I tried to convince Emma to allow me to cook her breakfast before she left but to no avail. It was already midmorning, and she was determined to quickly stop at her apartment before going in to work.

I'd hoped I might persuade her to call in and take the day, but she was adamant. Emma insisted she had recovered well enough from the previous night's events—and this morning's fresh onslaught of tears inspired by yours truly—to face the workday. I could tell from the beginning it was a losing battle, but I still made a half-hearted case for putting off whatever was on her work diary until after the weekend.

"I have to file a complaint with HR," she rebutted, strategically fixing a safety pin to her torn shirt. "And then I can forget all about it and just... move on."

Her voice had regained a sense of calm, but it was quiet—too quiet.

I merely nodded and walked her out my building's side door. The street was relatively empty and, not seeing any obvious paparazzi loitering about, I leaned down to kiss her cheek. She turned her head and deftly caught my lips with hers.

My hands found her hips and gave a slight tug to pull her into me. She pressed her pelvis into mine and laughed as a soft groan escaped my lips.

"Ems—"

She glanced down as she extricated herself from my arms. "Thank you for last night and for letting me stay over..."

A curtain of her hair had slipped down, veiling half of her face. I pushed it back behind her ear and then gently tilted her chin up with a hooked finger.

"You can always stay over, Ems."

A blush crept over her cheeks as she attempted to look away. "Tom—"

I caught her chin again and lifted it so she could see the sincerity in my eyes. Emma stared at me for several moments, the morning light bringing out the golden flecks in her irises. Her eyes began to glisten with a new wave of tears welling, but she blinked and it subsided.

"Well," she cleared her throat and jutted her hand out to hail a taxi. "I have to get to work."

I did my best impression of Charlie and forced an easy grin as a vacant cab pulled up to the curb. "Let me know how it goes?"

"Sure," Emma murmured as I opened the passenger door for her.

I softly kissed her temple as she passed me and then swiftly shut the door once she was settled inside.

* * *

I'd left my phone on the kitchen counter while walking Emma out. By the time I'd returned to my flat, I had somehow managed to miss seven calls from my sister and over a dozen text messages. Before I could even swipe through the overwhelming amount of notifications crowding my screen, my ringtone began its customary trill as Cynthia's face flashed before me.

I swiped to answer it immediately. "What's wrong?"

"What's WRONG?" She screeched.

I yanked the phone away from my ear on instinct but quickly replaced it.

"Didn't you get any of my messages?" She demanded.

"No, I only just—"

"It's all over the bloody Internet, Tom!"

"Cynthia, I have no idea what you're—"

"The pictures! The pictures of you brawling in a bar!"

I switched the call to speakerphone and opened the browser. To my horror, my name—along with #royalgonewild—was already trending.

She was right: the photos were everywhere—social media, gossip sites, even a few reputable news platforms had published select photos to accompany their brief articles. Despite the plethora of images, they were all rather limited to only a few varying angles, none of which proved flattering.

I had him pinned—truly. Despite his massive girth, I'd managed to pin him with one forearm shoved into his sternum and my other hand twisting the wrist he'd used to tighten his hold on Emma. He must not have been used to being in such a vulnerable position—at least not in public—for his eyes were utterly wild, almost as feral looking as my own.

In enlarged one particular photo, in which our entangled bodies nearly filled the entire frame with the remaining space taken up by the grasping hands of the security team.

"I thought we were past this, Tom—past the partying and the fighting and the slutty club hookups—"

"It's not what it looks like—"

"It looks like you're drunk off your ass and completely out of control!"

"It's not—" I repeated again, but she cut me off.

"I swear to god if this is some stunt Charlie pulled you into—"

"It isn't," I mumbled, still swiping through the photos, each one steadily worse than the one before. "He wasn't there."

"You promised me you were done with this bullshit!"

"I am!"

"Then what the hell happened?" Cynthia demanded, her voice growing louder again.

"The guy was a total—"

"Funny," she bit in sarcastically, "the article doesn't mention anything about him."

"Of course it doesn't," I muttered.

"But it does mention—where was that quote? Ah, here it is: Party boy, Prince Thomas, returns to the nightclubs of London with a punch—"

"This was different. I was—"

She continued reading, ignoring me.

