Page 11 of Royal Secret

As we step inside, the dim lighting and intimate space envelop us. I slip off my hat and sunglasses, relishing the freedom anonymity affords me here. It’s the moment of truth. Will she recognize me?

And — if she does — will she give that recognition away or try to hide it?

The tension in my shoulders eases as I catch Courtney’s gaze, but she offers no sign of recognition. “You like to cover up, huh?”

I shrug, my story already prepared. “I work in private security. I cover celebrities sometimes, so I can be recognized because of that. As a result, I prefer to keep a low profile. Do you like espresso?”

“I just had one… but I could have another.” She laughs.

“Private security?” she asks, after we’ve ordered and picked out two overstuffed armchairs to sit in.

“Yes,” I reply, settling into the conversation as easily as into the chair. “My job can be… demanding.” That much, at least, is the truth.

“Sounds exciting,” she says, stirring her espresso delicately. “I’m a data analyst, back in Houston. Texas. Numbers are my forte, not danger.”

“Numbers have their own kind of thrill, I imagine,” I say, keen to know more about her world — so distant from mine.

“Sometimes,” she admits with a laugh. Then her smile turns wistful. “But when I can, I escape through photography.” Shegestures towards her bag, where the corner of a camera peeks out.

“And you’re here for what? To take pictures?”

“Just to visit.” She looks into her espresso. “I’d never been.”

There’s something there she doesn’t want to share, and it heightens my suspicion. Now, I know for sure, I can’t let her go.

“May I?” I ask, gesturing toward the camera.

“Of course,” she responds, passing it to me with a trust that tugs at something deep within my chest.

The device feels solid in my hands, a tangible piece of her passion. I thumb through the captured images on the screen — vivid splashes of color, candid snapshots of life, all seen through her lens. Each photo is a window into how she perceives the world: vibrant, nuanced, beautiful.

“Your work is remarkable,” I say, handing back the camera. “You have a real talent.”

“Thank you,” she replies, her cheeks coloring with pleasure.

“And how do you like Bergovia?”

“I love it.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looks off toward the window as if tracing her thoughts. “My grandmother was from here. She never really talked about growing up here, though. She died last week and… I guess I wanted to see it through my own eyes, you know?”

Her innocence is palpable, her gaze clear and devoid of any hidden agenda. She knows nothing of the royal family or the old feuds — of that, I’m certain. Her connection to this place is personal, untainted by politics or intrigue.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” I set my espresso cup on the table, momentarily shocked.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

The tone is shifted, and I worry that it’s my fault for bringing it down. I’ve only just met this woman, and yet I can’t bear seeing her unhappy. It’s a primal urge to do something — anything — to cheer her up.

“Would you like to make a wish at the fountain?” I suggest, nodding towards the one through the window, which sits in a small courtyard. It’s an impromptu invitation, but one I hope she’ll accept.

“Really? Like throwing in a coin and making a wish?” she asks with raised eyebrows, amusement lighting up her features.

“Exactly like that,” I confirm, standing up and offering my hand to help her from her seat.

“Sounds like something out of a fairy tale,” she comments as she places her hand in mine, warm and soft.

“Perhaps,” I concede with a chuckle, opening the door for her. “But sometimes life could use a touch of whimsy.”

At the fountain, I pull two coins from my pocket and hand one to her. The metal is cool in my palm, spray from the fountain striking my face. Standing side by side, we look into the shimmering water. I can feel the warmth of her arm against mine, a gentle reminder of the unexpected turn my day has taken.

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