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But this is probably the least like a petulant child I’ve ever sounded.
My mother shoots my father a look, and my father nods grimly. I have no idea what the silent conversation they’re having is, but I’m certain that I’m not going to like their response.
“Very well,” says my father. “For now, you can stay. But you are not to leave this house. Nobody is to see you. We are willing to accept your story as an honest one for now. But if you’re planning to stay in this country long term, it would be best if you and yourwife—” he says the word with such disdain that it makes me recoil, “—had better start making arrangements for her to come here for a formal introduction.”
I nod hesitantly. “She’ll need to get time off work. That doesn’t happen just overnight. You have to give us time to plan.”
They share another look, then my father says, “Two months. We’ll give you two months for this wife of yours to make an appearance. If she is as good and honest as you say, then we will have no problem with her. And if you’re willing to show some respect and responsibility for your duties, then we will graciously put an end to your exile and allow you all the full rights of citizenship again.”
I nod, bowing my head as I try to keep my face serious and hide the panic that has started swirling around in my stomach.
Invite Chloe here? What a mess this is becoming.
She has no idea that she married a prince. She has no idea what scheme she’s tangled up in. There’s no way I can be certain she’ll say yes to the trip, even less that she’ll agree to go along with the deception.
“Thank you,” I say to my parents instead of voicing any of these fears. “I’ll speak to her tonight. We will get something arranged. You’re going to like her, I promise.”
Neither of them say anything as they leave the room.
That night, I lie in bed and toy with the idea of texting Chloe, but I can’t figure out what to say.
So, I leave it.
And then I leave it the next day. And then a week goes by. Then two.
And every night I redraft the message that I’m trying to send.
And every night, I don’t send it.
CHAPTER 12
CHLOE
SEVEN WEEKS LATER
“Mom, I’m home!” I shout as I come through the front door.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Mom yells.
I take my shoes off in the hall and step through to the smell of my mother cooking.
“I’m making Bolognese,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Just the way you like it.”
“You’re the best,” I say, scampering up to her and wrapping my arms around her waist.
“No problem,” she says, covering one of my hands with hers. “How was the real estate agent?”
“Fine,” I say, not releasing my mother from my embrace. “We’ve got some options for a new place. They said that with my credit rating and the amount we’ve got to put down, we should have no problem buying an apartment.”
“That’s great,” smiles Mom. “You know, I do understand if you want to move out by yourself. To live your own life a little…”
“No way,” I scoff. “You’ve done so much for me, Mom. Now it’s my turn to look afteryou.”
She squeezes my hands, then gently pushes me away so she can go back to her pot.
“It smells good,” I say, breathing in the rich tomato smell.
She smiles warmly, but I can’t help but notice how tired she looks. The wrinkles in her face are deeper than ever, the bag under her eyes dark. She’s been through some hard times lately and I want to do everything I can to help her through it.