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‘Where’s your passport?’

Oh. She clenched her teeth. ‘It needs renewing.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He didn’t hide his derision before talking into his phone. ‘Gather any documents you can find, but we might need to order a fresh set of the basics once we’re home.’

She smoothed her hair behind her ear. She loathed feeling incompetent. Get a bus. Get a job. Leave. He was so full of the obvious—like it was that easy? She had bigger problems than an out-of-date passport and she should have fixed them sooner.

‘Who’s going through my things?’ Just the thought of someone in her room had her skin prickling as though an army of ants had invaded.

‘My bodyguard. We’ll get the rest when the King dumps it all at the gate.’

He was joking, but her chest tightened. Domenico probably would banish her, and being homeless wasn’t funny. She needed a plan but her brain wasn’t working properly because she was working hard to keep up with him—in fact it was a couple of minutes before she realised they’d missed the turn-off to the helipad.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

With a sideways look he questioned her intelligence. ‘The chapel.’

‘Not the helipad?’ Her voice rose to boy-soprano range. ‘I thought we were going to Zaffira?’

‘We are. After.’

Tilly just stopped where they were, not caring that the momentum had him almost yanking her arm out of its socket before he stopped too. ‘You think we’re going to get married now?’

‘When else?’ he growled.

Tilly stared, struck by the way his dark eyes glittered in the crystal light of the gilded corridor.

Later. Like never. Like—was he calling her bluff?

‘We can’t get married this instant. It’s too soon.’

‘Sure we can.’ He turned and kept walking, forcing her to trot at his side like a poor dachshund tortured on a pet treadmill set too fast. Her heart thundered. She’d only gone along with the marriage idea to get out of here, not actually go through with it. Her skin turned clammy and he tightened his fingers around her hand.

‘Montaurella is one of the few places in the world where fools can marry on a whim,’ he reminded her drily. ‘You of all people know that in recent years my father has monetised every element imaginable.’

‘But aren’t there palace protocols for you?’ Surely there were different rules and expectations for the Crown Prince?

He ignored her as the guards opened the doors to the vast corridor with mirrored glass, gilded chandeliers…the level of ornate and oversized décor increased with every turn towards the inner sanctum. She caught sight of their reflection—it was impossible not to—his tall, powerful grace, her white cheeks and locks of hair falling messily from her bun.

‘I can’t get married in this.’ Not her work outfit—crisp and colourless so she wouldn’t distract from the art and antiques she was showing people.

‘You’re always dressed demurely enough to enter a convent. It’s fine.’

Fine. She was getting married looking abysmally fine and why did she even care? Except she did. It was all right for him, he didn’t need the gilding—not the scarlet sash and gold buttons of his official uniform. Every item of clothing he owned was hand-tailored and of the finest fabric but even if he were in an off-the-rack fast-fashion tee and shorts, he’d still look ridiculously handsome. The aggravating ass was a maverick who revelled in causing chaos and disruption, but even with his blatant ‘don’t give a damn’ attitude, he was so charismatic, so physically blessed, so loaded, he could get away with anything. And he would get away with this.

An optimist might assume that with the benefit of proximity to him, she might get away with it too. But Tilly knew she would be eviscerated for having ideas above her station. When it ended, she would be blamed. She inhaled deeply and the oxygen fuelled the fire igniting in her solar plexus.

Fine!

Bring it on. She was done with trying to please the impossible-to-please. No more performing as the princess she could never actually be. It had been exhausting and impossible. Ultimately she would disappear—take a different name, dye her hair and become invisible. It wouldn’t be two months, but a couple of weeks max. Alex was easily bored.

They arrived at the gold and cream chapel door and for a split second he paused. Unlike the vast cathedral that stood only a few hundred yards from the palace and ought to be where the Crown Prince married in front of other Royals, government officials in a glittering service televised to millions, the chapel wasn’t large enough to accommodate more than thirty people. It was deemed too private for the palace tours, despite, as Alex had rightly pointed out, his father’s willingness to open everything up for public consumption as long as tourists paid the exorbitant entry fee. As always, Tilly glanced up at the highvaulted ceiling to admire its beautiful paintings as they walked in. It might be a more intimate-sized space, but it was still intimidating.

‘Alex?’ Luca, the chaplain, gasped.

Tilly winced as Alex flinched. She heard his smothered growl as he relaxed his fingers but still kept hold of her. Luca looked as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Come to think of it, Alex never showed at the family services here, only the state occasions at the cathedral.

‘It’s been a long time.’ Luca’s smile seemed nervous. ‘I’m so pleased to—’