✫✫✫

                  RORY HAD WOKEN UP TO FIND PARIS GONE.

                  Dressed in only a white silk covering, she had limped through the palace. The morning after Christmas—it was always quiet, solemn.

                  When Ophelia grabbed her arm, her nails long and sharp with bronze acrylic nails, Rory had flinched at the cool touch.

                  Rory had asked, "Do you know where Paris is?"

                  "I'd suggest checking the throne room."

                  Ophelia was still smiling as Rory yanked her arm away. 

                  It hadn't taken her long to get to the throne room.

                  Have you tamed her yet?

                  The words were ringing in her ears as Rory pushed open the grand doors. She could hear shouting from inside, and Paris's voice—blurry with tears.

                 Rory was going to kill her father if he had done anything to her.

                 She was going to kill him.

                 And she might really take up Dhonielle's offer to borrow a shovel.

                 But then her father's smooth, fluid voice had said something about an offer. And Rory's heart had stopped entirely.

                It's not true. It can't be true. 

               And then Paris had said, Take back your stupid offer. 

               That was when Rory's father finally saw her, and he smiled then. He smiled at her, as Rory held one hand against the door to keep herself from sliding to the ground.

               Too late. 

               Too late.

               An offer.

               Tame her. 

               Tame her—tame Rory. 

               The king had said something about breaking hearts. It was all Rory needed to hear. She was gone before Paris even turned around.

✫✫✫

                THE MOMENT THE PLANE TOUCHED GROUND IN VANCOUVER, RORY was already in the black sedan with Simon.

                She had already ordered him to tell Paris that Rory would be leaving.

                Rory didn't care where she went, even if it meant going back home to the palace. Even if it meant being under the care of Dr. Chevy, and getting bombarded by the paparazzi every day of the week. She didn't care. 

                Maybe she wasn't thinking straight.

               Not that Rory would exactly call her thoughts entirely straight on any given day—but with that offer . . . that stupid offer . . . 

               Money. It had been about money.

               "Rory, I know it's not my place to say this," Simon said. "But I think you should—"

               "I don't want to hear it," Rory said curtly. "Not now."

               And as Rory watched the snow-thick landscape roll by, the evergreen trees dusted in glittering white, she thought of everything that had happened over the past six weeks.

               Paris, kissing the side of her mouth when Rory had told her about helping Tasha.

               The middle of the night—skating on a frozen lake, just before the storm.

               And that power outage. Trapped together in the darkness of the hospital basement. I forgive you. 

              Had it been revenge? 

              But Rory thought of the way Paris had looked on that snowy pier, licking a French vanilla cone. And the way their hands had brushed underneath the table of her mother's living room before they played Sorry. 

              Paris's mother—Ireland Thomason had given Rory a real hug.

              Take care of her heart, will you? 

              But it had never really up to Rory, had it? 

✫✫✫

              "WE NEED TO TALK," PARIS SAID, AS SOON AS SHE had caught up to Rory through the doors of the hospital.

              "We don't really have anything to talk about," Rory said, and she let out a short, bitter laugh. "I get it. Really. It's fine. Just don't pretend like you ever even cared about me."

               "Rory, that's not true,"  Paris hissed.

               Rory probably wasn't in a good place to be having this conversation. She had never made logical decisions when she was mad. And when it came to arguments . . . when her emotion was involved, she knew she tended to lash out.

               As much as she knew she needed other people, to talk to, to let it out—Rory also knew that right now, she'd explode.

              "Not now," Rory gritted out, limping past her.

              "Rory, I—" Paris called out, but she stopped.

              Rory heard it as a swarm of children—including Tasha and Cat and Dhonielle and Gloria—surrounded her.

              Good, thought Rory. It made this much easier.

              She was going to get her things. She was going to pack her shit up. All of this—she was going to leave all of this behind, the hospital, the treatment, the doctors. She had passed her six weeks. What reason did she have to stay?

             All along, it had been an offer.

            Rory couldn't even breathe. Couldn't think.

            She was halfway down the corridor to her room when she heard her name.

            "Rory Camille Preston."

            Under her breath, Rory swore.

            "Don't you dare walk away from me," Paris said, and there was raw, terrible anger in her voice. Close to tears—without even turning around, Rory knew she was close to tears.

            "Is this because you got divorced?" Cat whispered.

            "No, it's probably because she found out about the deal with the king," Dhonielle whispered back.

            Rory whipped around. Dhonielle had known? 

            She shrugged in reply. "I told you, you should have given me a million dollars."

            Slowly, slowly, Rory let her gaze fall on Paris.

            Surrounded by a few of her patients, watched by interns and nurses and other doctors, it was like she couldn't have cared less about the audience. Rory probably would have smiled at that, any other day. The fact that Paris had prioritized her.

           "You told me you would fight for me," Paris said fiercely.

           "That was before I knew you made an offer with my father."

           "Then let me explain."

