lisa spoke. “I came to talk to you,” she murmured, slipping a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I see that,” the Prince said. “And it seems you’ve brought a guest.”

“Yeah. I want to talk about that, too,” Lisa said, her eyes flashing. She had to maintain her focus, and not get distracted by his handsome face, his bulging biceps beneath his immaculate suit.

Francesco pointed skyward, giving her a knowing look. “Why don’t we head to the roof? I don’t want to risk anyone walking in on us. I’m assuming you just spied on that entire exchange, and know she’s not in a warm and fuzzy mood, right now. Spying is your natural way. You’ll never change.” He gave her a sneaky smile.

He led her to a side elevator. The doors opened immediately, and Lisa joined him, standing only a foot from his body. She could smell the musk of him, and she closed her lips, focusing on her breathing.

The elevator zipped to the top of the building, and the two of them stepped into sudden sunshine. The rooftop of the Manhattan building offered a beautiful garden, with views over the city. They perched next to each other on a stone bench, Lisa sighing heavily.

“Sorry. I can’t move so quickly these days, let alone stand,” she said, gesturing. “But boy, is this a beautiful view.”

Before them, all of Manhattan stretched beneath the sunshine, its buildings glowing in the late-afternoon sun. From that far up, they couldn’t hear the rushing traffic below.

Lisa pointed, without stopping herself. “I can see your place from here. Just around that corner, no?”

“That’s exactly it,” the Prince said softly. He paused, allowing the silence to stretch between them. “So. Since you’re here, looking like that, I’m assuming the baby. It’s—”

“It’s yours. Of course it’s yours,” Lisa breathed, her eyes turning toward his. “I thought Princess Rose told you. She—”

“You met with her?” Francesco asked, frowning. His voice had hardened.

“Absolutely. I wanted to contact you. It seemed like you had cut me off completely. Finally, I tried your driver. Sergio.”

“Ah, Sergio,” he said, nodding his head, a flicker of a smile forming. “That bastard. He’ll do anything for a buck.”

“Why couldn’t I contact your offices? Why was it so difficult?”

“You know why,” the Prince replied. “I couldn’t trust you. Not after I found out who you were.”

Lisa didn’t speak for a moment. Her brain bucked at the knowledge that the Prince hadn’t known about the pregnancy. He’d been left in the dark, as his three babies had grown within her, as she’d listened to their heartbeats for the first time, and as Princess Rose had schemed to take them from her.

“I’m expecting triplets,” she said finally. She flung her hair behind her shoulders, gesturing to her stomach. “There are three babies in there. Do you want to feel?”

“Am I allowed?” he asked, a glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes. “You must hate me. You must have come here to tell me exactly that.”

Lisa shrugged. “You had every reason to act the way you did, Francesco. I lied about who I was, and I betrayed your trust. The important thing, now, is that these babies are half yours, and I want you in their lives. I want you in our lives.”

Francesco eased his palm over her belly, then, and gazed up at Lisa, feeling light kicks within her abdomen. He shook his head, incredulous. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything more wonderful in my entire life,” he whispered. “They’re ours. I—I can’t—”

Lisa felt a slight breeze kick up, giving the back of her neck reprieve from the heat. She knew she had to tell Francesco about Rose’s baby-buying plot, but the words sounded strange coming from her mouth.

“The Princess offered to buy the baby. I didn’t yet know that I was expecting triplets, and she wanted to give me a hefty check to give my baby to her, and then go far, far away.”

The Prince’s jaw opened wide. He turned his face to the horizon, his palm still upon her stomach, processing the information. “I knew she was a wretched human. I did. But this is far too much to bear,” he murmured.

“What should we do?” Lisa breathed.

“I don’t know yet,” the Prince answered. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

They sat that way for several moments more, each enjoying the calmness that the other provided. For the first time in months, Lisa didn’t feel alone. She sensed that the Prince was processing the information as best as he could, diving from one plot point to the next, until his arrival here, on the top of this Manhattan building, with a very different future opening up before him.

