Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Obviously!” She fluffs her hair in the reflection of the screen. “How many chances do you think you’ll get to talk to the prince about Hilliard Sanctuary in person?”
“I wouldn’t get within ten feet of him.” I laugh. “I’m sure he’s just there to make an appearance.”
“No.” Charlotte wags her finger. “He’s on the list of eligible royal bachelors. And I bought you a charity ticket for a speed date. So, if you play your cards right, you can have a full uninterrupted five minutes to pour your heart out to him.”
“What do you mean you bought me a charity ticket?” I can’t hide my shock. “That must have cost—”
“A fortune,” she finishes for me. “It did. So, this is why you HAVE to go. No backing out.”
“Charlotte, why would you do that?”
“Because I love you, and you never get to do anything like this. That’s what BFFs are for. Besides, I know how much that sanctuary means to you. I can’t stand the thought of it going under either. This is what you’ve been working toward. This is your golden opportunity.”
It sounds like the craziest idea ever. But even as I tell myself that, I’m nodding along because she’s right. When will I ever have a chance like this again? There’s a real possibility I could put an end to the sanctuary’s financial troubles for good. I could save everything Olivia’s been working for and ensure the animals have a place to stay.
“There’s just one problem,” I say.
“What?” Charlotte quirks her brow.
“The whole family is going. Somehow, they managed to get tickets too.”
“Don’t worry.” She grins. “I have a plan, Ella. I always do.”
2
Thorsen
“How are you feeling today, Thorsen?”
Dr. Blom studies me as I tinker with the scattered pieces of the model sailing ship on my desk. I’d imagine he’s tired of this routine by now, but there isn’t a Tuesday when he doesn’t show up. Every week for eight years, just like clockwork. Dr. Blom is my father’s solution for my unfavorable mental state or more aptly, my disagreeability.
“I feel fine.” I adjust the hull, sliding another piece into position.
“You’re making some progress there,” he notes.
My eyes skim over the pieces in search of the cannons. I manage to retrieve one from the pile before he fires off another question.
“Can you tell me what you’ve been doing this week?”
“Meetings.” I squint as I try to secure the cannon into the designated slot. “The usual.”
“I see. And have you been to visit your mother?”
The force of my grip severs the plastic mount from the cannon, sending it flying across the desk. In a split second, the entire ship has been rendered useless. For a long moment, I stare at the broken piece, pressure building up inside me like a steam engine. Dr. Blom senses the impending explosion and attempts to intervene.
“It’s okay, Thorsen. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
But it does. Scooping the unfinished ship from my desk, I dump it into the garbage, followed by handfuls of the unassembled pieces.
Dr. Blom frowns. “I’m sorry if I upset you with the question about your mother. But it is something I’d like to address. It’s my job to make sure you’re handling the circumstances in a healthy way. This situation would be difficult for anyone.”
“I’m fine.” I turn my focus to the window, watching the storm clouds roll in outside. It’s unusually gray for the spring in Norway. Perhaps Mother Nature is grieving too.
“These events can be challenging to navigate,” Dr. Blom explains in his clinical way. “It wouldn’t be uncommon to feel a wide range of emotions, even if you aren’t always able to identify them. What’s important is how we decide to address them. And I want you to know that you can speak with me anytime.”
“I don’t want to talk about that today.” I return my attention to the man across from me. He’s thin and tall with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses. An unassuming character if I ever saw one. He’s become a permanent fixture in my life, but lately, I find myself simply staring through him.
“Okay.” He folds his hands across his lap. “Then perhaps we can circle back to the topic we didn’t finish last week.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling. “Fine.”
“Have you given any more thought to the proposal from your father regarding the arranged marriage?”
“I’m not marrying Princess Yasmine,” I answer. “I don’t want to marry at all.”
The clock on the wall ticks off the seconds as he ponders my statement. My position on this topic hasn’t changed, but he seems content to revisit it often.
“I understand it’s difficult for you to form attachments,” he says. “It’s not unusual for those who have experienced trauma to avoid intimate relationships. Being vulnerable doesn’t come easily for many of us.”