Johan knew there would be some people who responded with ignorance when the word spread, but they would handle it together as a family. And when he thought of family, he also thought of Nya, no matter that their engagement hadn’t been real. His feelings for her were. He’d told her, but his actions hadn’t backed it up, and he was going to fix that.

He’d gone over all the grandiose public gestures he could make—his specialty really—but none of them felt right. After the press conference, and making sure it was okay with Lukas and Linus, Johan made a call to Greta as he packed a suitcase. He paused to rummage around in his costume trunk, where he kept his captain’s hat and mermaid tail, among other things.

“Clear my schedule for the next few days. I’ll be heading to Thesolo.”

“But what about the referendum?”

“Honestly? The referendum isn’t my priority right now. I can retain my title of Tabloid Prince with or without a monarchy, and I don’t really think I want that crown anymore.”

Greta made a sound of consideration. “I see. Well, good luck, Johan. I hope you get what you need.”

“We’ll see.”

Chapter 26

Phokojoe knew to expect the maiden. He knew what she would ask of him. He should have swallowed her whole before she opened her mouth, but he had come to love the maiden. He would give her anything she requested, even his own life.

“Phokojoe, I have nothing to offer you,” she said when she stood before him, her skin lustrous like a dark pearl under the moonlight.

“You have treated me well and I will never forget that. What is it you most desire, lovely maiden?” he asked.

She bowed her head, so close to him that her floral scent filled his nose, and whispered her wildest dream into his ear.

—From Phokojoe the Trickster God

Nya stood in the waiting room of Thesolo’s only prison, which was surprisingly nice given the ones she’d seen on American crime shows. It was decorated with plush couches and stocked with drinks and snacks. Like the orphanage where Nya had worked, the goal was to make it an environment conducive to growth, and—as with this waiting area—to not make people feel like castoffs in their time of need. Having a loved one in prison was hard enough, was the prevailing thought. Why make visiting them a hardship as well?

Nya’s nerves jangled as she waited to be escorted to the hospital wing of the prison, where her father had been taken after collapsing. Ledi and Thabiso had offered to join her, but she needed to do this alone. Her grandparents had been forced into deciding whether to see the son they’d raised—or to forgive the man who had almost killed them—and were at a stalemate.

She still wasn’t sure what she would say to him. She wanted to tell him how he’d stolen her dreams for so many years, had kept her trapped in a cage instead of letting her fly free and return of her own will. How he’d made her sick, threatening her health, had lied and manipulated and gaslit her so that she hadn’t known what normal was or how to achieve it.

She’d thought she’d spend the flight from Liechtienbourg figuring out her script, but her worries had been so overwhelming that she’d simply fallen asleep, as if her body had simply said not today, Satan and gone into hibernation mode.

Or perhaps she’d been exhausted from her night with Johan, followed by her fight with Johan. Her ring finger felt odd without the silver band she’d grown used to in such a brief period of time, and she kept thinking of what Johan would do with it, when the obvious answer was give it to someone else, eventually.

She had no reason to go back to him. The referendum was currently being tallied, she imagined, and whatever had passed between her and Johan had been meant to be temporary. She didn’t fool herself into thinking that just because they’d been silly enough to fall in love it would change anything. People who’d loved each other deeply and earnestly for years sometimes parted ways; she couldn’t expect a relationship that had lasted a few weeks and was based on lies to stand the test of time, no matter how much she wanted it to.

The prison nurse came out then, clad in his white uniform and looking uncertainly at Nya, and she braced herself for bad news.

“Ms. Jerami?” he asked, beckoning when she nodded. “Right this way.”

“Is he stable?” she asked. “My grandparents were told that his organs were starting to shut down from lack of food, and that he’d collapsed.”

The nurse’s steps slowed, and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Who told them this?”

“They received a call from the prison doctor yesterday.”

The man’s brow wrinkled. “It appears there has been some miscommunication. Your father is in here.”

He opened the door to the room and the sorrow Nya had been bracing for was replaced by shock.

Alehk Jerami lay on the bed in the clean infirmary room with his legs crossed comfortably at the ankles, his eyes trained on the comedy show playing on the large TV hanging on the wall. He chuckled and bit into the apple he held in one hand.

He looked . . . well, he looked great. He’d grown a short gray beard and though he had lost weight, it wasn’t from starvation. It had been replaced with muscle, as if he’d been hitting the gym. And then his head turned toward the door.

His did a double take and then quickly tucked the apple under his pillow, swallowing audibly. His expression began to droop and his shoulders hunched, and his languid repose morphed into one stiff with agony. When he spoke, his voice was weak and pathetic.