“I never wanted to have kids with Rose,” he whispered. “I’ve seen the way she interacts with children. She’s so cold and calculating with my nieces and nephews. I could only imagine the lack of compassion she’d show to her own.”

Lisa nodded. She rose from the bench, sighing. “I’m sorry for bulldozing my way into your life, Francesco. Know that it wasn’t my intention. I was just a silly girl that night. A silly girl with a dream.”

But the Prince rose before her and placed his fingers over her cheek. “You’re a gorgeous human, Lisa. And I am a better man for meeting you. And our children will have the best of everything. I know how much you’ve struggled. And you, more than anyone else I know, deserve to relax, now. To breathe.”

Lisa laced her fingers through his, then, and they walked toward the elevator, armed with new purpose. The Prince composed his thoughts as they rushed to the ballroom floor. With his jaw set, and his tone forceful, he told Lisa: “It might get ugly over the next few minutes. Don’t think you have to stay.”

“No,” Lisa breathed. “I want to see this.”

They entered the ballroom, then, to find Princess Rose in uproar once more. She stabbed her finger toward the chef’s chest in time with her words. “This. Is. Not. Dutch. Cuisine. This. Is. Garbage. Do you hear me? Garbage.”

The man looked oddly bored with her words. Having been a chef for years, he was clearly used to insults. As he stood, his eyes shifted toward the Prince, who still clung to Lisa’s hand. A smile stretched over his face.

“What are you smiling about?” Princess Rose asked, screeching. “Eyes on me, you little punk. You don’t want to be fired minutes before my rehearsal dinner, do you? You’ll never work in this industry again. You can mark my words.”

The chef pointed toward the Prince, then. He muttered, “Good luck with that,” before he turned on his heel, removing his chef’s hat. He began to whistle “The Times They Are a-Changin’” before bolting back into the kitchen, without a care.

Princess Rose spun around, her eyes alert, like a caged animal’s. As she stood, a few photographers entered the ballroom from the back, preparing to head to their seats. They stood stock still, like birds on the wire, as they took in the sight before them. Something was happening. The air was tense.

“What the hell is going on?” the Princess asked, her expression turning to one of dread, rather than one of anger. She tapped forward on her heels, gazing at the two of them holding hands. Clearly, this kind of compassion was foreign to her.

“I think I should ask you the same thing,” the Prince said, his dark eyebrows rising high on his forehead. “You knew about this, Rose. Why the hell did you keep it a secret?”

“She’s pregnant, and it’s his—” A paparazzo began to take pictures, whispering harshly to the side. “Oh my God.” The photographers were in sudden uproar, drawing closer to them.

Lisa wanted to hide her head beneath Francesco’s suit jacket, or else waddle from the premises and hide back in her apartment, safe from the hubbub. But she supposed everything in her life had been moving toward this moment. She had to sit it out, now.

“Darling Francesco,” Princess Rose began, stuttering. “I don’t think this is an appropriate place to speak about this. Even your little bimbo knows better than to speak in public. Don’t you, little home-wrecker?” she asked, pointing an accusing finger forward. “The press should know you only as the ‘other woman.’ You’re trash, nothing more.”

Several tabloid reporters began to scribble down notes, realizing that this would become a front-page story within the hour. And they were there. Ready to break it.

“No. I’m going to hash this out, right here, right now,” Francesco declared. “I don’t care if they write about it. It would be good if they wrote the truth, for once.”

Lisa felt Francesco’s grip tighten around her hand. She began to sweat profusely, hating everyone’s eyes upon her. She smiled grimly, knowing this was her fifteen minutes of fame—and that she was about fifty pounds too large for it.

“Why on earth would you buy someone else’s baby from them?” Francesco demanded then. “That’s disgusting, Rose. More disgusting than when you shoved that homeless girl to the ground in Greece, even.”

