Page 28 of Royal Affair
Every muscle in my body went rigid. The terror that shot through me had nothing to do with professional duty—somewhere between protecting and wanting her, she'd stopped being just another client. The thought of her vulnerable and unprotected made my vision narrow to a dangerous point. This was precisely why I'd tried to maintain distance and fought against the pull I felt toward her. When your judgment was compromised, people died.
‘Fuck,’ I muttered, pushing past Marcus and yanking open the coffee shop door. The bell chimed mockingly as I strode inside, scanning every corner.
Fuck. I'd made a tactical error, focusing too heavily on street-level threats while assuming the café's kitchen staff provided natural security for the rear exit. Weeks of eighteen-hour days and constant vigilance had dulled my edge—exactly the kind of mistake that got people killed.
"Sir?" A barista approached cautiously. "Are you looking for someone?"
"The princess," I growled. "Where did she go?"
The young woman hesitated, her eyes darting toward the back of the shop. "I'm not supposed to?—"
I pulled out my security credentials. "This isn't a game. Where is she!"
The barista swallowed hard. "Sofia let them through the kitchen with her friends. About fifteen minutes ago."
I was already moving. The bathrooms were empty. I charged through the swinging doors into the kitchen, startling the staff. The back door stood open, leading to an alley that stretched in both directions, empty except for scattered leaves and garbage bins.
"Three women passed through here!" I demanded.
A young cook nodded. "About fifteen minutes ago. They took a taxi from the alley."
My phone was in my hand before I hit the main street again. Evangeline's number went straight to voicemail—her phone was switched off. Her phone's last GPS ping showed right here at the café before going dark. Without the standard tracking devices that royal protocols prohibited, I was flying blind.
Marcus appeared behind me. "I'll check the traffic cameras at both ends of the alley. We'll find which direction they went."
I nodded and strode back to my car, pulling up the tracking software. Royal security protocols meant she didn't have any other standard tracking devices—a measure meant to prevent stalkers, now working against me.
I needed someone local with connections. I pulled up Carl's number—the driver who'd worked with us at the charity gala. Carl was Luxembourg-born and raised, with fifteen years of private security experience in the city.
Next: her friends, Octavia and Gabriela. I pulled up their details from my background files and started a location trace on Octavia's device. The ping came back twenty minutes later—they'd been moving fast along Avenue de la Liberté, but the trail had gone cold at the city center. There were too many possible destinations from there.
Something caught my eye near the dumpster—a crumpled receipt. I picked it up and examined it. The taxi company name was stamped across the top: Luxembourg City Cabs.
My phone rang—Marcus.
"Cameras picked up a black cab turning left out of the alley at 8:42. Couldn't see the license plate clearly."
"Company name?" I asked.
"Couldn't make it out." He paused. "Need backup?"
"Not yet," I replied. "But stay close."
They could have split up, creating false trails. This was Luxembourg on Halloween night– dozens of potential destinations, hundreds of places she could vanish into.
My fist slammed into the steering wheel. The princess was out there somewhere, vulnerable, unprotected. After the dead kitten, after that note... The memory of her face that night, pale and haunted, flashed through my mind. She knew something, was hiding something, and now she'd put herself directly in harm's way.
The last two weeks replayed in my mind—her haunted expression whenever I questioned her about the threat, the way she'd withdraw into herself. She was carrying something heavy, something she refused to share.
I dialed Luxembourg City Cabs, identifying myself as security for the Bellavista royal family.
"We need information on a pickup from Café Loren about fifteen minutes ago," I said, keeping my voice level despite the adrenaline coursing through me.
"I cannot disclose customer information, sir," came the practiced response.
"This is a security matter involving the Bellavista crown," I countered. "I can have the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom on the phone in thirty seconds if you need higher clearance."
Silence, then: "One moment, sir."
