* * *
Anatoli places a tray bearing a black coffee, several sachets of sugar, a bottle of water, and a cheese baguette in front of her. “I cannot believe I am serving you,” he utters as he sits. “Eat.”
“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” Alessia retorts, folding her arms in an act of defiance.
His jaw hardens. “I will not tell you again.”
“Oh, do your worst, Anatoli. I’m not eating. You bought it, you eat it,” she snaps, ignoring her growling stomach. His eyes flare in surprise, but he presses his full lips together, and Alessia suspects he’s trying not to smile. He sighs, reaches over, picks up her baguette, and takes a theatrically large bite out of it. With his mouth full, he looks both absurd and ridiculously pleased with himself, so much so that an involuntary snicker escapes from Alessia.
Anatoli smiles—a proper smile that travels all the way to his eyes. They regard her warmly, and he no longer tries to hide his amusement. “Here,” he says, and he hands her the remaining part of the baguette. Her stomach chooses this moment to rumble, and when he hears it, his smile broadens. She eyes the baguette and him and sighs. She’s so hungry. Against her better judgment, she takes it from him and begins to eat.
“That’s better,” he says, and starts on his own meal.
“Where are we?” Alessia asks after a few bites.
“We’ve just passed Frankfurt.”
“When will we reach Albania?”
“Tomorrow. I hope to be home by tomorrow afternoon.”
They eat the rest of their food in silence.
“Finish up. I want to get going. Do you need to use the restroom?” Anatoli stands over her, keen to move on. Alessia takes her coffee without adding sugar.
Like Maxim.
It’s bitter but she downs it anyway and grabs her water bottle. The service station, with its large parking lot and smell of diesel fumes, is hauntingly familiar and reminiscent of the journey she made with Maxim—but the difference is, she wanted to be with Maxim. Alessia’s heart aches. She is getting farther and farther away from him.
* * *
I’m sitting in the British Airways business-class lounge at Gatwick Airport, waiting for the afternoon flight to Tirana. Tom is leafing through The Times and sipping a glass of champagne while I’m brooding. I’ve been in a state of high anxiety since Alessia was taken from me.
Maybe she went with him willingly.
Maybe she’s changed her mind about us.
I don’t want to believe that, but doubt is creeping into my mind.
It’s insidious.
If that’s what’s happened, at least I’ll get to confront her about her change of heart. To distract myself from my unsettling thoughts, I snap and upload a few photos to my Instagram. Once that’s done, I think back over the morning’s events.
First I’d bought Alessia a phone, which is now in my backpack. I’d met with Oliver and gone through a quick agenda of all estate business; to my relief everything seemed to be running just fine. I’d signed the papers required by the Crown Office for my inclusion onto the Roll of the Peerage, with Mr. Rajah, my solicitor, acting as my witness. I’d given both men a redacted version of the weekend’s events with Alessia and asked Rajah to recommend a lawyer specializing in immigration services, so we could begin the process of securing some kind of visa for Alessia to be in the UK.
Afterward, on a whim, I’d visited my bank in Belgravia, where the Trevethick Collection is secured. If I find Alessia and all is not lost, I will ask her to marry me. Over the centuries my ancestors have amassed quite a haul of fine jewelry crafted by the most prominent artisans of their day. When the collection is not on loan to museums around the world, it is safely stored in the bowels of Belgravia.
I needed a ring, one that would do justice to Alessia’s beauty and talent. There were two in the collection that might have been suitable, but I chose the 1930s Cartier platinum-and-diamond ring that my grandfather, Hugh Trevelyan, bestowed on my grandmother, Allegra, in 1935. It’s an exquisite, simple, and elegant ring: 2.79 carats and currently valued at forty-five thousand pounds.
I hope Alessia likes it. If all goes to plan, she’ll return to the UK wearing it—as my fiancée.
I pat my pocket yet again, checking that the ring is safe, and scowl at Tom, who’s stuffing his face with nuts. He looks up. “Hang in there, Trevethick. I can tell you’re fretting. She’ll be fine. We’ll rescue the girl.” He’d insisted on accompanying me when I called him and told him what had happened. He’s left one of his guys to keep watch on Magda, and he’s here with me. Tom loves an adventure. It’s why, back in the day, he joined the army. He’s up on his metaphorical white charger, ready for the fray.
“I hope so,” I answer. Will Alessia see us that way—as rescuers, not as an inconvenience? I don’t know. I’m itching to get on the plane and get to her parents’ home. I have no idea what I’ll find there, but I hope I find my girl.
* * *
“Why did you leave Albania?” Anatoli asks when they’re back on the autobahn. His voice is soft, and Alessia wonders if he’s trying to lull her into a false sense of security. She’s not that stupid.
“You know why. I’ve told you.” Though as the words leave her mouth, she realizes she doesn’t know what story he’s been told. Perhaps she can embellish the truth. It might make it easier on her and on her mother. But it depends on what Magda said. “What did my mother’s friend say?”
“Your father intercepted the e-mail. He saw your name and asked me to read it for him.”
“What did it say?”
“That you were alive and well and were going away to work for a man.”
“Is that all?”
“More or less.”
So Magda had not mentioned Dante and Ylli. “What did my father say?”
“He asked me to come get you.”
“And my mother?”
“I didn’t speak to your mother. This does not concern her.”
“Of course it concerns her! Stop being prehistoric!”
He gives her a sideways look, taken aback by her outburst. “Prehistoric?”
“Yes. You are a dinosaur. She deserves to be consulted.”
Anatoli’s puzzled frown speaks volumes; he has no idea what she’s talking about. Alessia continues, warming to her subject, “You are a man from another century. From another time. You and all the men like you. In other countries your Neanderthal attitude to women would be unacceptable.”
He shakes his head. “You have been in the West too long, carissima.”
“I like the West. My grandmother was from England.”
“Is that why you went to London?”
“No.”
“Why, then?”
“Anatoli, you know why. I want to make it clear to you. I don’t want to marry you.”
“You will come around, Alessia.” He waves his hand as if to brush off her rejection as trivial.
Alessia huffs, feeling aggrieved but feeling brave, too. After all, what can he do while he’s driving? “I want to choose who I marry. It’s a simple enough request.”
“You would dishonor your father?”
Alessia flushes. Of course her attitude—her defiance, her willfulness—brings great shame to her family.
She turns back to the window, but in her mind this conversation is not over. Perhaps she can appeal to her father once more.
She allows herself a moment to think about Maxim, and her grief rises, raw and real. Her bravado evaporates, and her mood plummets once more into despair. Her heart is beating but empty.