“She was in the way,” Rose interrupted, her eyes wide. “And I told you never to bring that up again.”

“Oh, but here we go. We aren’t lying anymore, Rose,” he growled. “You know I never loved you. You know I never wanted to be with you. And yet, you’re forcing me into this marriage through my father. Why don’t we tell the people about that?”

Princess Rose shot forward, stabbing her finger at the Prince’s chest. “How dare you, Francesco. We’ve been betrothed since we were teenagers. You can’t just ‘get out’ of being betrothed.”

“This isn’t the Middle Ages, Princess,” Francesco said. A flash of light from a camera made his face look too bright, frozen in anger. “We’re supposed to love who we love, with or without our parents’ approval. I don’t care a lick about your kingdom. And let’s face it: you don’t care about mine, either.”

The Princess could sense she was losing. She turned toward the paparazzi, her lower lip wobbling slightly. She lifted an ivory-colored napkin to her eyes and mopped up crocodile tears, pandering to the cameras.

“The wedding’s off, Rose,” the Prince announced, gesturing with fiery, Mediterranean passion. “I can’t believe I spent so much of my life with you, just trying to satisfy my parents’ wishes. And now that I’m thirty, I can finally begin living. With a wonderful woman who appreciates the world, and all the things in it.”

As Francesco spoke, Lisa felt a sudden, stabbing pain in her abdomen. She cut from Francesco’s grip and bucked back from the confrontation, her hands upon her belly. She blinked rapidly, realizing something was off. Something was happening. But because of the display of anger and emotion before them, no one in the room noticed her pain. She clenched her teeth together and gripped at the fabric of her dress, trying to not cry out in agony.

The Prince and Princess continued to argue, airing all of the times the other had wronged them. But Lisa couldn’t hear it, anymore. She leaned heavily on a chair to the side, concentrating on her breathing, and realizing that she hadn’t yet read all the “appropriate” books about birth, to prepare herself. She’d been too worried about how she was going to support herself, and the babies, to worry about how she’d get them out of her in the first place.

She began to feel dizzy, then. The world fluttered with bright lights, and with noises she could no longer discern the meaning of. She began to fall back—something she would remember like falling into a cool, summer pool—and she crumpled at the feet of a photographer, who immediately turned his lens to her and took a photograph.

She was news.

The Prince rushed toward her as soon as he heard her fall. He wrapped his hands around her and he cooed to her, his eyes soft. “Oh my God, baby. I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “We’re going to make sure you’re okay. You’re going to be just fine.”

All the while, Princess Rose stormed through the ballroom, inviting reporters to talk to her, to get “the true story.” Sensing she was getting nowhere, she glared at them, before bolting from the ballroom and down the street. But by that point, Francesco and Lisa had forgotten about her—casting her image far from their minds. They had babies to save. They had to help these three little lives come into the world without trauma.

Lisa came to moments later, blinking at the Prince’s handsome face, hardly able to acknowledge this dream as reality. “It hurts so much,” she breathed. “I don’t think I can walk any longer.”

“It’s all right, baby,” the Prince said, kissing her fingers with soft lips. “We’ve called an ambulance. You’re going to be all right, Lisa. And we’re going to make sure our babies are healthy and safe. I promise.”

In that moment, the EMTs burst through the door, carrying a stretcher between them. They eased Lisa’s writhing body upon the gurney, and carried her swiftly back to the ambulance.

The Prince followed closely behind, diving into the ambulance and addressing the swarming reporters. “Tell the real story, this time,” he warned them. “Tell them I love who I love. Lisa Garcia. Of the Daily Sneak.”

The EMT slammed the doors in the reporters’ faces, and then the ambulance was off, skidding through traffic, revving toward the Upper West Side hospital.

All the while, Lisa’s breath came in shudders, and her skin turned pale and clammy. But she clamped her fingers around Francesco’s, and she stared up into his eyes, knowing he was her paradise island, in a stormy sea. He would help guide her to shore.