Ugh. Why did it hurt to think of that? Nya followed the gossip columns, and read about the people Johan was alleged to be dating. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to do that anymore.

Foolish girl.

She found what she was looking for—the gazebo where she had gotten to know Naledi during her recovery in the royal hospital. It was surrounded by honeysuckle plants, the air sweet with their scent, and she took a seat on her favorite bench so she could feel sorry for herself without standing on four-inch heels.

“Nya?”

His voice was outside the gazebo; she was hidden by the greenery wrapping itself around the wooden posts, and she stayed quiet. She wanted to see him but also wanted to be alone with her loneliness, to not have to put on a smile and reassure someone that she was okay when she wasn’t. She wanted to sit with the knowledge that she was a silly girl who would miss a man she barely knew.

Just then her phone chimed in her hand.

Hanjo: Have you heard the news? Someone graffitied DOWN WITH THE MONARCHY over the entry to the palace. The royal guards saw no one. I’m shocked to say the least.

Nya:

Oh no, how horrible!

Good! The monarchy needs to be destroyed.

Do you know who did it?

“Dammit, Hanjo!” she muttered, tapping C without really reading and then putting the phone beside her on the bench. She was turning off the sound when the response popped up.

Hanjo: It would have to be someone with access to the palace and who knew the guard schedule . . .

She heard the creak of Johan’s footsteps on the wooden boards of the gazebo, but kept her eyes on her phone. When the black wing tips were in her line of sight, Nya looked up into Johan’s eyes. They were an impossible shade of blue, and his lashes were long and thick, and goddess, why did he have to look like a sim dating hero come to life?

It wasn’t fair, wanting and never having. She was tired of it.

“There you are,” he said in the voice he used when they were alone. The one that wasn’t cloaked in sarcasm and dry wit.

She blurted out the first thing that came to mind as she stared up at him. Anything that would drive away the looming embarrassment of what had happened between them the previous evening, and the crushing reality that she didn’t want him to leave, and probably not just because he was her friend.

“Do you use Jamaican Black Castor Oil?” she asked, pointing to her own lashes.

“Pardon?” His auburn brows rose in very reasonable confusion.

“Your lashes. They’re very . . . lustrous.”

He blinked a few times, inadvertently showing them off.

Embarrassment flamed through her—this was one reason she stuck to the dating sims when it came to talking to men. Choosing a pithy response from a list was easier than coming up with conversation on your own.

“Thank you?” His deep, accented voice was tinged with amusement. “I’m glad my lashes please you.”

Oh goddess.

“I should go,” she said, standing to move past him before more silliness flew from her mouth.

“Nya.”

He didn’t reach out to stop her, but the beckoning in his voice was as good as his fingers curling around her wrist. She looked back at him over her shoulder.

His gaze was warm and inviting and if Nya didn’t know better, she might imagine that the Tabloid Prince of Liechtienbourg fancied plain boring her.

You dream too big, girl.

His full lips pulled up into a grin. “You should stay.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice sounding high and girlish and exactly how people would expect she’d sound while alone with a handsome man. She reminded herself that she had been alone with him several times. There was no need to act like anything had changed, apart from him offering to debauch her, and parading her through the reception, and almost kissing her.

“You’re upset.” He held up a hand, miming for her to wait, then pulled open his pocket, pretending to take out a small square. Nya squinted at him, amused, as he pretended to unfold the square into a larger rectangle, which he then hung from an invisible hook near his head. “Confidant services are now open.”

He pointed encouragingly at the invisible sign, brows raised, and she laughed, shaking her head. Some of the tension that had ratcheted itself up in her dissipated. This was Johan. Who always encouraged her and secretly slept with an angry teddy bear.

“Oh, if only your fans knew you’d hidden your sexiest skill—miming.”

“Miming is a respected art in Liechtienbourg,” he said, then pointed to his invisible sign. “What’s wrong?”

“My father wants to see me.” It was easy to tell him, now that he’d reminded her that they were friends. “He’s making threats about what he’ll do if I don’t come to the prison.”

Johan’s lips pressed together into a tight line, and he folded his arms across his chest, shifting from mime mode to something like a stern bodyguard. “Do you want to see him?”

“Maybe I will one day,” she said. “But not now, and definitely not because he forced my hand. I’m trying to figure out what I want to do once everyone leaves and I’m alone again.”

“I see.” He uncrossed his arms and made a big show of taking down his imaginary sign and refolding it, glancing up to see if she was pleased. After he’d crammed it into the pocket of his slacks, he beckoned her. “Come. Let’s sit down.”