It was hell waiting for her, but my mother was right—I had no one to blame but myself.

I spent the majority of the morning pacing laps around the apartment, frequently checking for missed messages. There were none.

By noon, my mind had completely turned against me. It replayed our relationship at nauseating speed: the night we met in the aisles of Flannigan's; our chance reunion at the Children' Hospital fundraiser; the deep-purple of the balsamic leisurely dripping from her lower lip; Emma's stumble and my pulling her into me; the silhouette of the steeple; the weight of Ema's head resting on my bare chest; her bouncing backside as she sauntered to the loo; his repugnant figure hunched over hers—

Just then the flashes slowed to a near still.

His greedy fingers snaring her wrist; my body flying across the room on its own volition; the growing whites of her eyes; the guttural growl he emitted as he forced her against his heaving chest.

Emma's knee; my forearm crushing his trachea.

Her shaking hands; her steady voice; the contusion silently spreading beneath her skin.

Her tears at my impulsive words...

I hated myself in that moment, and in the moments since when I had reflected back on it.

Emma had needed my support, but I had been too absorbed in my own emotions to give it to her. Why would she seek me out again when I'd so obviously failed her?

Surely she could easily find someone else better able to comfort her—someone who was able to listen to her, who understood her needs better than I could, someone with whom she could be completely open and who could be unconditionally honest with her in return.

Just as I'd convinced myself that Emma would never reach out, my phone pinged to life.

My heart leapt and then sank as I read the name of the contact: Charlie.

Call me if you need anything.

I didn't blame Charlie for the media attention—our past mistakes were equally mine as they were his—but I still didn't feel the desire to talk with him, not yet anyway.

I popped open my computer to try and check-in with the office, but after staring at the screen for ten minutes, I gave up and closed it.

I debated getting out of my flat but eventually decided against it, partially to avoid any paparazzi in the street waiting to snap my photo and add further fire to the already fanned flames, but mostly out of fear of missing Emma. What if she were to come by while I had stepped out?

As the minutes turned to hours, I grew less and less confident that she would come, but I still wasn't willing to risk it.

Besides, I told myself, I didn't deserve an escape.

Being left alone with my thoughts was the worst kind of punishment. I doubted there was anything Emma could say that was worse than what I'd already said to myself.

But as it turned out, I was wrong. Very wrong.

Around three in the afternoon, a soft rapping sounded through the door. I was in the kitchen, mindlessly cleaning out the fridge when I heard it.

I sprinted to the door and slid to a stop just as I pulled it open, not even bothering to check the spy-hole.

Emma blinked up at me mutely, her mouth openly gaping and her eyes wide in something akin to horror.

I took half a step back in shock before stepping to the side to let her pass. She didn't move.

"I-I can explain everything," I started as I tightened my grip on the doorknob. "I just—"

Manic laughter erupted from somewhere deep within her chest. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but it wasn't nearly enough to contain it. She merely shook her head, her wide smile not even attempting to mask the rage building behind her eyes.

"Google already beat you to that—as did my boss."

Her words, usually light and animated, were serrated in a way I hadn't thought possible. Each one of them sliced through me with such savage precision that I was surprised to find myself still standing in the doorway instead of lying on the floor bleeding out.

But the worst of it wasn't her tone or the way her eyes bore into me. No, the worst part of it was the knowledge that I had done this to her. The prick from last night may have grabbed her and hurt her, but this... this was my doing.

"I'll admit I'm not up on my titles like a subject of the crown should be..." she barbed as she finally strode by me and into the entryway.

I swiftly closed the door behind her before turning round to face her. "Emma—"

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm me!" I exclaimed as I stepped toward her. "I'm the same guy you know!"

"The guy I know wouldn't have pretended to be someone he's not!" She shouted. "Dammit, Tom, you lied to me!"

I reached out in an attempt to take her hands in mine, but she snatched them out of my grasp. "Emma, I am so sorry!"

"Why didn't you tell me?" She demanded as her chest began to rapidly rise and fall. "Did you not trust me?"

"No, of course not!"

"Because I'm a member of the press?"

"No, Emma, I only—"

"Because I write book reviews, Tom!" She sobbed. "Bloody book reviews! I don't write a-a gossip column!"

"I know that!"

"So why didn't you tell me!"

"Because I wanted you to treat me normally!"

A mix of a laugh and a sob burst from her chest. I took another step toward her, but she took two steps back, her calfs bumping against the side of the couch.

Emma shook her head adamantly, sending her loosely pinned curls flying into a frenzy. "I never treated you normally! You were never normal to me—what I felt for you was never normal!"

I stared at her as her words ricocheted between my ears. At first, they brought utter joy to me and gave me the first glimmer of hope since my phone call with Cynthia... but as they continued to clamor, one word's din sounded distinct from the others'.

"F-felt?" I choked out.

She waived her hands dismissively. "You know what I mean."

But I didn't.

And if the worst were to happen and this were the last opportunity I had to explain myself, then I had to tell her everything. Everything I should have told her the night we met, and everything I should have told her since.

