Page 102 of That Prince is Mine
“You have a ring?” She blinked back a rush of tears.
“Yes, it’s… it’s my mother’s ring. It’s rather old—passed down through generations—but I think you would like it. It’s beautiful and unique. Like you.”
“Your mother’s ring?” she croaked, sliding down to the floor with her back against the door. “How do you have it with you?”
“I brought it with me from Rouleme…”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a hopeless romantic.” His chuckle sounded sheepish. “Because I hoped that I would meet you. I think I knew that I would meet you, darling Emma.”
“Michel?” she whispered.
“Yes?” There was a soft scraping sound. He must’ve put his palm against the door. Maybe right where she had hers a minute ago. “Tell me what you need.”
She muffled a sob with her hand tight over her mouth. When she was certain she could speak without crying, she said, “Can you ask Sophie to come?”
“Sophie?” He sounded bewildered but quickly recovered. “Of course. Let me go get her. I’ll be… I’ll be right back.”
Emma wiped her hands across her wet cheeks and blew out a long, shaky breath. Her heart was beating way too fast. She wanted to remind herself she needed to stay in America, her home, but it took more effort than she’d thought possible. All she could manage to focus on was that her dad needed her. But what did she need? She dug the heel of her hand into the center of her aching chest. She shook her head and composed herself the best she could.
“Emma, it’s me,” Sophie said from the other side of the door, her voice as soothing as a cool hand on a feverish forehead. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.” Emma forced the words past her sandpaper throat. “Is… is Michel there?”
“Yes, but…” Her friend sounded torn.
“Can you ask him to leave?” Emma turned her head so her cheek rested on the door.
There was a murmur of voices—Sophie’s gentle and calm, Michel’s confused and hurt—then her friend said, “He’s gone now, but he’s frantic with worry. It’s hard to see him… and you… like this.”
Emma somehow got to her feet, grabbing on to whatever she could, and opened the door. After one look at her face, Sophie gathered her into her arms. Emma made no attempt to stop the flow of tears. She wouldn’t have succeeded anyway.
“He…” She hiccupped. “He wants to marry me.”
“He does.” Sophie rubbed her back, trying to ease her shivering. “He loves you, Emma.”
“I know.” She let her friend lead her to the sitting area and fell weakly into an armchair. “And I love him. I love him so much, but…”
“It’s overwhelming,” Sophie finished for her, tucking a blanket around her.
“It’s too fucking much,” Emma wailed.
“I can only imagine.” Her friend settled on the opposite armchair, her brows furrowed in sympathy.
“I would be leaving everything and everyone I know behind.” Fresh tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.
“It’s not an easy decision,” Sophie murmured and reached across to squeeze her hand.
“And… and I’m Asian.” Emma didn’t know how to put all her apprehension into words.
“Yes, and they’re so very white.” A wry smile curled her friend’s lips. “But the king and the rest of the royal family… they’re good people.”
“How about the rest of the country?” Emma asked, even though she remembered Michel telling her that they were an open-minded, hardworking people.
“Most people in Rouleme are fair-minded and progressive.” Sophie didn’t have to add the obvious—that some people were very much not. “The prince will not stand by and watch you get hurt. You’ll have the entire royal family on your side.”
Emma cradled her head in her hands. It was the vocal minority who always brought the vitriol, wasn’t it? Hate was such a brutal weapon—it could wear down the bravest souls. But wasn’t the love and support of the people who mattered stronger than hate? She covered her face with her hands. It was too much to digest all at once—maybe ever. She needed to think, but the tangle of contradicting emotions inside her overwhelmed her logic.
