“What do I have to do? And what’s in this for you?”

Thabiso sighed, but this time he didn’t look away.

“You don’t have to do anything more than you’ve ever done, really,” he said. “You just have to be my betrothed.”

Ledi held one hand to her forehead and another up in front of Thabiso. “Wait. Wait. You came here to apologize for lying about your identity, and now you’re asking me to lie about mine? You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m not asking you to lie,” he said. “You are my betrothed, by royal and religious decree. I’m not asking you to pretend that you love me—”

“Good. I’m a scientist, not an actress, Bones.”

“Bones?”

She stared at him, and he dropped the query.

“Never mind. Right.” Thabiso shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “Rumors are already spreading after the event last night, but we can spin this. We can go with the story that you were unaware of who I was, who you were, and you can return a prodigal daughter. That should placate people who were angry about your parents fleeing. Then, once the outbreak is handled and things go back to normal, you can say that you miss the US and go back home.”

Ledi was trying so hard not to care, but his last words shanked her right in a vulnerable spot. Some stupid romantic part of her had hoped he might beg her to stay, even if that was the last thing she wanted. Didn’t she deserve that lie, too? Then she remembered that no one ever wanted her around for long.

Defective Velcro.

She almost told him no.

This is for work. This could make your career.

“Fine. I’ll pretend to be your betrothed,” she said holding out her hand. She squeezed his hand hard, and then dropped it. “And then I’ll leave.”

Chapter 22

Ledi had packed and repacked her suitcase several times over the course of the last week, between bench exams, finding a mouse sitter for the Grams, and getting last-minute vaccinations, a passport, and special visas that were expedited at the behest of the Thesoloian Consulate.

All that, and dodging Portia.

I should have just confronted him myself and asked once I was suspicious. I didn’t think it would hurt you this much if I was right.

Ledi had to admit that she’d spent years convincing Portia, and herself, that nothing a man did could hurt her. But Portia should have known how much she could hurt Ledi.

I shouldn’t make excuses. What I did was wrong, and I’m so sorry.

Ledi put the phone away, her sadness weighing down on her. She missed her friend, despite Portia’s ridiculous, thoughtless behavior, but she needed time to think before speaking to her. She needed to figure out how to break the bad patterns of their friendship and create better ones, and whether Portia would be able to do the same.

This was why her phospholipid bilayer was so important. Once someone got through, it was all over. They could hurt deeply and she’d still care about them. Caring was the worst, despite its evolutionary necessity.

She refocused on her packing, deciding between a more reserved skirt set and bright pink skinny jeans. She stuffed both into the suitcase and zipped it resolutely. There was no perfect outfit for meeting your countrypeople for the first time. Or for making a prince eat his heart out.

Don’t be ridiculous.

She’d barely see Thabiso—she hated that name. Each time she had to mentally correct from Jamal to Thabiso it was a reminder of how she’d been played for a fool. What’s in a name? Acute embarrassment, apparently.

She had plenty of things to keep her occupied while she was there; she’d downloaded all available info about the possible epidemic and dozens of case studies onto her phone to read during the long flight. She’d also compiled the emails about Thesolo, the most recent ones that had suddenly started explaining the country’s history and culture. She now realized those emails had been Likotsi—Thabiso’s mystery friend, actually his assistant, who she’d met in the hallway of her building—prepping her for Thabiso’s confession that never came to fruition.

She’d read through all of those already, soaking up the facts and photos like a sponge left away from the water until it was hard and dry. It was too much to absorb at once, and she’d read them again and again, telling herself it was the same thing she’d do with any assignment she received in class. The only unread email’s subject was right to the point: Libiko and Kembe Ajoua, Your Parents. Ledi hadn’t been able to lie to herself about that one, so she hadn’t opened it. Not yet.

Her phone rang, the sound jolting her out of her reverie.

“Ms. Naledi Ajoua, betrothed to His Royal Highness Prince, Bringer of Light and Love, Thabiso Moshoeshoe of Thesolo?” The man on the other line could have been an auctioneer with his smooth, fast delivery.

It jolted her, hearing her real surname instead of the one on all of her legal documents. Smith had given her anonymity, ensured she was always at the back of the class and at the bottom of lists. Ajoua was a front of the class, top of alphabetically ordered lists kind of name. It was a name that didn’t allow for shrinking. She wondered what her life would have been like if the social workers hadn’t found her parents’ fake identification papers, but that led down the perilous path of wondering what her life would have been like if her parents had lived and why they’d had fake IDs to begin with.