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“A selfish one,” I correct her. “I’d be the most selfish guy on this whole planet, Rory Shrike. And I’d never be able to live with myself. Ever. There’s no time to make an instruction manual right now. There’s no time to be careful with your happiness. There’s just… there’s just…”

“Goodbye,” she says, half sobbing.

I nod my head. And even though I feel like my chest is splitting in half from the heartbreak, I pull away. I pry her tightly wrapped hands from my waist and back away, keeping her at arm’s length.

“I love you,” I say. “And that’s why this is happening.”

And then I turn and walk out, crushing her fairy tale fantasy forever.

PART TWO

Chapter Seventeen - Five

Three Months later

“Excuse me, Mr. Aston?”

I turn in the first-class check-in line at the gate to see who’s asking. Tall, skinny guy. Wearing an airline uniform.

“Yes?” I say, eyeing how fast the line is moving so I don’t hold anyone up.

“I have an urgent message for you.”

Jesus. What fresh hell is this? I stare at the guy, waiting on my message. But he just smiles. “Well, what is it?”

“It’s private, I’m afraid. I’m to escort you to a secure phone immediately.”

I eye the line again, about to ask if this is really necessary, but asking if an urgent message is urgent seems… idiotic. So I step out of line and say, “Fine. Lead the way.”

We walk fast. And I’m not sure if this is for my benefit—so I don’t miss my flight—or if the message is so urgent we should really be running.

Please let it be the first one.

A few minutes later we enter the first-class lounge for the airline and he hustles me into an out-of-the-way corridor. Which means it’s almost certainly the second option.

“Here you are,” the guy says, panning his arms to a room with a phone and a desk. “Your party is already on the line.”

“Thanks,” I say, reaching into my pocket to tip him.

But he puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes his head. “I’m your complimentary attendant, Mr. Aston. Tips are not necessary.”

I sigh. Yeah. That’s not what I wanted to hear.

He closes the door behind him and I step towards the phone. There’s one blinking red light, which I push as I pick up the handset and say, “Five Aston.”

And silence.

“Hello?”

A computerized voice speaks on the other end of the line. “Please return immediately.” The line dies and all that’s left is the annoying buzz of a dial tone.

Wonderful.

I get out my cell, push the contact for the company jet, and go through the automated system to set up a flight.

It gives me a place—not here at Heathrow, more wonderful—and a time. Two hours from now. I hang up and check my map app to find that the airstrip reserved for me is one hour and forty-five minutes away.

Something very bad is happening.