24991125 | 0243

  L’Aurore | Eastern Nile | Floodzone Cairo

  30°00′36″ N

  31°08′12″ E

  Prince Soren Fehr closed the door behind him with more care than he needed to.

  The corridor of the superyacht was still alive with voices and activities.

  Alexis and Bastien were assisting with the Search and Rescue effort.

  Their voices clipped and professional, they switched between languages, jurisdictions and time zones with practiced ease and discipline.

  Monaco. Cairo. Doha.

  Maritime command. Airspace control. Relief corridors.

  Casualty projections.

  Soren had spent the hours since Shirley’s departure coordinating the SAR effort.

  As the Crown Prince of Doha signed off, Soren took an uncustomary weary sigh and leaned back in his chair.

  He have fifteen minutes before the next scheduled call.

  He rose from his chair.

  He loosened his collar as he crossed the guest suite, his jacket still draped over one arm, his mind cycling through a list of names, alliances and contingencies.

  He had adherently strolled past the room she used to occupy.

  His thoughts turned to her then.

  The dinner, the light conversations, the easy laughter they shared.

  He sighed.

  How many days since she was here?

  Where were those days now?

  He lingered at the threshold.

  He had not come here with any particular purpose.

  It was simply the nearest, quietest place…

  No.

  Perhaps, he allowed himself this one thought.

  Perhaps, he was drawn here.

  He pushed down on the door-hinge.

  The door opened noiselessly.

  The lights came up, illuminating the room in a soft, warm glow.

  The last bottle of wine stand unopened in a bucket of water.

  The ice had long melted.

  His mind returned then, to the nights of quiet conversations.

  Her quiet smile.

  Her soft voice.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Mesmerising.

  Haunting.

  He smiled despite himself.

  Had they only more time.

  He strode quietly into the adjoining bedchamber.

  He slid the door open.

  The first thing that struck him was her scent.

  The ghost of her perfume.

  Lingering in the air.

  The bed was neatly made.

  He saw it then.

  Centered upon it, as if deliberately placed, was a long garment bag bearing the discreet silver crest of Maison Astraria.

  The fabric shimmered as the stars, even in the soft, lamplight.

  Beside it, folded with care, lay a small handwritten note.

  Return to sender.

  With thanks.

  Nothing more.

  Soren stood there for a long moment, unmoving.

  He did not touch it.

  He had known, of course.

  Even before tonight.

  Even before the evacuation.

  Some part of him knew.

  He had hoped.

  He had dreamt.

  He had also, somehow, always known.

  She was never really – quite - completely here.

  Still, seeing it reduced to an envelope and a careful fold was… clarifying.

  He exhaled slowly.

  He smiled.

  Quietly and without resentment.

  “Damian, you lucky bastard.” He said softly under his breath.

  “You called, sir?” a voice spoke up, jolting Soren from his moment.

  Behind him, the door opened.

  Bastien entered without ceremony, jacket off, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a hurried wash.

  He stopped short when he saw Soren standing there.

  “…Sir?”

  Soren glanced back, recovered.

  “Come in,” he said mildly. “You’re not intruding.”

  Bastien hesitated, then stepped inside and closed the door.

  His gaze followed Soren’s to the bed.

  “Oh,” he said softly.

  They stood in silence for a few seconds.

  The Astraria Maison.

  Bastien broke it first.

  The bodyguard did the first thing he ought to do.

  He approached the bag and peered within.

  “All clear, sir.” Bastien said as calmly and as professionally as he could.

  “Very funny,” Soren said wryly, “not that I do not appreciate your attempt at levity.”

  “Sir.”

  Bastien handed over the Astraria Maison, carefully.

  “You’ve been running on caffeine and duty since midnight,” he observed. “Thought I’d check you need anything.”

  Soren smiled faintly.

  “Thank you, old friend.”

  Bastien leaned against the desk, folding his arms.

  “Is that hers?”

  “Yes.”

  “She left it?”

  “Yes,” Soren said.

  Then after a moment.

  “She would like us to return it.”

  A distinction, and both of them knew it.

  Bastien looked at his longtime employer and friend.

  “You were…,” he said, “…fond of her,”

  Not as a question.

  Soren considered denying it.

  He didn’t.

  “Yes.”

  Not dramatically. Not defensively.

  Simply yes.

  Bastien nodded.

  “I thought so.”

  “She was…” Soren paused, searching for the right word and discarding several. “Uncomplicated. In a complicated way.”

  Bastien snorted quietly. “That sounds like something only you would say.”

  Soren’s lips curved.

  “She was kind,” he continued. “Genuine. Present. When she spoke to someone, she truly spoke to them. No calculation. No angle.”

  He glanced at the gown again.

  “I found that… disarming.”

  Bastien tilted his head.

  “You never asked her to stay.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I see that her heart belonged to someone else.”

  A thoughtful silence.

  “Mr Wei Clarke?” Bastien asked, naming his friend.

  Soren’s expression softened.

  “Yes. I think so”

  No bitterness. No rivalry.

  Just fact.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “No, the lady chose.” Soren smiled, “as a gentleman, I must concede.”

  Bastien shook his head, smiling.

  “She cares for him,” Soren continued. “In her own way. But…”

  Bastien said nothing, merely listening to the prince’s words.

  “But, to be really truthful,” Soren continued quietly, “I don’t think it’s Damien.”

  Bastien watched him carefully.

  “But you just said…”

  “Call it intuition, but…” Soren said, struggling to find the words.

  “The weight of the ghost… inside her, that person, felt heavier than someone she just met a few weeks ago.”

  Bastien gave a low whistle. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”

  Soren looked at him.

  “I am disappointed,” he said gently. “Not diminished.”

  Bastien smiled.

  “That’s why you’re exceptional sir.”

  Soren raised an eyebrow.

  “Because I’m dramatic, or merely an excellent conversationalist?”

  Bastien shook his head in exasperation.

  “Because you don’t make other people pay for your disappointments.”

  They shared a quiet laugh.

  Soren moved at last, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  He picked up the envelope.

  He turned it once in his fingers.

  He then set it back precisely where it had been.

  “What would you do, sir?” Bastien asked.

  “Was there never a choice?” he asked rhetorically, “we will honor the lady’s wishes.”

  “As it should be,” Bastien replied.

  A pause.

  Bastien pushed off the desk.

  “If I may, sir.” he said quietly. “She’s exceptional. That one.”

  “I know,” Soren said.

  “A rare one,” the bodyguard said as he turned to go, “pity she got away.”

  Soren looked at the gown one last time.

  He smiled.

  “Yes.”