Page 33 of The Princess Trap

“Yeah, whatever. So I texted Hans and he said, ‘Ruben is engaged’.”

All eyes swung to Hans, who was sitting silently in the corner. He raised his brows. “What? Youareengaged.”

“Anyway,” Demi said, her tone long-suffering. “I thought either something was up, or… I don’t know, that Ruben met his soulmate and fell in love at first sight.”

Hans snorted. “Is that why your hijab is all… glittery?”

“Awww, you noticed!”

“You look like a disco ball.”

“Don’t hate me cuz you ain’t me.”

Cherry, Ruben realised, was watching the pair trade barbs with the strangest little smile on her face. Then she met his gaze, and instead of looking away, she arched a brow. Almost conspiratorially.

Now, if he could just figure out what the conspiracy was…

When he could only stare blankly in response, she rolled her eyes heavenward and looked away.

Shit.

“So anyway,” Demi said, turning pointedly away from Hans. “What’s going on?”

“Yes, Ruben,” Cherry said sweetly. “Tell her. Explain the situation. Please.”

Ruben stifled a sigh. This was not going to be easy.

The sun was setting by the time they reached Ruben’s estate. Because that, Cherry decided, was the only appropriate word for it: estate.

They may be in Scandinavia, but the imposing grey-bricked mansion looming in the distance seemed as English as steak and kidney pie. Or classism. Or fish and chips.

A huge wall surrounded the property, passing further than Cherry could see, but the car stopped in front of a pair of gothic, iron gates. The gates swung open unassisted, like something out of a horror film, and they drove in.

Why did it feel like Cherry was marching headfirst into her own doom?

A tense discussion raged in the car. Demi, unsurprisingly, had been horrified at Ruben’s explanation and was now berating him quite passionately for putting Cherry in ‘such an awful position’.

Cherry rather liked Demi.

But the argument was cyclical, like siblings bickering during a road trip, and Cherry’s nerves were strung tight enough as it was. Earlier that day, before leaving for the airport, she’d had a quick and unpleasant phone call with her parents.

It hadn’t gone well. Not that they wereangrywith her. No. But when she’d awkwardly lied about a whirlwind courtship and sudden engagement—things she’dneverdo—they’d decided that she was having some kind of early mid-life crisis, and that Ruben was taking advantage of that crisis for his nefarious, princely purposes.

She’d been hoping that his royal status might get her parents onboard. Apparently, the opposite was true.

So she took deep breaths and tuned out the argument filling the car, squinting out of the darkened windows as they drove up the gravel path. She could hear it crunching beneath the car wheels. Who the fuck had a gravel path, for Christ’s sake? And the thing was miles long, too, with a turning circle. A bloody turning circle!

She bit the inside of her cheek as they approached the house. And then…

They drove right past it.

Cherry frowned. “Where are we going?”

Ruben took a break from bickering with his P.A. to say, “Home.”

“Isn’t that your house?”

He rolled his eyes. “The mansion? No. I hate that place.”