King and Kingdom (8 page)

Finding it strange that the guard wasn't sure where Sander went, she made it to the ground and murmured her thanks for his help toward the waiting limousine. Groggy and still unable to fully get her mind to function right, she got into the vehicle while the men stored her luggage in the trunk.

She had a lot of explaining to do with Sander. Recalling the man who'd pressed her into the niche—what
had
she been thinking—Chey cringed. The details were muzzy and unclear, as if she couldn't quite pull everything to the surface. Sander's uncertainty pried at her memory until his face swam behind her eyes. He'd looked so disbelieving, so...not quite accusing, but certainly not happy. And why should he? That Damon had lied his pants off.

Just why
had
he lied his pants off, anyway? What had been the point of driving a wedge between her and Sander?

Disgruntled, Chey rubbed her fingers over her forehead. At some point during the flight, someone had peeled the gloves off her hands. Thankful for that, at least, she slouched into the plush seat of the limousine and concentrated on what she was going to say to Sander when she got back to the castle.

Obviously, someone had slipped something into her champagne. That knowledge presented itself as her mind began to clear away the cobwebs of sleep. Had it been Damon? He'd been the one to offer her the glass before sweeping her onto the dance floor. Up until his traitorous lies at the end, after Sander caught them together, he'd been courteous and polite. Surely he'd had no other ulterior motives. He didn't even know her, what could his agenda have possibly been? Not to pursue her hand—there were much less drastic ways of getting her attention. And he'd ensured at the end that no woman in her right mind would want him after lying so blatantly about what happened.

Her gaze fixed on the gloomy landscape beyond the window. She didn't really see the terrain, it was only a backdrop for the inner film rolling through her mind's eye. Nothing made sense. The entire evening had been fraught with tension ever since she and Sander had arrived, from Valentina's little wedding announcement to the sudden declaration that security had been breached at the hotel.

Or something to that effect. Diplomats and Royalty alike had been scattered away from possible danger.

It wasn't for another half hour, until Chey caught a glimpse of sparkling lights of the approaching cityscape, that she realized something was wrong.

There shouldn't be any cityscape against the skyline.

The Ahtissari family seat sat amidst acres upon acres of wild, untouched land.

Sitting up straighter, Chey peered out the window to see if it was Kalev, the main city of Latvala, they were entering. To her shock and dismay, she realized a few minutes later that they weren't in Kalev at all. Not in
Latvala
at all.

She stared at the outline of Seattle in disbelief.

“Wait, why are we in Seattle? Where's Sander?” Chey blurted out her questions to either of two guards sitting in the limousine further up near the dividing window. One turned his head to glance her way. Fair haired, blue eyed, he was not a guard Chey was intimately familiar with.

“Miss Sinclair, Prince Dare ordered us to bring you back here. He regrets things did not work out as planned, and hopes you understand that this was for the best regarding both of your futures.”

Chey stared at the guard as if he'd grown a second head. Sander had done this? Was he so upset, then, that he'd dismissed their relationship completely? He'd given her no indication last night that this would be the end result. Didn't they at least owe it to each other to discuss things? Or had seeing her with another man, along with Damon's damning words, been enough?

After all, Sander could have his choice of women. He didn't need one that cheated on him at the first sign of trouble.

“No, I don't really understand,” she said, upset at the tremor in her voice. “He wouldn't have just dismissed me like this.”

The guard's mouth quirked to the side. It seemed he struggled to find a diplomatic way to answer, instead of coming off with
Well he just did, didn't he?

“Prince Dare was very certain of his actions, Miss Sinclair. There was no doubt, no question. I'm sorry.” The guard turned his attention back to his companion.

“So this is it? What about my contact with the Royal family?” Nausea hit Chey like a ton of bricks. Not only had she lost Sander, but now she would be required to pay back money she'd already spent. One of her worst fears.

“Prince Dare has kindly covered the money you were advanced before your arrival. The rest will simply not be paid, since you won't be continuing with your photography of the family,” he said.

Kindly covered your advance.
Chey wanted to chew nails at how that grated on her nerves. On the one hand, she should be grateful that she didn't have to sell her soul to pay these people back. On the other—it galled her to know that Sander cavalierly sent her home and paid her advance as if buying her off.

Spending the rest of the ride in silence, Chey alternated between seething anger and crushing remorse. Just twenty-four hours ago, she and Sander had been flirting and happy and making plans for their immediate future.

Now she was ten minutes from her old stomping grounds, stripped of a relationship and a man she'd grown terribly fond of.

When the limousine pulled into her complex, a sense of the surreal hit Chey on an entirely different level than it usually did. She couldn't believe she was back here again.

Rolling to a stop in front of her building, the driver put the limousine in park and popped the trunk before coming around to open her door. Chey got out on her own, feeling ridiculous in her expensive gown. The guards followed, one collecting her luggage from the back. It felt a lot like a gallows march toward the stairs leading up to her door, and it took her several long minutes to fish her keys out from her belongings. Someone had tucked her clutch in among the other things.

“Again, we extend Prince Dare's sincere apologies. Be well,” one guard said, before they turned on a heel and descended the stairs to the parking lot.

Chey watched them go. There was nothing left to say.

Turning the key in the lock, she opened her door and pulled her luggage inside. Today, she didn't care if it sat haphazardly against the wall instead of her usual preference to line it up behind the couch. Closing the door with her hip, she stood there and stared at the small, rather plain apartment. Her head buzzed with disbelief. It wasn't the luxury of the castle she missed, or the expansive space of her suite of rooms on the second floor.

