Turn on GMB.

... GMB??

Good Morning Britain.

What for?

Just turn on the damn telly & CALL ME.

***

I swore under my breath as I flicked on the black screen. Whenever Cynthia was vague, it was surely bad. And when she used caps...

I mentally rewound the night before as I clicked through the channels. Emma, Youssef, and I walked the press line upon our arrival at the gala, Emma refusing to detach herself from either of us—that is until she went off in search of Matilda and instead discovered the security guards I had hired. When she and I had returned to the table, Cynthia had been there and appeared to be in good spirits.

By all accounts, the event had been a success: Youssef had done nearly a dozen interviews by the time we left and had arranged another for this afternoon. Emma and I had been well behaved and kept to my sister's savvy messaging.

Even Charlie had contributed by distracting Youssef from his anxieties. Usually, Charlie was the first to escape these sort of events in favor of a hip club or bar, but last night he had been the last of us to leave and even offered to host an after party of sorts at his townhouse. We were barely there for a quarter of an hour before Emma began to yawn and I called our driver.

I shook my head.

No one broke the gag rule; Emma and I hardly engaged in PDA with Youssef right there; and Charlie remained entirely sober. Unless something happened after we left Charlie's, nothing of interest to a morning gossip show could have taken place.

No doubt it would one of the conservative ladies on the show blithering on about Emma's and my bringing Youssef. It was an inevitable backlash, so it hardly seemed to warrant a text and with all caps no less.

I nearly missed the channel, having been expecting to see a panel of near identical middle-aged women perched on primly on a pastel couch. Instead, it was a single host—blonde and perhaps not so close to her middle ages—interviewing a man I could only describe as looking like a total wanker.

I know it sounds judgmental, but everything about the bloke oozed pretentious prick. If I had to put my finger on it, it might have been the way he lounged back in his chair or the obvious effort he put into his tussled hairstyle. More likely it was the way he was droning on about the loss of some great love.

"I really couldn't say why she left," he sighed forlornly.

"I've got an idea or two," I muttered as my eyes belatedly took in the segment's running banner. Rather cryptic, it read: #InThisTogether?

"She just left in the middle of the night?" The newscaster prodded, leaning in slightly. "No note, nothing?"

He nodded, employing nearly his whole upper body. "Nothing," he confirmed.

"And the next time you saw her...?" The blonde prodded.

"On the cover of some magazine, with him—Prince Thomas."

I instantly sat forward and turned up the volume.

"That must have been very difficult for you," the newscaster practically cooed.

He drummed his fingers on an upright book placed on the table in front of him.

"It was, Cathy." He cleared his throat and briefly messed with the corner of his eyes as if a tear had been about to escape. "It was very difficult. Like I said, I was completely mad for her. Thought she was the one."

"And how long do you suppose that was, between the time Ms. Henderson left you and you saw her in the papers with the prince?"

I flopped back against the sofa's cushions and, with increasing dread, called her name. "Emma!"

The man hesitated before giving his answer. "All I can say is it felt like a blink of an eye. One day we were in love, and the next she was hanging on another man's arm."

"What is it?" Emma responded from somewhere kitchen. "Is it Youssef's interview?"

Her voice was coming closer now, but I couldn't peel my eyes from the screen to turn and look at her. Who the hell was this man?

"I thought he wasn't on till—"

Suddenly, I heard Emma's breath catch directly above me as if in recognition. The sound released the invisible hold over my body. I immediately glanced up to see a horror-stricken expression slowly creep over her features.

Her eyes were nearly twice their normal size and her skin impossible pale except for where her artery bulged along her neck. She staggered a step forward and caught herself on the edge of couch.

"Cynthia texted," I explained somewhat lamely as I glanced between her and the television.

Emma's nostrils flared as the camera zoomed in on the man's face. He was blinking rapidly, again as if anticipating his dry eyes would miraculously spout water any moment.

"She was actually the inspiration for my main character's love interest," he said as he held his book aloft. "Especially with, uh, regard to the intimate details of their relationship."

I shook my head in utter disgust. "Emma, who the hell is this?"

She didn't answer. She merely stood there, absolutely frozen and continued to watch in silence. The only sign that she was taking anything in was the increasing whites of her knuckles as her grip on the cushions constricted.

"But why do you think she did it?" I heard the newscaster ask with emphasized feeling.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the sound his melodramatic sigh. "You'd have to ask her, but one thing is obvious—starving artists sure can't buy as nice rings as princes."

"Are you implying she left you for the prince because of his wealth?"

Emma was shaking—physically vibrating. Her jaw clenched as her teeth ground against each other. Still, she said nothing.

"Like I said," he shrugged. "You'd have to ask her."

The newscaster nodded before turning to face the camera. Grinning, she announced: "That was Patrick Addair, author of Unsung Warrior, speaking to us on his relationship with Emma Henderson, rumored to be the latest addition to the royal family. This is Good Morning Britain. We will be back after a word from our sponsors."

Silently, I grabbed the remote from the floor, where I must have dropped it in my earlier shock, and flicked off the television. I took a deep breath and then turned to look at her.

She was standing just as she had been before, still staring unblinking at the television. Her hands, as with the rest of her, were now sheet white. The only color that seemed to remain was the dark brown of her eyes, which appeared glossier than usual and rimmed with red.

"Emma..." I practically begged her. "Talk to me. Please."

Still getting nothing, I gingerly placed my hand on top of hers. At the contact, she sprang to life and snatched her hands out of my grasp. She staggered backwards and shook her head adamantly.

I nodded and raised both of my hands as if to calm her by showing her I wouldn't try to touch her again.

"Ems, who was that?" I fought to steady my voice but struggled as waves of panic began to lap at my attempted calm façade.

Suddenly, I knew.

I knew who he was.

Rage ripped through me as I freshly associated his smug, pompous face with all Emma had told me of him, of what he'd done to her.

"That was him, wasn't it?" I nodded to myself, not needing the confirmation. "Your ex that—"

"Was that live?"

She was still staring blankly at the television, and I wondered for a moment if she really had spoken or if I had just imagined it.

I blinked. "What?"

Finally, she closed her now tear-filled eyes and drew in a deep breath. "W-was the program live or was it pre-recorded?"

I hesitated before picking up the remote once more and rewinding to just before the newscaster segwayed to the commercial break. I looked about the screen and finally shrugged. "There's no live sticker, but—"

I heard the jangle of keys and promptly followed by the slam of the door before I had a chance to even register her movements. I stared after her for a long while, but eventually I turned to face the telly again before reaching for my phone on the tea table and punching in my sister's number.

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