“Mmhmm.” I barely looked up, hands moving on autopilot as I measured out the ingredients.
“Shy,” Malin said, drawing out the vowel sound. “Isn’t that interesting?”
I furrowed my brow. “Shy? I thought you said he was confident.”
Malin giggled. “No,that’shis name.S-H-A?—”
I never even heard theI.The cup slipped from my grasp, hit the counter, and shattered into a zillion pieces. Hot liquid splattered everywhere, dripping down the counter and scalding my arms and hands, probably, even though I didn’t feel a goddamn thing.
Malin froze, understandably stunned by the sight of me standing helpless, arms raised halfway, eyes fixed unseeingly on the scene. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Stupid, stupid, STUPID fucking girl. Like there aren’t thousands of them out there. Millions. Well, maybe not millions, but you can’t possibly be stupid enough to think that?—
“Honey, you’re shaking,” said Basia as she, Rebekah, and Laken dashed out of the back office, startled by the noise. Basia drew her arms around me tightly. “Malin, grab a towel, honey.”
Malin blinked and nodded, ducking under the counter.
Rebekah turned on the faucet at the same second Malin reappeared with a clean rag.
“And you’re scalded,” Basia exclaimed, grabbing my arm and holding it under the running water. “We need to get?—”
“It’s fine,” I cut her off. “I’m fine. I’m sorry, Basia. I’m so sorry. I’ll clean this up, I promise. I’ll—I’ll—I’ll—” But I was stuck, stammering, trembling, helpless. All I could do was takeit in: the smithereens of earthenware, the exploded cappuccino, the foamy mess trailing down the machine and the floor. And the blurry reflection in the refrigerator, a splash of molten gold across gunmetal gray.
“Oh, shit. Lou. I’m sorry! Are you okay?”
The heads of all five people behind the counter spun around instantly.
And there, of course, was Malin’s prince.
The prince I had last seen in a rough gray slave uniform, standing amid the chains he had shed. And who had now exchanged those for a luxe wool peacoat, a cashmere scarf, and chunky gold rings on his scarred hands, which he was currently running through his snow-dusted golden hair in chagrin as he leaned far, far over to rest his elbows on the glass bakery case.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” Shai said to Basia. “I’ll pay for it, don’t worry.”
But Basia didn’t move, and neither did Rebekah or Laken or Malin, and neither did I, though the tap was still running, raining water down on my scalded arm. I couldn’t.Nothingabout what was happening right now made sense, unless I’d either fallen into a time warp where three years had gone by already, or there was a phalanx of armed federal agents outside ready to smash in the windows.
“I really fucked this up, yeah?” Shai said with a sheepish little laugh. “You look soscared, Lou. I promise, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just me. Come.” He beckoned me forward.
But I didn’t move, so to set me in motion, my boss lightly swatted me on the bottom, which she could get away with because she was Basia and she once let a slave girl give birth in her freezer and then hid the baby.
Well. I couldn’t feel my body as I floated incorporeally over to the bakery case, my eyes fixed on the hands and the wrists underneath those rich wool sleeves with their brass buttons.
“Heisa prince, right?” I vaguely heard Malin remarking to no one in particular. “Definitely a prince. I totally called it.”
“Lou. Listen.” As I stared, those same hands traced nervous star shapes on the glass case, and—though they were just inches away from my own—went no farther. “I did rehearse an elaborate speech, I promise, but I forgot it all a second ago, so here’s the gist of it: your dad patented the microchip formula on my behalf. With Erica’s help.”
When I didn’t move or respond, he took a deep breath and forged ahead.
“They found some decent engineers, developed a prototype, and pitched it to some venture capitalists who only invest in paid-labor startups. Behind my back, of course, but he was banned from contacting me, so I can’t be too angry about it, and now we’ve got seed funding in the high seven figures and we?—”
“Wait.” I’d only heard about half of what he’d said and understood even less. “We?”
“Well, yeah.” He blinked. “I own fifty-one percent of the company.”
“But—” I shook my head. This wasn’t helping, and none of it would unless he explained just how in the fucking hell he washere.
“Just let me finish, yeah?” He was half-smiling. A good sign, and also, confirmation that nobody in tactical gear was about to bust down the door.
Okay. Breathe.
