Page 110 of That Prince is Mine
She didn’t even remember how she got in the car, but Gabriel drove like the devil. She hung on to the grab handle for dear life. “Do you always drive like this?”
“I did a stint in Formula One in my early twenties…” When he caught a glimpse of her pale face, he quickly averred, “It was a very brief stint. I can slow down. I’m just anxious to get on that plane.”
“You bought my plane ticket ahead of time?” she asked, loosening her grip on the handle.
“No.” He looked a bit sheepish. “We’re taking a private jet.”
“A private jet?” She swiveled in her seat to stare at him.
“It’s not something the royal family does often, but this is an emergency. Sophie asked Michel’s personal assistant to arrange it.”
“I… I see,” she said weakly, both impressed and flummoxed.
Emma had a lot of figuring out to do before they landed in Rouleme. Like coming to terms with the fact that the royal family had a private jet at their disposal—but more importantly that she might become a member of the royal family. No, she would become one, because she was marrying the crown prince.
“Oh my God.” She looked down at the slightly rumpled shirt and jeans she’d thrown on. “Am I meeting the king? Wearing this?”
“Not to worry.” Gabriel screeched into the airport. “Marion will have something suitable for you to change into.”
“Something suitable for saving the future of Rouleme?” A faint smile lit her face. “I’m thinking the occasion calls for a cape.”
“But please, no underwear on the outside,” he deadpanned, pulling up in front of a sleek white airplane. “Underwear should be worn under the clothing even when the fate of a nation lies in your hands.”
Emma burst into a fit of giggles fueled by nerves and anticipation. And she kept laughing as she and Gabriel ran to the waiting plane. She had to hold on to her aching side as she climbed on board—as much from the laughter as the unexpected cardio.
The opulent interior of the private jet lived up to the expectations created by TV shows and movies. But as the reality of the situation sank in, Emma felt too distraught to enjoy any of it other than to notice that her leather seat was really, really comfortable and that their flight attendant was super competent and nice.
With only two passengers, the plane took off in no time. Emma stared sightlessly out the window as her stomach settled and her ears popped, her body adjusting to the altitude. Even though they were on their way to Rouleme as fast as humanly possible, she felt like a windup toy ready to snap with just one more creaky turn of the knob. She closed her eyes and prayed…
Please don’t let me be too late. Please.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Michel threw his dinner jacket on his bed and stepped out onto the balcony, facing the inner courtyard of the palace. The view of the elegant fountain surrounded by a neatly manicured garden usually relaxed him, but he couldn’t draw a proper breath tonight.
He thought he would lose his mind when Emma left him. Her parting words had played over and over in his head, drowning him with shame, until he came to his decision to abdicate. Because she was right.
It was true he had asked her to give up everything while he risked nothing. In all his privilege and entitlement, he had never once thought he could be the one to sacrifice everything. Now he knew he would give anything to have Emma back.
But when he decided to abdicate, he realized that he truly wanted to rule Rouleme. He realized too late that he wanted to be a good king like his father. It would be a privilege to sit on the throne, not a burden. He loosened his tie with an impatient tug and ran his fingers through his hair. Leaving his people behind would be like ripping out a vital part of himself, but Emma was worth the sacrifice. He wouldn’t be whole without his country, but he would be nothing without her.
Emma had been wrong about one thing. She’d accused him of keeping his engagement a secret as a backup plan when he never made a conscious decision not to tell her. In truth, he had been so focused on winning her over that he’d all but forgotten about his engagement to his childhood friend.
And she’d been wrong to suspect that he would’ve married Isabelle if she refused his proposal. He could never marry anyone else—duty be damned—because his heart would always belong to Emma. It wouldn’t be fair to Isabelle, and it wouldn’t be fair to him. He wanted to kick himself for not telling her that before she walked out of his hotel room.
But God, he hoped Emma would have him. He hoped he could prove to her that she would always come first for him. He would not have survived the last few days if he hadn’t come up with a plan to win her back. Now that he’d decided to abdicate, he felt as though he was making his way back to her. The unbearable pressure in his chest had eased just enough to let him breathe. He wouldn’t be whole until he was by her side again, but the hope of winning her back gave him enough strength to function—enough strength to carry out his plan.
Michel just prayed that it wouldn’t kill his father to hear his decision. The longer he waited to tell his father, the more anxious he became, and he desperately needed to be done with it. But every time he tried to speak to his father alone, some peculiar obstacle would appear. It would usually be Sophie or Antoine with some urgent matter that needed Michel’s immediate attention, which ultimately turned out to be a false alarm.
Their obvious interference was extremely vexing. Yesterday evening, he found his door locked from the outside when he tried to go to his father. When he texted Sophie, she came to his chamber without delay, then proceeded to apologize for nearly half an hour as she worked with Antoine to fix the allegedly broken lock. They ignored his suggestion to retrieve the palace caretaker and spent another half an hour saying Almost there. By the time they got his door open, his father had retired for the night.
With an aggrieved sigh, Michel turned his back on the courtyard and stepped into his chambers. Staring out into the night wasn’t going to solve anything. He needed to speak with his father. As he steeled his nerves and reached for the door handle, a firm knock sounded at the door. His brows furrowed in confusion, but he finished opening the door as he’d intended.
“My… prince.” Sophie seemed taken aback to have her knock answered so quickly, but gathered herself with a brisk shake of her head. “I mean… Do you have a moment to talk, Michel? As a friend?”
“Of course.” It was his turn to be surprised, but his shock swiftly morphed into suspicion. This had to be another delay tactic. “Please come in.”
He led her to his sitting room with the sky-blue wallpaper and dark wood trim. The soothing decor should make a nice backdrop for their friend talk. They sat down at the opposite ends of a long sofa. When Michel turned toward her and arched an eyebrow, Sophie cleared her throat.