"In recent years, Prince Thomas has publically devoted himself to charitable works, notably founding the non-profit, Legacy Works, which receives significant support from the Royal family. His enthusiastic engagement in the foundation's efforts led many observers to believe his involvement stemmed from a sincere passion for philanthropy—"

"Enough, Cynthia."

But it wasn't. Not for her at least, as she was nearly shouting now. "But an inside source tells The Daily Scoop, it was all a PUBLIC RELATIONS SCHEME, FORCED ON THE PRINCE by his family, no doubt EXHAUSTED by his seemingly ENDLESS SCANDALOUS EXPLOITS! There's a hyperlink here to a slideshow of your and Charlie's 'Roughest Nights Out,' should we click through it?"

"I said enough!"

"Don't you dare yell at me after you monumentally fuck up!" She screamed.

I screwed my eyes shut, attempting to control the rage pulsing through my veins.

"I didn't know there was a—"

"There are always cameras, Tom!"

I wasn't angry at my sister—though her judgmental lecturing and accusatory shouting weren't helping matters—I wasn't even mad at the magazines for publishing the photos themselves. No, what infuriated me was the photographer.

Of course, it was always irritating when complete strangers felt the right to snap pictures of my family and sell them to media organizations eager to satisfy their readers' hunger for royal fairy tales and scandals alike, but even in those situations, it was easy to rationalize their entitlement. We were public figures after all; it came with the territory of being born into our 'peculiar family,' as we sometimes jokingly referred to it.

But Emma was not.

She was not some celebrity caught in an indiscreet position. She was a private individual—a person—and she was attacked in the middle of a bar, easily in front of a hundred people. Not a single person in that room came to her aid, and, to somehow manage to make it worse, one individual took it upon themselves to use her assault for literal profit.

It's obvious from the angle of the photos that whoever took them had a clear view of the situation, and from the sheer amount of photos that capture the full sequence of my shoving the prick off of her, it's just as obvious that the photographer had a clear understanding of what was occurring.

And yet they did nothing.

Actually, they did worse than nothing. They took out their phone, and they made sure to get every possible frame. All the while he touched Emma without her consent; he grabbed her and hurt her.

It made my blood boil.

I'd never considered myself a violent person, but for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I was filled with the nearly uncontrollable urge to beat the shite out of a total stranger.

My thumb swiped faster through the never-ending slideshow. "I didn't see the flash!"

"Of course you didn't!" Cynthia snarled. "You were too busy jumping some stranger in a bar!"

"You don't understand! He—"

"Is that Emma in the photo?"

My thumb froze and then jerked back to life as I reversed a few frames. It was still mostly him and I, but in the top right corner was Emma's shirt—or what was left of it at that point. It must have just been torn, and, as she fell back out of the frame, the fabric fell back, too, exposing her practically sheer lace bra.

"Of course, it's Emma. Who else would it be?"

"Excuse me for not being able to recognize your girlfriend by her tits!"

"Watch it," I growled.

My sister plowed on, unfazed. "Do you have any idea how much this is going to backtrack us?"

"Cynthia—"

"The refugee campaign launches in a month, Tom!"

"I'm aware of the sensitive timing—"

"SENSITIVE?" She roared. "YOU are the one who has been championing this whole endeavor!"

I stared at the exposed half of Emma's torso. It could've been worse—much worse—but my heart still constricted painfully as I imagined her seeing the image.

She wasn't a celebrity used to the fame and the utter lack of privacy. She was a regular person, just Emma—my Emma—and I knew she would be utterly mortified to discover these pictures of with her body exposed as it was on the Internet.

I closed the browser as I swiftly walked towards the door, my keys already jangling in hand.

"I have to go—"

"Don't you dare hang up on me! We've still got to fix this. Tom—"

But my hand was already on the doorknob. "I have to find Emma."

Before my sister could say another word, I disconnected the call. I swung open the door as I quickly pulled up Emma's contact and began drafting a text message—when suddenly my chest was shoved backward. My phone nearly tumbled from my fingers as the smell of ink wafted into my nose.

I stumbled, clasping the newspaper against my chest just as my eyes belatedly took in my mother's figure before me: petite, pristine blonde, and, from the looks of it, fully prepared to kill her youngest offspring.

"M-Mum?"

