to my home in Anglefell.”
“Unfortunately, there’s no passage from Scotland to Anglefell.”
“No.”
“Can you walk us through what happened last night?”
I launch into an overdramatized and tearful account of my kidnapping, tactfully deciding not to name the men who took me. The bastards better be grateful. Melissa leans forward, helpfully offering me a box of tissues. I pluck one of them and hide my dry face under it, pretending to be overcome with emotion.
“I can’t imagine what it must have been like.”
It was more of an annoyance than anything else. “It was awful. I got extremely seasick, and the crew just laughed at me as I was vomiting all over the ship.”
“Oh my.”
“All I want is to go back home to my husband.”
One of the producers mouths something to me. Then she mimes crying.
Damn it.
I glance into one of the burning lights, and my eyes immediately water.
Then I try to work a tremble in my voice. “It was cold, and I had no idea where we were going, or if I’d even live to see another day. When they left, I begged the Edinburgh Yacht Club for passage back to Anglefell, but they kicked me out.”
I dab at my eyes as Melissa lets out another shocked sound.
“Did they know who you were?”
“They knew who I was. They just didn’t care.”
She reaches across the table as I keep sniffling. “Did you get a good look at any of your kidnappers?”
“No! They were all wearing masks.”
Those fuckers better be grateful I’m not calling them out by name. I debated for hours whether to mention Prince Lucian and decided against it at the last minute.
She nods. “Let’s change the subject for a moment. Daisy, can you tell us a little about what life is like in the castle?”
I sit up straight, clasping my hands in my lap. “Anglefell is a beautiful country. It wasn’t until my honeymoon tour that I really fell in love with it. Everyone we met was so warm and welcoming. I’ve really grown to think of it as my home, you know? It’s no longer the place I wanted to visit for fun—my life is there.”
“What about California? Your studies?”
I stumble for a few moments, looking into her bright eyes. “There will always be a part of me that misses California.”
“What do you miss the most?”
“The weather. My classmates. My family.”
“We’re just about to run out of time, but do you have anything you’d like to say?”
“Yes, please.” I look away from Melissa into the black, reflective lens of the camera. “I implore the government to let me have safe passage to Anglefell. I was brought here against my will. Liam, if you’re listening, I love you. Please bring me home.”
Home.
I don’t know where the hell that is anymore.
Within minutes of airing that interview, Prince Liam’s fans flooded his Twitter and Instagram accounts with questions. They were basically demanding to know where I was and why he hadn’t yet saved his princess. They actually managed to overload the server of the Anglefell royal family website. The whole thing crashed.
I type yet another desperate plea on my Facebook page, urging the government to allow me to go home. Waiting for the necessary documents from the American embassy could take weeks, and I simply can’t handle weeks away from my beloved husband.
Or something like that.
The Scottish government was forced to put out a statement that they would consider allowing me passage to international waters, but that Anglefell would have to meet me halfway.
So here I am on another motherfucking boat, puking my guts out. The press insisted on filming the whole emotional reunion. I hope they’re getting some of my vomit on tape. Everyone will know how prettily I barf.
Liam’s Instagram updates with a selfie of himself standing on his white yacht, the same boat captured in all those Whore Boat tabloid articles. He smiles at the camera, his hair windswept and beautiful, the sun shining on his handsome face. A little bump hits my heart when the picture flashes through my screen, and I can’t help but smile through my nausea when I read all of his hashtags: #savingmyprincess, #princetotherescue, #noonecanbreakus. His fans celebrate in the comments: We love you guys, I’m so happy!
Damn, these people are really rooting for us. It’s not like the beginning when I had a million bitches threatening to cut my throat for stealing their prince.
The Scottish crew cheers suddenly, and I watch as a sleek, white boat bobs in the distance. Here we go. Just