“Sell it,” he implores me. “I know what you’re thinking. Sell it and you’ll make your family very happy. You’ll have money in their savings, money for college, money to get that damn toilet of yours fixed. You deserve it. You all do.”

“Viktor, it’s too much.”

“No,” he says, his voice taking on a harder edge. “It’s not too much. It’s not even enough but it’s the best that I can do without…” he sighs. “Please Maggie.”

I rub my lips together while I try and wrestle with the knot in my stomach. I need my pride to take a hike again, I need to believe what he’s saying. “Are you sure?”

“Always more,” he says. “Never less.”

Oh, Jesus.

“You’re unreal,” I whisper. “How did I get so lucky to find you? All the people in that hotel I could have walked in on and I walked in on you.”

“All the maids that could have walked in on me, I’m sure glad it was you and not Juanita.”

I let out a sour laugh.

“I am joking of course,” he says quickly. “Perhaps now isn’t the time for it.”

“There’s always time to laugh,” I tell him but he’s kind of right. I feel all humor drain out of me the closer we get to the airport.

He parks the car in the short-term lot, gets his suitcase out of the trunk and places the keys in my palm, folding my fingers over it. “Yours.”

I grip the keys with all my might. I’m starting to think I might have to build a shrine to him. Viktor the moose and this car and the Splash Mountain picture. And lavender. Lots and lots of lavender.

I follow him into the terminal, stand by him anxiously as he gets his ticket and drops off his bag and the whole time I feel the seconds slipping away from us.

Why is time so cruel?

Why can’t we just hold it in our hands and keep it for ourselves and never let it let us go?

The walk over to the security line is brutal. I feel like I’m being led to a sentencing.

It shouldn’t be so hard, I tell myself. You’re just overemotional.

But I can’t rationalize my way out of this one.

We stop in front of the the agent who is scanning boarding passes and I know I can’t go past any further.

“Well,” he says, turning to me, grabbing my hand.

I shake my head because no, no. This isn’t it.

“This is it,” he says. He squeezes my hand and gazes down at me with such tenderness that my knees are moments from buckling. I’m barely keeping upright.

“I hope you have a good flight,” I manage to say, my voice starting to break.

“Maggie,” he whispers, running his thumb over my lip, his eyes searching mine, so beautifully pure and blue and warm. This man is so warm, his heart, his soul, his everything. “Come with me.”

God.

My heart almost explodes.

“Viktor…”

“You could come with me,” he says, swallowing hard. A look of desperation comes over him. “You could come with me. To Sweden. We could be together. Just for a week. You could do it. We could do this.”

No.

“Please don’t ask me,” I plead, the tears brimming in my eyes, making it hard to see. “Please don’t ask me.”

Because if he asks me, if he tries to convince me anymore, I’m so afraid I might say yes. This man means so much to me that I’d be willing to throw everything I have away, just for the chance to be by his side, even if just for a few more days.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he says, clearing his throat. “I can’t say goodbye. I’m not ready.”

“Viktor, please,” I cry out softly.

I see him break right before my eyes.

Then he’s grabbing me, pulling me into his chest, putting his arms around me so tight and then I’m breaking too, shattering and splintering and it’s only his strength that’s keeping me together.

“I will come back for you.” He kisses the top of my head, pressing his lips hard. “Just you try and stop me.”

He then let’s go and steps back and I nearly fall to my knees.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t feel my heart beat.

I can’t feel anything but the loss of him walking away.

“I will come back for you,” he says again, his jaw tight. His eyes don’t leave mine, even as he hands his ticket to the guard to be scanned.

Then he has to turn and walk away, swallowed by the line.

Then he’s gone.

He’s gone.

PART TWO

Six Months Later

Chapter Seventeen

Viktor

Stockholm

“One more question, your highness,” the journalist asks me and from the way her heavily-shadowed eyes twinkle, the sly twist to her bright pink lips, I know this one is going to be something I won’t like. They always save those questions for the end, so if the interviewee doesn’t answer it the way they want, they can always cut it out.

