Page 27 of The Prince's Green Card Scheme

That night, I put in a request for time off work, and to my surprise, it gets approved almost immediately.

The next thing to do is tell Paul. But I don’t know what to say.

I lie in bed, awake into the early hours of the morning trying to think of anything to say at all. Eventually, I just send a screenshot of the leave approval.

Not too much longer, Paul texts back with a screenshot of flight confirmations. I don’t even want to know what time it is in Bellamare right now.

Has he been waiting for me since we spoke?

Is he looking forward to this as much as I am?

CHAPTER 13

CHLOE

It’s a seven-hour flight to Amsterdam then another three and a half hours to Bellamare. By the time I finally land in my father’s home country, I’ve been awake for a million hours and all the coffee in the world isn’t going to do anything.

I’m already not looking forward to the flight back.

I’d never been in a plane before today, and though it wasn’t as bad as I had been expecting, it still wasn’t my favorite activity. The airport at JFK was terrifyingly busy because it’s summer, and Amsterdam wasn’t much better. I couldn’t sleep during the entire overnight flight from New York to Amsterdam either, and I was too wired on European caffeine on the way to Bellamare.

If it were up to me, I think I would have taken the train everywhere. Unfortunately, though, Bellamare is an island, and Paul was insistent that I got there as fast as I possibly could.

So, flights it was.

The immigration line is long at arrivals, but it doesn’t take too long to pass through to the front of the line. The customs officersmiles at me, welcomes me into the country and stamps my passport.

And then I step through the arrivals gate, basking in the summer sun of a country that I’ve always wanted to see.

Paul said that he had arranged transport for me from the airport to his home, but when I stand waiting, I can’t see anyone who seems to be waiting for me. People bustle around me, dragging their suitcases behind them, shouting at each other in all sorts of languages. Mothers carry their children, and lovers jump into taxis hand in hand, and all this is set to the loud backdrop of aircraft landing and taking off.

In movies, there’s always someone holding a sign with the traveler’s name on, but I can’t spot my name anywhere. I grip the straps of my backpack tighter, starting to get nervous that this is all a massive practical joke.

Just then, a man in a sharp suit approaches me. In an accent I would call Italian if I didn’t know any better, he says to me, “Ma’am. You’re Miss Chloe Fontana, yes?”

I grin. “That’s me.”

“Very good. Follow me, ma’am. I have a car waiting for you.”

I chuckle nervously at the formality but chalk it up to a cultural thing that I don’t understand. Everything here is so new, and I’m so tired. It’s like all my senses are exploding.

He leads me out to a small parking lot that is fenced off from the common rabble of people, and gestures towards a black car with tinted windows. My stomach lurches. “Um… can I have some sort of proof of identity?” I ask, clasping my hands together. “Idon’t exactly want to get bundled into a car and kidnapped right now, you know? I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”

When the man frowns, confused, I decided he’s probably not a kidnapper. I think most kidnappers probably just kidnap you without waiting to have a conversation about it first.

“Of course,” he says at last. He reaches into his pocket, and I flinch before I realize that he’s probably not reaching for a gun. Instead, he pulls out his wallet and shows me an ID card identifying him as one of the staff of the royal palace.

Royal?I think.Why the hell have I got a royal escort?

“Is that to your satisfaction, Your Highness?” the driver asks, and that’s when I know something is really weird here.

“Uh… yes. Thank you,” I say, then scramble to get into the car before we can have any more odd conversations.

I buckle up my seatbelt as the driver gets in the front. “It’s about forty minutes to the palace,” he informs me, “so I hope you’re ready for a little drive.”

“Sure,” I say, resigning myself to the fact that we’re going to have to make conversation after all. Usually, I love to talk to people, but this is just getting weirder by the second. I don’t think I like being calledYour Highness. There’s nothing high about me.

I’m a normal girl. And I’m getting the horrible feeling that I’m being taken for a fool.

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