At the beginning of all this, my commitment was to her above all else, and Marcus’s death changed that. When my brother died, my eyes were forced open to all the responsibility that I would have to take on.
When my brother died, I set aside my childish hopes of getting married for love, spending weekends away with one another, sharing plenty of private time by myself with a woman—with Jessica.
How can I ask her to give up her own life for the one I’m leading now?
That’s the fucking dilemma. Now that I’m not such a selfish bastard, it’s clear to me that I’m asking too much of Jessica. The situation is demanding too much of Jessica. She didn’t have all the information when she agreed to be with me. It doesn’t make it less unfair that I didn’t have all the information, either.
My pulse races as I sit up against the pillows.
To be with me, she’ll have to give up most, if not all, of her freedom and privacy. That’s just the way of things. And Jessica—Jessica thrives on her freedom. She blossoms in the world knowing that whenever she needs to make a change, she can do that.
It wouldn’t be like that living with me at Sainthall Palace.
Everything in our lives will be tracked, planned, double-checked, monitored.
It’s the price of being part of royalty.
So before she can speak again, I say the words I swore I’d never say. I say them even though saying them batters my heart, breaks it.
“Maybe it would be best if you went back to New York for a while. Just so we could sort this out without so much bickering.”
Her mouth falls open as if I’ve slapped her, and she draws in a sharp little breath. “You don’t mean that.” Her voice is so soft I almost can’t hear her speak.
My mind turns over each of the times I asked her to come with me, asked her to be with me, asked her to stay. But I don’t back down. I can’t.
“I do mean it. It’s not even about—fighting happens with every couple. But this just isn’t the place for you, Jessica. You need to be able to make your own decisions. You have to be able to leave when you want to, work when you want to, do what you want to.”
I’m trying to be honest, but it’s so difficult to say those things to her that my tone is harsh, unyielding.
Her wide blue eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t allow a single one to drop. “Wonderful,” she says bitterly. “I only wish you’d thought of this before I hopped on a plane with you to come across the goddamn ocean. I wish you’d thought of that before I lost my job. I wish you’d thought of that before you decided to break—.” She stops abruptly, looking away. “It would have been nice to have been given a fucking ounce of consideration, your highness.”
Something inside me snaps.
She’s right, of course, but it’s not my fault that I was born to my mother and father. It’s not my fault that I was a prince of Saintland. And it’s not my fault that my brother died. This isn’t fair to either of us, but I am not the only one to blame for this situation. I’m just not. And maybe I should have thought this though before we got on that plane, but Jessica didn’t either.
I don’t need this from her.
I don’t need this from anyone.
“That’s fine, Jessica,” I say, my top lip curling in what I’m sure is an ugly caricature of a smile. “I know women like you have a need to be waited on hand and foot.” I saunter around the bed, throw my shirt over my shoulders, and step into my pants as she watches me, her mouth open, her hand over her heart as if I’m driving a knife into it, slowly, point first. “If that’s the case, then I’m not the man for you. I’m sure you’ll find someone who is just perfect for you back in New York.”
As I put my hand on the door handle and pull it open to leave, I hear a strangled sob escape her lips.
In a move I will regret forever, I leave the room, leave her alone, without another look.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jessica
I’m shattered.
Devastated.
Simply crushed.
All the air has drained from my lungs, and when I suck it back in, it feels like knives stabbing my chest.
Alec’s words–his cruel dismissal–have left me in shock.
“I’m not the man for you. I’m sure you’ll find someone who is just perfect for you back in New York.”
I don’t want to cry, but one ragged sob wells up and bursts from the very depths of my soul before I can stop it.
He doesn’t look back at me.
He doesn’t turn around.
He just…leaves.
He’s gone.
It has to be his grief, the absolute exhaustion he’s feeling, the weight of the world on his shoulders, that made him say those awful things to me. He couldn’t possibly have meant those things–any of it–not after all we’ve done together, not after this grand adventure of coming halfway across the world together, and definitely not after we’ve come to care so deeply for one another.