I’m used to it though. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been fully immersed into my role as heir to the throne, which means countless interviews as my country and the world starts to accept me. It’s all just a formality, a public relations move to ensure that Alex’s legacy is never forgotten and to assure the public that I’m someone they can trust. Maybe even like, although it’s hard to say if I’m winning them over or not. According to my mother I am, according to my father I’m not, and Freddie, dear Freddie, is as diplomatic as ever.

None of this has been easy but I’ve risen to the challenge. I’ve adapted to the schedule and the new life. I’ve learned, for the most part, how to protect my privacy and deal with the paparazzi’s newfound obsession with me. The Swedish journalists and photographers, they’re a lot easier to handle and I’m starting to know a few of them by name. Swedes in general are fairly reserved and that extends to the tabloids.

The Brits on the other hand are a fucking nuisance. They practically run over babies and kick kittens in order to get their perfect shots and ask the most moronic questions like “Is it true your brother was in a Satanic cult and was sacrificed?” and “Is it true he was gay?” and “Is it true that you’re having an affair with your butler?” and “about those sex tape rumors…”

I have no idea what the sex tape rumors entail but I have a feeling it involves a butler.

As much as leaving Maggie behind in California killed me, my parents and Dr. Bonakov were right to suggest that leaving Sweden for a while would get my head on straight. I came back from America different, changed. I can’t say if it was having weeks of freedom on the open road, of being completely anonymous, or if it was all Maggie.

Who am I kidding, though? It was all Maggie.

It will always be Maggie.

“What is the question?” I ask the journalist, who also happens to be British. I’m on camera for a British TV show, which, thankfully, isn’t live.

She shows off her blinding veneers. “The other week when you opened the School Leaders Forum in Malmo, a reporter had asked if you met anyone special and you replied, yes, I did once. Can you elaborate on that? Who is the special someone and what happened?”

I groan inwardly while keeping the smile on my face. I remember saying that. I don’t know why I did. It just came out. I’d been asked that for six months straight and every time I dodged it except this one time. I’m lucky I walked away from that reporter without divulging any more information.

Of course now, here I am, caught in the cross-hairs.

“There isn’t much to elaborate on,” I say and I’m already regretting that because I should have just said something like “it meant nothing” or “my personal life is my private life.”

She nods eagerly. “So what can you elaborate on? Who is she? Or him?”

I have to fight to not roll my eyes. “She’s…someone I met once. That’s all. There’s really nothing else to discuss.”

“Christmas is coming next month. You won’t be spending it with anyone?”

I give her a steady look. “No,” I tell her as politely as possible.

The journalist isn’t having it. “But you have to understand, your highness, that you’re one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. On top of that, you’re very handsome. You do know how good-looking you are, right?”

I cock my brow and give her an awkward smile. “Honestly, I spend so little time thinking about it.”

“About your looks or being single?”

“Both,” I tell her. I glance at the producer off to the side and then to Freddie who has been watching this whole thing. “I think I am done here, right?”

“Of course,” the producer says while Freddie nods.

“Jesus,” I say to Freddie after I leave the building and get in the back of the car, flashbulbs following me right to the window. “Did you know she was going to ask that?”

Freddie shakes his head. “No, sir, I did not.”

The driver pulls away, leaving the shouting reporters behind. I glance at them through the narrow window at the back of the car, shaking my head.

“Though I did mean to ask you, sir,” Freddie says. He’s been calling me sir more and more now. “What special someone were you talking about?”

I glance at him. He stares right back at me through his glasses, not the slightest bit chagrined for asking such a personal question.

“I met someone when I was in America,” I tell him. I have to admit, it feels good to get that off my chest. I haven’t told anyone about Maggie, not counting Prince Magnus.

“I figured that,” he says matter-of-factly and goes back to scrolling through his iPad.

“Wait, what do you mean?” I ask, twisting in my seat to face him. How could he have known? “Did you read my letters?”

“Letters, sir?” he repeats.

When I first got back to Stockholm, I was so busy being thrust into this new life that I barely had any time to talk to Maggie. When I did end up having time to talk on the phone, the time zones came into play. Sure we had texted each other a lot but I had a sneaking suspicion that my emails weren’t as private as they might seem. The thought of opening a private one, not tied to the palace, had me wary of hackers. You hear those stories all the time too.