           "Now is not a good time," Rory said through clenched teeth. If she argued with Paris now, she knew she would say something hurtful. She knew she would make this worse. 

            "When's a good time?" Paris demanded. "When you're back in Valeria, crowned as queen? When you're on a flight, halfway across the country?"

             "Not now,"  Rory insisted.

             Even if there was no way to make this worse, Rory knew herself enough to know she was never a good person when she was angry. She lashed out—she struck deep. She slathered salt over burning wounds. 

             Maybe Paris was right. Maybe not now wasn't soon.

             But it was all Rory could think to say as she closed the distance towards her room. Shutting the door behind her, although she knew it wouldn't keep her own doctor out. Back pressed to the cool metal, Rory tipped her head back. Breathing hard.

            This time, Paris didn't follow her.

✫✫✫

            IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER NINE IN THE EVENING WHEN a knock sounded against her door.

            "Hello?" Rory said, pulling it slightly open.

            Her eyes slid down—to Cat.

            "Paris said you're leaving."

            Rory hesitated. "It's true. Tomorrow morning."

            "Is it because you hate her?"

            "No!" Rory said sharply. "I mean, well—no, that's not the reason. My father wants me to spend more time in Valeria before I inherit the throne." 

            "Oh," Cat said. "Want to come pull one last prank in one hour? In the rec room?"

            Rory was already shaking her head. "No, no, I . . . I can't."

            "But you're leaving,"  Cat said, her eyes gleaming bright with tears. "It'll be like a goodbye. And the prank isn't even for Paris, we promise."

            Something in Rory's chest tightened painfully.

            "Okay," she said. "Fine. But you . . . it better be a good one, alright?"

            Just like that, there was a small, devilish smile on Cat's face. "It will be!" she said cheerfully, and she skipped away.

✫✫✫

            THE REC ROOM, AT TEN O'CLOCK, WAS EMPTY.

            Rory leaned back against the doorway, loosening her grip on her crutches. "Dhonielle?" she called out softly. "Cat? Gloria? Tasha?"

            She limped further into the room.

            Nobody—there was nobody here.

            Maybe she had misheard Cat say the rec room earlier. The lights were off here. But where else could they be? 

            For once in her life, maybe Rory was early.

            She decided to sit on the piano in the far back of the room. When Dhonielle and Cat came in, she would be able to see them from the dimness of the shadows.

            She just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

            The door opened again—a silhouette entering the room.

            But it was taller. Too tall to be a child.

            Rory opened her mouth, but the door had already been slammed shut from the outside. The figure swiveled around in surprise, fast—but not fast enough.

            Rory heard the telltale sound of a click. 

            The door was being locked.

            "What the hell is this?" Rory cried, snatching her crutches from the wall and standing again. "What just happened?"

            The lights flickered on.

            "I think," said Paris, "that we've just been pranked."

            "They promised—" They promised the prank wasn't on Paris. 

            And it wasn't, in a way.

            It was on both of them.

            "You're not coming out of there until you make up!" said Dhonielle through the door. "You can't argue until you're already married!"

            "Are you crazy?" Paris said. "I have a job to do, and—"

            "And Nurse Roger already cleared you for your shift." 

            Nurse Roger—that was Alec. 

            Rory's jaw clenched, thinking of the fact that he had been a part of this, too. Had Simon been in on it as well?

            Rory said, "You better let me out of here or I'll—"

           "What?" Dhonielle asked sweetly. "Hurt two cute, innocent children?"

           "No, I'll—"

           "Pay me seven million dollars?"

           "No, I'm going to—"

            Dhonielle's voice was suddenly ruthless. "You're going to stay in there until you figure it out, and you're not leaving until I hear some smooching going on."

            "You're going to be listening in on us?" Paris said.

            "Of course," Dhonielle replied. "We've been eavesdropping this whole time. Why stop now?" 

            Paris buried her face in her palms and muttered, "Of course they have."

           "Can't we break this door down?" Rory snapped.

           "Well, I'm sure a hospital fine would be no problem for you, Princess, but some of us actually have to work to make a living."

           Coldly, Rory said, "Why bother? I'm sure the money my father funded you with will be enough to last you a lifetime."

           Paris's fists clenched. "That money wasn't for me, you arrogant, conceited asshole." 

           "Oh, name-calling, are we? I'm looking forward to a bit of originality."

           "How about you just let me explain first?"

           "How about this?" Rory bit out. "How about you don't? Do you want to know the fucking truth, Paris? I'm scared. I'm scared your explanation isn't going to be good enough. I'm scared because I don't think there is any reason that could possibly justify pretending to fall in love with a person. And I'm scared—I'm scared that once I hear it, once I know for certain, it'll be over. And as much as I fucking hate you right now, I don't want to lose you. Not yet."

           Not ever, she didn't add.

          "And what if my explanation is good enough?" Paris whispered. "What then?"

          But Rory only shook her head. "It's not."

          "How could you know that?"

          "I know."

