In Saintland, there’s a gym in the palace that my brother, who is a bit of an exercise fanatic after his own year in the service, insists on keeping meticulously up-to-date with the best equipment available on the market. Never let it be said that he spends the royal fortune only on necessities, no matter what he tries to tell you. Here in New York, I’m looking for something of the same caliber. No guarantees I’ll find it.
I choose the place with the most stars, a place that caters to “exclusive clientele,” and just happens to be located the next block down from my apartment.
That’s where I run into a guy named Christian, who’s giving the free weights a run for their money. He’s a typical American, loud and blonde and built, but after a few minutes of conversation, he lowers his voice.
“I’m a member of a club called the Purple Swan—it’s a good time and the food is top-notch. If you’re in town tonight, you should come out with my friends and me. I have a feeling you’d fit in with our crowd.”
For a heart-stopping moment, I think he must have heard of me somehow. Almost nobody has heard of Saintland, so I had been fairly certain I could remain anonymous in a city as large as New York City, a place with more than eight million people, according to the Internet. That’s twice the entire population of Saintland.
Then I remember that I paid $750 for a weeklong membership at the gym. It’s not royalty he’s talking about. It’s money.
“Fine by me,” I say, smiling. This will be a perfect opportunity to get my mind off Jessica and—if Christian’s friends are anything like him—easily make some connections in the United States. It’s a win-win. “What time? What’s the address?”
Christian grabs his phone off a shelf recessed into the wall of the gym where members can charge their phones while they work out—there’s clearly no fear of thievery in this place—and swipes a few times at the screen. “What’s your number? Also, I didn’t catch your full name…”
“Just put me in there as Alec,” I say, pretending to be selecting a set of weights.
“Number?”
I rattle off my new phone number. I worked on memorizing it while I was in the air.
“I’m texting you the directions now. Mention my name at the door, although if I’m right about you, you could probably afford the membership.”
I laugh, not confirming or denying it, but I’m a royal prince of Saintland. Of course I could afford the membership.
At 7:00, Christian sends me a text.
Purple Swan. 8:30. Black tie. I’ll be there with some female company
Well. That will certainly be interesting. Is Christian hiding a woman that could be Jessica’s match? I’m dying to find out.
I take a cab to the Swan, arriving there just after 8:30. The doorman ushers me in as soon as I drop Christian’s name and guides me through the lobby. He hands me off to a uniformed member of the wait staff, and I follow him through a wide hallway and into a massive space. For the first time since arriving in New York, I’m in a space that almost competes with the Great Hall in Saintland.
There are multiple tiers filling the cavernous space, each filled with tables covered in fine linen tablecloths, spaced far enough apart to ensure privacy. In the back of the room, there is a raised platform where a live band plays, the volume still relatively low at this early hour. Several couples are already dancing on the polished hardwood dance floor located in front of the band area.
As the waiter guides me across the room, I catch sight of Christian sitting at one of the round tables. He’s seated with six other people and there is one open chair for me. He laughs at someone’s joke, but upon glimpsing me following the waiter across the floor, he stands up and waves in my direction.
A woman with shining auburn hair spilling down her back sits facing away from me, next to the available seat at the table. I’m ten feet away from the table when she turns to look in my direction.
When her gaze meets mine, the faint smile on her face shifts into a look of shock, her mouth forming a round O, her eyes wide.
It’s Jessica.
Chapter 11
Jessica
The moment I see him coming toward the table at the Swan, something inside me shifts.
It’s been a long time since I made the break from my parents’ conservative Christian views, two years since what happened with Michael taught me to rely on myself, to lead a life of my own choosing and not to depend on anyone else. So, I’m well past the point of relying on or believing in divine intervention.
But when our eyes meet as he approaches the table, a thousand-watt smile playing across his lips, it’s like the entire world stops moving for a single heartbeat. When it starts spinning again, it’s going in the opposite direction.
My heart hammers inside my chest.
What are the chances?
What are the chances?