Page 59 of The Wanted Prince

LAURA

My first day out of hospital, I escaped into sleep. It wasn’t hard, with all I’d been through. All the stress of the past weeks hit me at once — the long days of driving, the shabby motels. The fear we’d forget ourselves just for a second, and the press would descend on us. As they were doing now.

I slept through the tweetstorm and the tabloid assault, and my family’s statement, and Alessandro’s. When Mother came to peck at me, I kept my eyes closed, and the minute she went out, I dozed off again.

The next day, I couldn’t sleep, so I tried to hide. I slipped out at first light to walk in the garden, through the back orchards where the dawn mist hung thick. But walk as I might, my thoughts still kept pace, all the questions that had tormented me since my big news. Should I stay or go? Should I tell Alessandro? How should I tell him? What would he do?

I had to tell him. Of course I did. But not right away. I needed a friend first, someone to listen. Someone to help me sort out my thoughts. My talk with Alessandro would be the most important of my life. I couldn’t go in blundering, with no plan in mind.

I pulled out my phone, then remembered the time difference. Nine in the morning in Santaviedo was still the wee hours in New York. But when I turned back to the house, I spotted a light on in Hugo’s window. I stood for a moment, tense, undecided. Hugo and I had been on shaky ground lately, ever since my move to New York. We were talking again, but his hurt hadn’t healed. Neither had mine, from his long silence. What if he leaped on my pregnancy as a reason to stay?

Or what if this is our chance to start over?

Hugo’s dark silhouette passed by his window. I smiled at the sight of him, glad he was up. We had been close once, and I really did trust him. He stormed and blustered, but under all that, he cared.

I hurried back through the garden and the dark house, but by the time I got upstairs, Hugo was gone. I turned to go, then I staggered, suddenly dizzy. Nausea washed over me in sickly waves.

“Ugh…” I lurched back toward Hugo’s bathroom, but as quick as it had come on, my sickness had passed. In its place, I felt shaky, as though I might faint. I tottered to Hugo’s desk and flopped down in his chair. The leather was soft, and I leaned back, relieved, taking long breaths to dispel my shakes. I’d get up in a minute, find something to eat. Some crackers, maybe, or some toast and butter. As soon as that buzzing stopped, in my ears.

I breathed deep again. The buzzing stopped, started. Not in my ears. My phone, in my pocket. I pulled it out, but it wouldn’t unlock. All that came up was the low battery icon. I laughed as I saw it was Hugo’s phone buzzing, rattling its way to the edge of his desk. I didn’t mean to look at it, just push it back, but the text that popped up was hard to miss.

ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE

I MEAN IT. PICK UP

His phone buzzed again, an incoming call. I frowned — I should go. This was none of my business. But when I stood, my head swam, and I paused to regroup. And when I opened my eyes again, a fresh text popped up.

THE PRICE HAS GONE UP. IT’S $50,000 US. WIRE THE $$$$ BY NOON OR MY MOUTH STARTS RUNNING.

My blood turned to ice. Stars danced in my eyes. I snatched up Hugo’s phone and tapped in his passcode, the date he’d made his first million. Easy to guess. I didn’t pause to think I shouldn’t be snooping. My brother was in trouble, and that was that. Nothing else mattered, till I scrolled through his texts. One swipe, and my jaw dropped. Two, I turned cold. Three, and my stomach did a slow roll.

“Hugo, what the…”

THEY’RE SAYING NOW I COULD DO HARD TIME

10 YEARS OR 20 NOT THE 3 WE DISCUSSED

Don’t worry, said Hugo’s reply. My lawyers are on it. Sit tight and I promise, it’ll be fine.

My palms had gone sweaty. “What did you do?” I scrolled all the way up and read from the start, and it didn’t take long for the truth to come clear.

I’VE GOT THE GOODS. OUR PLACE AT 5.

My first thought was drugs, then I spotted the date: the king’s birthday. The night of the ball. A harsh sound escaped me, a squeal of outrage. Alessandro’s whole journey, his clash with his past, the sketchy hotel rooms, the humiliation. The tabloids. The spray cheese. The endless frustration. All that, and the thief was right here the whole time.

“My own brother,” I whispered.

“What are you doing?”

I whirled, and Hugo was blocking the door, or a man who looked like just him. But the Hugo I knew would never do this. I shrank from this new man. Thrust his phone behind me.

“Nothing. I felt sick…”

“Is that my phone?”

“No. Well, yes, but?—”

He took a step toward me, and I couldn’t help it. I screamed. Hugo recoiled, let his hands drop, and leaned on the doorframe.

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