          Paris threw her hands into the air. "Then how about this, Rory? Six weeks ago, the king requested to talk to me. He threatened my job. He threatened my career. He had researched my marks, and he knew what kind of student I was. Top of every class. He saw that we had gone to boarding school together, and he told me, he said, Make her a prim and proper lady like you. I said no! I said no. And then he made me an offer."

          "Money," Rory said bitterly.

          "Just shut up and listen!" Paris snapped. "He told me that if I could make you into the heir he needed within these six weeks, if I could sober you up, he would give a donation to the children's ward of the hospital. For research. Tell me."  There were real tears in Paris's gold-and-cinnamon eyes now. "Tell me, for the love of God, Rory. Tell me how I say no! Tell me how I turn down the chance to save even one life for my kids!"

          "It's not good enough," Rory said quietly.

          Paris's eyes flashed. "Are you fucking—?"

         "It's not good enough," Rory repeated. "Because you could have told me. Why didn't you just let me know? Why didn't you make me a part of the plan? You could have asked me yourself, and I would have played the part of a tame princess for you, Paris. I would have done it for you."

         "I—"

         "You didn't tell me!" Rory said viciously. "My father is a fucking crazy bastard. It's not about the fact that you didn't intentionally break my heart in the end. It's the fact that you didn't trust me enough to tell me in the first place!" 

          "I didn't want to—"

          Rory bit out a laugh. "It didn't even occur to you, did it?"

          Silent tears were streaming down her lovely, warm brown skin. 

          An answer in itself.

          "Just tell me one thing, Paris," Rory said softly. "That day, when you said you forgave me, did you even really mean it? Was this all some stupid ploy for revenge?"

         "No!" Paris burst out. "How could you even think that?"

          "I don't know what to think," Rory said coldly.

          Paris breathed, "You said you would fight for me."

         "Don't you dare pull that card."

          Paris stepped closer. Touching Rory's chest.

         "You said you would fight for me."

         "Before I knew this was all a lie!" 

         "Look into my eyes, Rory," Paris said quietly. "Nothing between us is a lie and you know it. But I bet you want it to be, don't you? It would make it easier, wouldn't it?"

          "How would that make my life easier?" 

          "You get to walk away," Paris whispered. "You can just leave and lick your wounds. You don't have to think about me again. I'm sure you'll be okay—you managed just fine these past five years."

            Rory caught Paris's hand by the wrist. "You know nothing about me."

            "I know they called you the Playboy Princess," said Paris. "I know you slept with just about anything that looked your way. I know you liked threesomes. I know you had an orgy in a hot tub with Cara Delevigne and Ashley Benson. I know you probably forgot about me until the second you saw me again."

             "You're wrong," Rory said. "I didn't forget about you. I could never forget about you. I thought of you every single day, and I thought I was crazy."

              Paris tried to tug her arm back, but Rory didn't let her.

              "I thought I was a goddamn fool," Rory continued. "Loving a girl who had so clearly moved on. Letting someone go, when I was so clearly the one who had fucked up. But I know I made a mistake. I know I did wrong. Do you?"

              "You don't think I know?"  

              "I think you don't want to admit that you fucked up, too. I think you don't want to be a failure! Well, here's the lesson for today, Paris. You told me to get over my pride. How about you try tackling those inadequacy issues?"

              "I might be afraid of failure, and I might be afraid of getting hurt, but right now, I am being honest with you. I am trying my best! I have never been this vulnerable in my life with anyone but you, and—"

              Paris's voice had broken. The tears fell now openly.

              Rory let go of Paris's wrist, but Paris didn't move away.

             Softly, she said, "And what, Paris? Finish the sentence."

             "I . . . I'm trying my best."

             It wasn't what she had wanted to say, and they both knew it.

             Rory turned her head to the door. "Well, maybe your best isn't good enough."

             "I never lied to you," Paris said. "I told you my patients, my kids, were the most important thing in my life from the beginning."

             "I get that," Rory said. "But where do I fit in, Paris? Where am I in your heart?"

             "I—" Paris faltered. "I don't know."

             Rory's lip curled. "It'd probably be a good thing to figure out."

             Paris's eyes darkened. "Fine, Rory. Tell me. Where do I  fit into your life? When you become queen, what does that make me? Did you ever even think about it, or are all you all just words and no action?"

             "I'd want you by my side."

             "And what about my job? My kids?"

             "Want to know why I didn't think of this before?" Rory said suddenly. "Because I thought to myself, as long as I have you, it doesn't matter where I am. It doesn't matter what I'm doing. But if I could spend the rest of my life with you? I'd be the happiest fucking person on the planet."

             Paris was blinking fast, furious, and the tears—they fell like silver, glistening over her smooth skin. "Then choose," she said.

            "Choose?"

            "Me or the throne, Rory," she whispered. "What can't you live without?"

            Rory opened her mouth to answer, and a gunshot rang out in the corridor outside.

✫✫✫

Anyone got any ideas?

From the moon and back,
Sarai