CHAPTER 2: DIVORCE OR FREEDOM

MAXWELL POV

The problem with appearances was that they came with an expiration date.

Sooner or later, someone looks past the pressed pants, the pretty smile, the rehearsed lines and they see the real thing.

Mine was in front of me in four-inch heels and silk, kissing her secretary like he was her husband and not me.

I didn't blink. I didn't say a word. I just watched them on the screen, the hotel security loop running before me.

Nora moved away from the man—Mark, or Jordan, I think—and laughed as she rubbed her lipstick off his mouth. She glowed and looked free. Like a woman who didn't have a husband to return to.

I closed the laptop.

I wasn't surprised.

Nora and I had been married for two years, and I had never seen her look at me like that before. It was a bargain from the beginning—power, business, respect. Her father wanted to keep the name Russo tied to legacy. My father wanted me to stop disgracing the royal house with my "unserious behavior." And I was weary of battling both of them.

So I signed.

And we both worked at it for a while.

Until she didn’t care anymore.

Now, I rested my elbows on the edge of the king-sized bed in our suite on the top floor, hands steepled under my chin. The city lights filtered in through the windows, casting fragmented gold upon the carpet.

"You saw it?"

Nora's voice slid into the room like silk on marble. Smooth, cold, and totally unapologetic.

I did not respond.

Her heels made clicking sounds as she walked around the room, poured herself a drink from the bar console, and sipped slowly. "It wasn't serious."

I still didn't respond.

"I guess you’re going to make a scene now," she said, dropping into the chair across from me. "Go ahead. Call Daddy. Let the palace advisors spin their stories about me. Maybe we'll trend on T*****r for twenty-four hours."

I finally looked up. "You're unbelievable."

She smiled. "That's what they tell me."

"I want a divorce."

Her smile did not falter. "No, you don't."

"I do."

"You want freedom, Max. That's not the same thing."

I stood up, went over to the window. The glass was cold against my fingertips as I looked down at the city.

"You humiliated me." I paused for a second. “Freedom from this trap you call marriage.”

"You agreed to being humiliated the day you married me." Her voice grew a little harder. "Don't play victim now."

"I played husband." I turned. “Not victim. And I didn’t agree to marry you. I was left with no choice.”

Nora tossed back the rest of her drink and set the glass on the table with a bang. "I'll let this one go. Our public image is still untainted. But if you make this ugly—if you try to drag me through a scandal—I won’t go down alone.”

"Is that a threat?"

"I don’t make threats, hubby," she said with a cruel smile. "You forget, sweetheart," she said, enunciating the term like a poisonous fruitcake. "You're not just Maxwell Russo, tech mogul prince. You're royalty. Your sins echo more than others. You leave me, and then the media will demand to know why. And I have so many reasons I could give them."

She extracted a flash drive from her purse and twirled it between her fingers. "We both possess skeletons. You really don’t want me digging around your closet."

I said nothing, and sighed heavily.

At the moment, I didn’t trust myself to speak.

****

An hour later, I sat in a pub in the city center, blazer cast aside, tie loosened, collar gaping open.

No driver. No PR staff. No royal advisors watching my every breath. Besides, I’ve dropped every strand of royalty back in England… here to leave with an hidden identity

Just me and a bottle of Macallan.

The bartender kept refilling my glass without asking any questions. She must have recognized me—or possibly not. I wasn't sure that I was bothered.

A waitress swooped over to clear the table next to me. Short skirt, long nails, shiny red lipstick. She leaned a little too close in.

"Are you celebrating or mourning?"

I glanced up at her. "Something in between."

She laughed. "Well, if you're in the mood for some company…"

I started to shake my head, but she touched my arm lightly and added, “You’re Maxwell Russo, right?”

That made me pause.

She wasn’t surprised. In fact, she looked like she’d been waiting for me to confirm it.

And yet, some part of me didn’t care enough to lie.

“I thought princes were supposed to be charming,” she teased.

I shrugged. “I’m off duty.”

“Good. Because I’m not looking for a fairytale.”

We talked for a few minutes. Nothing too deep. Nothing I'll remember in the morning. She laughed too hard, asked too little. I knew her type.

But I wasn't up to chasing her away tonight.

So when she touched my leg and said something that sounded kind of like "Mr. Handsome," I didn't flinch.

I just paid the bill and followed after her.

The next morning, the rays of the sun spread across the bed. My head pounded, and my mouth felt parched.

I sat up slowly, and instantly, I had a headache. I turned to my side and saw that the girl was gone.

I rubbed my eyes with my fingertips and stretched out to reach the water bottle on the bedside table. That's when I saw it.

A little black object, unobtrusively hidden between the lamp and the wall.

A camera.

Blinking.

Still on.

I looked at it.

And for the first time in weeks, something sharp and real cut through the haze in my head.

This wasn't an accident.

I wasn't alone last night. Someone had been keeping an eye on me.

And whoever had installed that camera had wanted me to know I was being watched.

Then it dawned. “Wait, did I sleep with that waitress?”