"You've always been special to me, too, Emma. Since the moment I met you, what I felt even then... I never wanted to risk it. Not for anything."

Tears began to cascade down her cheeks. I moved forward to envelop her in a hug, and this time she let me.

"Emma, I'm so sorry," I breathed as my arms gently squeezed her tighter into me. "I never meant to lie to you, never meant to hurt you."

"Then why did you?" She sniffed into my chest.

"I was scared."

She was quiet for several moments as I began to stroke her back.

"It was my boss who told me," she finally whispered. "It should've been you."

I swallowed the painful lump rooting itself in my throat. "You're right... it should've been."

She sniffed again and then pulled back just enough to raise her teary eyes to meet mine. "How does this... change things?"

"It doesn't." I ducked down to her eye level. "I swear, Emma, I'm the same guy."

"But your family..."

"Cynthia," I reminded her of the one family member she had unwittingly met. "She likes you, by the way."

I could tell she was attempting to smile, but the corners of her mouth just couldn't reach high enough. "But they won't... care that I'm not a-a princess or something?"

I shook my head adamantly. "I'm what you'd call a lower royal. I'm only technically part of the royal secession."

Her eyes bulged in shock.

"Only technically!" I said again, though my use of the word did not have quite the calming effect on Emma as my mother's had on me. "What I mean is, I'm not part of the nuclear family that most people think of."

"But you're still a part of it," she said slowly, her eyes searching mine desperately. "You still have... expectations that come with it, don't you?"

"None that prevent me from being with the person I love."

Her lips parted as she stared up at me. Emma clamped them shut and then took a deep breath through her nose.

"I need you slow down, way down for me," she whispered shakily.

I nodded solemnly. "I'll do whatever you need, Emma. Whatever it takes to gain your trust back."

"I need..." she closed her eyes and sighed. "I don't know what I need."

"Do you..." I had to clear my throat before I could finish my question. "Do you need time... away from me?"

I was relieved when she shook her head without hesitation, but the relief was short-lived.

"I'd only argue with you in my head, and I'd rather argue with you in person."

"I imagine I'd be funnier in your head," I teased. "You always have the better comebacks."

"Maybe," she shrugged in an attempted casualness, though it came off more as morose. "But you're meaner in my head."

I frowned, unable to stop myself from feeling hurt. "Why's that?"

She laughed, the trill still saddened yet calmer than before. "Because you're nicer than I am... Plus, I never learned how to fight fair, so in my head what you have to say is a lot harsher than what you-you would usually say."

"Do we fight often in your head?" I asked as my brows furrowed in a deeper frown.

"No," she sighed, "but on my way over we had quite the row."

I grimaced. "Do I want to know what you thought up for me to say?"

Emma hesitated and then swallowed, eventually shaking her head.

"C'mere," I whispered as I pulled her into another embrace.

I smiled as her arms wrapped around my torso and my hands began to run along her spine.

"Cynthia and my mum both told me I should tell you," I murmured after a minute.

Emma lifted her chin, propping it against my chest as she glanced up at me. "You told your mum about me?"

I hesitated, unsure if I had accidentally walked into a minefield. "Yeah, I... Is that okay?"

"So this wasn't just a..." she bit her lip and stepped back, suddenly taking an interest in our shoes. "I wasn't just a fling for you?"

I tugged her toward me again. "Why would you ever think—"

"I don't know!" She exclaimed suddenly. "You're a prince, for Christ's sake, and according to the Internet you've had quite the history—"

I caught her chin with my finger and raised it so that she could see my sincerity—whatever that was worth to her any more. "None of what they say is true, Ems."

She exhaled and closed her eyes. "I just don't know what to think anymore."

I cupped her cheek with my other hand and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "I'm Tom," I said as I pulled back to take in her visage. "You're Tom... if you'll still have me."

"Of course I'll still have you, you idiot, I just..." She took another deep breath and opened her glistening eyes. "I just wish you'd told me sooner, and I wish we'd never gone to that damn bar last night."

"What'd your boss say, when you told him?"

She hesitated before answering. "Well, he... Rufus isn't technically my boss anymore."

My brows lifted in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." She bit her bottom lip as her eyes narrowed in consideration. "I quit."

"Did something happen?" I asked as my hands slid down to her shoulders.

"No! I just—I...I just didn't feel comfortable working there anymore."

"Because of last night?"

She blinked, her eyes still fixed on mine, and then nodded.

"It wasn't the first time." She spoke slowly, as if grappling with which words to string together. "That I've been approached, I mean."

"You mentioned this morning," I said as I began to run my hands up and down her arms.

She glanced down at my hands and smiled softly. "I'm just... sick of it. I don't want that to be my life. It's too... um, frightening."

My hands caught hers and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Emma, I'm so sorry."

She lifted her shoulder and then it drop. "It's nothing. I'll find another job, copyediting or something."

I quietly chuckled at her failed attempt to cover her grimace as she said the word copyediting. "But I thought you loved writing book reviews."

She nodded and then sighed. "I do—did, but maybe I'll find something else I love even more."

"Like copyediting?" I asked doubtfully.

Emma set her lips in a tight smile. "Just like."