Saturday evenings in Imperial City had a way of reminding Prince Theophilus Cranhurst that even luxury could feel stifling when you were lonely.
He sat in the heart of his temporary residence—an opulent penthouse suite overlooking the city's financial district, its high-rise glass walls shimmering with the reflections of golden dusk. But Theo barely noticed. His phone buzzed on the glass table beside him. Still no reply.
Zara hadn't answered when he'd called. Instead, she'd sent a brief message—polite, cryptic, distant.
> Hey, I'm a bit preoccupied right now. I'll call and text you later, okay?
He'd read it twice. Then a third time.
Theo leaned back into his chair, long legs stretched out, brows furrowed in thought. "Busy," he muttered to himself. "On a Saturday?"