"Explain. Now." She demanded as she strode through the doorway, jabbing my chest through the newspaper with a finger as she passed.

I glanced down and took in the front page of the society section, which was covered in the photos from last night... including the one of Emma.

"I was out with friends—"

"Was Charlie with you?" She rounded, her perfectly French-manicured fingers tapping expectantly against her crossed arms.

I sighed and held out the paper for her to take. She didn't, so I tossed it on the breakfast counter. "No, Mum, Charlie wasn't there."

Her eyes narrowed, disbelievingly. "This ridiculousness only ever happened when you two were together."

I groaned as I tossed my keys between my hands.

I had to find Emma. I couldn't let her walk around the city all day without knowing what was happening online. It would be cruel and potentially dangerous. But there was no way of getting out of this conversation. My mother was a force of nature proportionate to a category five hurricane. She would never allow this conversation to be over until she was satisfied with its conclusion, which unfortunately was in neither of our foreseeable futures.

"This wasn't his fault—"

"Tell me, then, how this sort of smut is only ever in the papers when he's right there with you!" She snatched the paper again and shook it forcefully at me.

"He wasn't even there!"

"This has to stop, Tom. I mean it. This behavior was forgivable when you two were foolish young men, but now it is time for the both of you to grow up!"

"We have grown up!"

"Clearly!"

"It's not what you think! It was this prick—"

"Watch your language," she hissed.

"He was harassing her!" I exclaimed, no longer able to control my temper as I gestured toward the photo of Emma.

My mother's eyes followed my hand and then squinted at the photo. "Well, what did she do to encourage him?"

"She didn't do anything!" I roared. "He attacked her—left bruises on her!"

She blinked at me for several moments and then glanced down at Emma once more. "Is she alright?"

I took a ragged breath and then shrugged helplessly. "She went in to work this morning and seemed fine, but..."

My mother's gaze flickered to me, locking in on my sudden change in expression.

I squirmed under her scrutiny like a child, fidgeting with the keys I still held between my fingers. There truly was no getting out of this. Resigned to my fate, I eventually groaned and dropped myself onto one of the nearby bar stools.

"I never told her, Mum," I admitted quietly.

She blinked. "Told her what?"

I cringed in anticipation. "About our family?"

Her visage morphed into a confused pout. "Why ever not?"

I only sent her an incredulous look in response.

She dismissed me with an elegant swish of her hand. "It's not like you're in line for the throne—well only technically."

I raked my fingers through my hair.

"Tom," she said softly as she moved toward me and gently placed her fingers on my upper arm. "You have to tell her."

"I know," I exhaled.

She squeezed her fingers slightly, forcing me to meet her gaze. Begrudgingly, I did. Her eyes were wide, and their usual sky blue appeared overcast.

"If anyone else tells her first," she warned, "You'll have lied to her."

"I meant to tell her. I tried to plenty of times I just couldn't find the right time and now..." I inhaled sharply, not prepared to accept the reality of our new circumstances. "I have to find her."

I dismounted from my perch on my stool, but my mother quickly stepped between me and the front door. In an instant, her hand had moved from my arm to the center of my chest.

"Absolutely not."

I glanced down at her shocked. "But, Mum—"

"You said she went to meet with her boss?"

I nodded. "To file a complaint. She knew the guy from last night through... a work connection."

My mother's expression softened as if she suddenly found herself explaining some bit of common knowledge to one of Matilda's children. "Barging into her office will only make things worse."

"But—"

"Either her boss will tell her or he won't." She said, her words slow and deliberate. "If he doesn't, then you can still tell her yourself. If he does... well all the better to meet her in a private location."

"I can't just sit here waiting for her!"

"Well, Tommy, you are the one who waited this long to tell her truth."

I grimaced slightly at her motherly reprimand.

She raised her hand to my cheek, and a part of me was relieved when she only moved to stroke it lightly rather than slap me for being a git.

"Let her come to you," she repeated—and then, the unimaginable happened.

For the first time in my life, and to my knowledge in either of my sister's lifetimes, my mother hesitated.

Her brows furrowed as her lips moved slightly as if trying on and discarding words to speak next.

She finally sighed and the words, though slow, came steadily. "Nothing that has happened last night or likely that will happen in the coming days will be on Emma's terms. Let this be."