Page 24 of When Hearts Collide

It’s archaic. It’s ridiculous.

If it were only my wealth we were risking, I’d have no qualms in stepping out from the fold and pursuing my dream of being a full-time tenured professor, but this isn’t the case. My actions will cause everyone I love to lose everything.

And I can’t be that selfish.

My hand finds its way back to the paper I was grading, my eyes roving over the last paragraphs like a madman, my heart beating against the prison of my rib cage.

I want to be free. A tiny voice whispers from deep within. A voice I haven’t dared listen to for so many years but is louder and more incessant these days. One can only hide its darkest nature for so long.

My stomach swoops and falls, cold sweat breaking out on my back. I press a button on the controls to turn on the air. I can’t breathe. My lungs attempt to rake in more oxygen, but the effort is exhausting.

I can’t breathe.

“Why aren’t you living for yourself, Professor?” imaginary Millie murmurs and my head falls back on the headrest.

I press another button on the controls, closing all the shades simultaneously.

Darkness. Much-needed relief.

“Happy Birthday, Dad.” I stride into a private room inside Kobayashi, a Michelin-starred Japanese restaurant, one of several equally lauded fine dining experiences offered within The Orchid.

“His Royal Highness has arrived, better late than never,” Rex snickers from his seat on the traditional tatami flooring. “The food is getting cold.”

He slides his hands behind his head, unleashing one of his devil-may-care, shit-eating-grins at me. I roll my eyes and smirk. I don’t even bother correcting him on his nickname for me, which has spread like wildfire to everyone who knows us, only to be made worse by the press’s moniker of me as the Prince of the USA.

“I know this might sound shocking, Rex, but sushi is usually cold,” Ethan, my youngest brother, offers, twirling his empty sake cup in his hand.

“You’re so boring, Ethan. How the hell are you younger than me? Fine. The food is not as fresh as it was, then.”

“From when it came ten minutes ago?” A skeptical rise of a brow from Ethan.

“Unlike you, he had to travel thousands of miles to be here,” Maxwell murmurs to Rex. “Cut him some slack, won’t you?”

He flashes me a small grin, his dark eyes twinkling, a rare moment of levity for my twin. He reaches for his drink on the table, the metal clasp on his leather bracelet flashing in the dim light.

“You boys will send me to an early grave,” Dad says as he stands and pulls me into a tight hug. “You didn’t have to fly all the way out here for a dinner.”

“Of course I do. It’s not every day your old man turns sixty-five. It’s only a jet ride away. Sorry for being late. There were some inclement weather issues, and the flight got delayed by traffic control.”

He waves me away and takes a seat at the head of the long table, already filled to the brim with a scrumptious rainbow assortment of thinly sliced fish, from ahi tuna to jumbo scallops, artfully crafted hand rolls, which look more like pieces of artwork than food, unique creations of Chef Kobayashi, who has won multiple accolades in his long illustrious career.

The door bursts open and in wafts the soft scent of roses.

“Ryland, you’re here!” Lana, our youngest sister, breezes in. Her long brown hair, partially covered by a thick scarf, is flying behind her.

We all stand at her presence—chivalry is decidedly not dead in the Anderson family, the manners passing down for generations with roots from our titled ancestors in England.

Technically, we still have a dukedom with Dad and a marquessate with Maxwell, the eldest son of a duke, but they don’t have active duties in England since they are not elected hereditary peers. But regardless, the family has inherited hundreds of years of tradition and the infamous stiff upper lip of the British aristocracy.

“If only men outside this room had the manners you all have.” Lana grins, flying into my outstretched arms, and burrows her head against my chest. “I miss you, B.”

My chest warms at the inside joke, and I press a soft kiss on her hair. As another tradition, our family gave us middle names in alphabetical order according to age. It was said there were too many of us to keep track of. Maxwell’s middle name is Angus, mine is Benedict, and the rest of our siblings’ middle names follow the same pattern.

“It’s only been a few weeks. And you have three other older brothers to terrorize you.”

“You’re my favorite,” she whispers into my ear before pulling back and giving me a sassy wink. “Don’t tell the others I said that.”

“I heard you loud and clear,” Rex complains with a mock scowl on his face, “don’t come to me with your men troubles later on.”

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