He laughs. “I am not surprised. You’re always bouncing from one thought to another to another, never still.”
I don’t say much else until we land. I grip the arms of the seat hard, and squeeze his hand as the plane tips back and begins circling in to land. I tense and grit my teeth when the tires touch the runway, and shake for a moment afterward.
I don’t like flying, I’ve decided.
I wait as the plane taxis around and comes to a stop. A stairway rolls up, and the crew open the door. New York air, stifling hot and humid and with that strong scent, comes flooding into the cabin. My prince stands up and offers me his hand and we walk down together.
My stomach does a back flip when the first flash goes off. It takes me a moment to realize why I’m being photographed and I stand there with a dumb, dull stare on my face, until I shake myself out of it and walk down with him, along a freaking red carpet to a limousine.
Hi, Mom, I’m on TV.
I’m a little concerned about what happens next. I haven’t really been told.
Once we’re alone again in the car, he turns to me.
“We’re here. What would you like to do?”
“Do I have to choose now?”
“No, of course not. I only ask what you want to do with your day. You can come with me. I’m told your parents are here, expecting to see you.”
I haven’t spoken to them yet. Day after day passed and I always had something to do, some reason not to. I twine my fingers nervously and try to figure out what the hell I should do with myself.
“I need to see them. I want to go home, to my home, but I want you to go with me. Can we do that?”
“Ask what you will of me and it is yours, you know that.”
I smile weakly, trying to choke down the rising nausea in my stomach. I wrap my arms around myself and curl up, staring out the windows.
The city can be so amazing, but I’m not feeling it today. At all.
“They’re here,” I say.
“Yes. The State Department brought them here and requests that you be allowed to see them. They speak to me as if you are a prisoner.”
I sigh. “They don’t know you like I do.”
“No,” he says, squeezing my hand. “What do you wish to do? I can send them away.”
“No, I’ll meet them here, where we’re staying.”
“I’ll have my people nearby. The Americans may try to take you. By force.”
I swallow, hard. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt over me.”
“Then make it clear to them you are no prisoner…if you intend to return, that is. I will not force you now. I have business to attend to after we arrive. I’ll send word to the Americans that you wish to see your family.”
I nod.
We enter the hotel through a private entrance. It jars me to see good ol’ fashioned American cops, NYPD no less, holding back crowds of people at the far end of the alley. I lift my skirts like I’ve been wearing a poofy dress every day of my life, to keep the hem out of the muck water behind the hotel.
Once inside we’re escorted to an upper floor. We have it all to ourselves, and the security detail that arrived ahead of time. I see Americans mingling with Kosztylans. It’s easy to pick out the Americans. They’re all in suits with those things in their ears. The Kosztylans wear uniforms, sharp black ones that give them a morbid but authoritative air. The blonde-haired guard I saw before is among them.
I have my own room. I feel a pang of guilt when I realize it. I head inside and sit in the sitting room. It’s a huge suite, but I’m too exhausted and depressed to pay much attention to the details. I’m sure it’s nice. There’s trim and stuff and a big bed and I have a nice bathroom with a fancy shower.
“I want to go home,” I tell no one in particular.
The knock comes at the door an hour later. I’ve been sitting near the door the entire time.
It’s that blonde guard woman.
“My lady, your party has arrived. His grace has secured a private room on the third floor. If you would follow me, please.”
Sighing, I follow her to the elevator and stand straight as it carries me down. I feel like I’m sinking into the earth’s crust. The sense of dread grows as I fall.
I furrow my brows when we pass the third floor.
“Hey, wait,” I say, “What’s…”
I feel something hard jab into my back. It feels like a gun.
“Shut up.”
I freeze.
Oh, oh God, no, please no.
The door opens and she nudges me forward, into the basement of the hotel. Oh God, I’m being kidnapped. I move slowly and deliberately, flexing my hands at my side. The gun in my back feels like it wants to go off, like the bullet is urgent to smash into my back, crack bone, and tear flesh.
I tremble and stop moving when she tugs on my arm.
“This is her, take her.”