It was the gaping hole Sander left in her life. His presence had filled every waking second, and even some of her dreams. He was all consuming, a vivid persona that had engaged her imagination, her laughter, her fears.

Now he was gone and it hit her as hard as his death might have, leaving her wallowing in bleak despair.

Burying her face in her hands, she cried.

. . .

Twenty-four hours later, sitting amidst a pile of used tissues, Chey felt no better. Sleep had eluded her all night. The morning found her sitting lotus style on the couch, the television buzzing white static instead of a show, her cell phone parked next to her knee. It wasn't the same phone the Royals had given her to use, but the one she'd left Seattle with. Chey realized after searching for her cell that the other one had been removed from her belongings.

Any direct contact to Sander was gone.

A half hour before, in desperation, she'd called her best friend Wynn. They'd met in seventh grade and had been inseparable ever since. In her rush to depart Seattle, Chey hadn't had time to call Wynn and tell her what was going on. She'd meant to correct that oversight once in Latvala until her life had been threatened and put in jeopardy. Now Wynn had no clue why Chey was heartbroken and sobbing, though she'd promised to come over right away.

Without knocking, using a key Chey had given her months before, Wynn let herself in. Slim as a willow reed, she slipped past the door and closed it resolutely behind her. For her height, an unimpressive five-foot-three, Wynn nevertheless cast off a sturdy, capable air. This was a girl who got things done. Without fuss, without muss, and with enviable efficiency. Doe-like dark eyes, framed by indecently long lashes, peered out from the fragile bones of her oval shaped face. Silky black hair cut into a bob brushed the top of her shoulders, a more modern cut that went with the red lipstick painting her bow shaped mouth. A blue and green argyle sweater with a white collar peeking above the neckline at the throat topped a pleated skirt the same navy color in the sweater. Long leggings disappeared under the modest hem, her shoes patent leather with a strap across the arch.

“What's all this?” Wynn said, stalking through the apartment like the force of nature she could sometimes be. Tossing down her keys on the table near the wall, Wynn dropped her purse on the floor and stared at the luggage—as well as the elegant dress Chey had changed out of in favor of candy-cane decorated pajamas—with no small amount of confusion. The luggage remained unpacked and the dress had been tossed over the back of the other couch. Very unChey-like.

Blowing her nose for the hundredth time, Chey made a wayward gesture with her hand. “I have a lot to tell you.”

“You bet your hiney you do. What in the world is going on? Chey Sinclair,
crying?
Did the apocalypse happen when I wasn't looking? Look at all those tissues! You've been at this for hours.” Apparently appalled, Wynn crossed the room and threw herself down among the layers of balled up tissues and stared at Chey.

“You're not going to believe this,” Chey said, warning her friend of the impending story that she hardly believed herself.

“Try me.” Wynn looped an arm behind Chey's shoulders and smoothed a palm reassuringly across her back.

And so Chey began at the beginning. From the first visit of Allar and Hendrik and their offer to come photograph the Royal family. She explained in halting detail her flight over, the grand castle, and all the meetings with different members of the Ahtissari family. She didn't forget Natalia's spite, her mug throwing, or Viia's plot to have Chey removed from castle life.

Wynn listened, sometimes gasping, other times struck for words. She blurted out questions when she wanted more detail and expressed shock at the attack in the old castle when Sander had come to Chey's rescue.

Chey left nothing out. Not the nights she'd spent with Sander, nor their agreement to try and date despite the knowledge the King and Queen disapproved (to put it mildly).

Wynn grew more wide-eyed as the story unfolded, until Chey reached the event of the day just past, when Sander had caught her with another man and sent her packing.

Outraged, Wynn made her displeasure known. “What? Why would he have gone to that extreme? Sending you home without even a chance to explain?”

“I guess finding me kissing that devil-man was too much. I mean,
I
wasn't kissing Damon, he was kissing me, but that doesn't matter. It's what it looked like that matters,” Chey said. She tossed another spent tissue onto the growing pile.

“It just doesn't seem
right.
Are you positive that someone put something in your champagne?” Wynn asked, pressing the issue.

“Pretty sure. I've never had any alcohol hit me like that. I was woozy, dizzy. It just sounds like a petty excuse, though. I have no proof.”

“Do you really need proof after someone tried to take you out at the castle and the King and Queen's obvious disapproval of the relationship? Sounds to me like you were set up, especially if that guy gave you a
look
while you were being led away. What did that mean, anyway, if he hadn't been sent as a distraction?” Wynn crossed her arms over her thin chest.

“That seems so far fetched, though. You know? Like I'm reaching for excuses.” Except Chey
knew
something had been in her drink. All these hours later, the signs were more recognizable. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with another tissue.

“Honey, all of it seems far fetched. Being whisked off to a far-away castle, meeting a Prince you thought was someone else. Think about it. It's like a modern day fairy-tale—except not.”

“Yeah, it can't be a fairy-tale with an ending like this.”

“The story isn't over yet,” Wynn insisted.

“According to the King and Queen it is.” Chey shoved some of the tissues onto the floor. She just didn't care about the mess right now.

“The Chey I know wouldn't sit back and take it. She would call this Sander fellow and explain. He owes you that and you know it.”

“I can't just call him. They took my phone. The one--”

“I know the one you mean. But I also know you, and you memorized his number the first night you had it.” Wynn smiled knowingly.

Chey had to laugh. Wynn
did
know her well. “Okay, I memorized it.”

“That means you can call him. Right to his phone, too. No one to route you around and give you excuses.” Wynn gestured to Chey's cell phone with an impatient gesture.