Page 54 of The Wanted Prince

“Your landlord called,” he said. “First thing this morning. You had a break-in at your apartment.”

“A break-in?” I felt faint.

“They got your TV, and he thinks a few other things. He told me to tell you, your mail was piled up, more than a month’s worth. That’s why they broke in. He said next time you go on a lengthy vacation, you need to get someone to bring in your mail.”

I stood with my mouth open, shuffling through lies — I was in New York, but I was with my boyfriend. I hadn’t mentioned him because he was… poor? But then, surely he would be staying with me. I was in Vienna. Berlin. Algiers. I was job-hunting. House-hunting. Off on a cruise.

“We know you were with Alessandro,” said Mother.

“You were always running off with him.” Hugo was smirking. “I caught them holding hands once, when she was sixteen.”

My jaw dropped. Either Hugo was lying, or he’d stuck his nose in on a private moment. And rather than announce himself, he’d stayed and spied. My head spun with outrage. I swayed on my feet.

“Don’t make it worse,” said Father. I couldn’t tell if he meant Hugo, or if he meant me.

“We need to control the damage,” said Mother. “And we can’t do that till you tell us the truth.”

Then they were all talking, talking at once, pleas and accusations filling the air. Hugo was listing Alessandro’s exes. Mother was saying something about me getting married. If she had a fiancé, we could build around that. She was off with him on some whirlwind courtship. Father kept saying coordinate with the palace, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“The palace won’t help.” Mother pulled out her phone.

“Amelia Clarens,” said Hugo. “That model, what’s her name? Susanna Germont.”

“It’s our only option. Coordinate with the palace.”

Spots danced in my eyes. I grabbed a chair-back for balance.

“Sarita Whatzername. Lisa Perez. That one he was caught with at that masquerade ball.”

Mother was texting, her thumbs a blur. I felt dizzy just watching her, so I looked away. I only turned my head slightly, but the room kept on spinning, the fireplace, Father’s chair, Hugo leaning in the doorway. Hugo starting toward me, eyes wide with alarm. Hugo shouting something I didn’t quite hear, then the curtains flashed by me, the wallpaper, the ceiling. I thought huh, that’s weird, then pain burst through me, like a grenade going off in my head. Then it got dark, and I lay back and let it.

I came to my senses in a blinding white room, flat on my back in a blinding white bed. A woman in white was flitting about me — a doctor, I thought, or maybe a nurse. She had a stethoscope looped round her neck, and a pair of thick glasses hooked in her pocket. When she noticed me stirring, she put these on.

“How’s your head?” she said.

I reached back and flinched. “Hurts worse when I poke it.”

“Then don’t poke.” She smiled. “I’m Dr. Cabrera.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, though it really wasn’t. My head was throbbing. I wanted to sleep.

“You hit your head pretty hard.” She shone a light in my eyes. It made me feel sick.

“How did I?—”

“Follow my fingers, okay?” She held up two fingers. I followed them obediently as she moved them around. Then she held up another one. “How many fingers?”

“Three, but?—”

“How many now?”

I squinted, head pounding. “Still three. Now four. Now your pinky and thumb. But how did I hurt myself? Did somebody hit me?”

“You don’t remember? You fainted.” Dr. Cabrera pushed up her glasses. “It isn’t uncommon in your first trimester. Of course, that’s assuming you’re not further along. We’ll need to do more blood tests, and an ultrasound. But I’m sure you have some idea?—”

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Don’t worry. It can wait for the morning. I see nothing to indicate that your baby’s in danger.”

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