Her phone vibrated in the sheets beside her—likely a message from Hanjo.

Across the bed, Johan was still awake. He sat with his back propped against the dark wood headboard, legs crossed to support his tablet.

He was scanning the screen and typing on the thin keyboard attached to it, focused and intent, a pair of black-framed reading glasses perched on his nose. He was working, which was not something she’d ever imagined really. He was Bad Boy Jo-Jo; his job was supposed to be spending his days lounging and his nights living to excess, but here he sat in blue sweatpants and a white tank top, looking studious. After a day of engaging in charitable endeavors with small children.

She wondered what his fans would think if they saw this side of him, hair wild and lips pursed in concentration, scrolling screen reflected in his lenses. She’d never found him to be more attractive, which was a problem given that they were sharing a bed.

He took off his glasses to rub his eyes, and then stretched.

“What are you working on?” she whispered, reaching for her phone. He paused with his hands high above his head and his back arched, musculature on full display, and tilted his head to look down at her.

“Did I wake you?” He finished his stretch and dropped his arms. “Sorry.”

“No. The bed was trying to eat me,” she said. His brows knit in confusion, and she shook her head. “And I have a message.”

She squinted at the screen.

Hanjo: My dearest Nya, whenever you’re close to me, I don’t think of royalty and rebellion. I think of this strange ache in my chest.

Nya:

You should get that heartburn checked out.

Ache? What does that mean?

The rebellion is the most important thing right now.

She selected B because she was asking herself the same thing, and then put the phone down and looked at Johan. “You didn’t tell me what you’re working on.”

“Just a hobby of mine,” he said. He laid his glasses on the bedside table and then dropped back onto his pillow.

“What kind of hobby?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’s a bit hard to explain.”

“Try me. You might be surprised what I’m able to understand,” she said, slightly annoyed. That was something people had always said to her, unable to imagine she could grasp complex ideas. Even at the orphanage, her suggestions for growth and expansion and bettering the lives of the children had been questioned, and then eventually reworded by others who took the credit.

“No, it’s not that,” he said. “I know you’ll understand. It’s just . . . my hobby is funding charities. Boring stuff. Hard to explain.” He shrugged, but it wasn’t as nonchalant as usual.

She leaned up on her elbow, fascinated. “Funding charities? So that’s why you were asking so many questions about the operations of the land mine retrieval group today?”

He nodded, but didn’t look at her, as if he hoped her questions would stop if he didn’t make eye contact.

“How many charities does this hobby of yours involve?” she pressed.

“Not very many. Forty-nine? Fifty after today, I suppose.”

“Phoko.” She reached her arm out across the bed, scooching forward so she could poke him in the side. “Are you going all pink in the cheeks because I’ve discovered that you’re a secret philanthropist?”

“I’m not a philanthropist. I just give some of my money to organizations that help people in need of assistance,” he said.

“Mmm-hmm,” she replied, her smile so wide that the air-conditioning in the room chilled her teeth.

“And it’s not a secret,” he said grumpily. “It’s just not discussed very openly, and I use a variety of techniques to prevent people from finding out about it.”

She felt suddenly warm, talking with him like this. It was the middle of the night and he was telling her about his work. About what he valued. It felt . . . intimate.

“Wow.” She shook her head. “Now that I think of it, I’ve seen so many photos of you at charity events. I just assumed you were there for–”

“For the alcohol?” Johan cut in drily.

“For the, ah, admirers,” she admitted.

His gaze dropped away from hers. “See? I don’t even have to hide it, really. People’s assumptions do the work for me.”

Nya realized something. “Why did you tell me? You could have said you were looking at social media.”

Those long lashes fluttered up as he met her gaze again. “Because you asked me. The alternative would have been lying, and I don’t do that with you.”

The way he said “with you” made it seem as if he was happy to lie to others, maybe even to everyone. Everyone but her.

This was probably not a good trait in a man, but Nya couldn’t help but feel pleased. He owed her nothing after all, because she wasn’t really his fiancée, but he would give her the truth, which was usually all she wanted in life.

“I knew you were nice.”

“Nice is not a compliment,” he said. “It’s what you say to people with no other redeeming qualities.”

He leaned back atop the overstuffed pillows, his hands folded behind his head. Nya’s gaze traced the shadows of his muscled biceps down to the dark auburn hair under his arms.