Chapter 1
Chapter one: A night out
The cabin speakers crackled to life with a burst of static, cutting through the low, rhythmic hum of the descending aircraft. The wheels hit the tarmac with a firm thud, bouncing slightly before the brakes engaged, sending a collective tilt through the cabin as the plane began its long taxi toward the terminal.
"Thank you for flying with Malta Airlines," the flight attendant's voice chimed over the PA system, smooth and practiced. "We hope you enjoy your stay on our beautiful island. The local time is currently 2:45 PM, and the weather is a sunny thirty degrees."
The announcement was immediately followed by the sharp, metallic chorus of dozens of seatbelts clicking open.
Jaimy remained seated, her back pressed against the worn fabric of 14B. She watched with a mix of amusement and exhaustion as the aisle instantly transformed into a dense, immovable wall of impatient travelers. Elbows flared, overhead compartments slammed upward, and the air filled with the rustle of nylon jackets and heavy breathing as everyone tried to claim their territory.
"You know," Lucas said, already standing despite the fact that his head was nearly brushing the luggage bin and nobody could move an inch, "if people just waited thirty seconds before grabbing their stuff, we'd all be off this plane in five minutes flat. It's basic logistics."
Right on cue, a bulky canvas backpack swung outward, smacking a man in a linen shirt squarely in the shoulder. The man hissed a complaint, but the backpack's owner was already looking the other way.
Lucas pointed a finger triumphantly down the aisle. "Exhibit A."
Wyatt didn't look up from his phone, his thumb rapidly scrolling through a downloaded map of the island. "It's thirty degrees outside, Lucas. The air conditioning in this cabin died ten minutes ago, and it feels like a terrarium in here. I'd want off this thing too."
"You're missing the principle of collective efficiency."
"No, I'm prioritizing survival."
Jaimy laughed softly, letting her head drop back against the headrest. The bickering was familiar, a comfortable background noise that made the reality of the situation finally sink in. The trip had actually begun. It felt surreal after the endless months of meticulous spreadsheet planning, the weekend shifts taken to boost their savings, and the literal hours spent listening to Lucas complain about budget airline hidden baggage fees.
Now they were actually here. Malta.
Eventually, the gridlock broke, and the line of passengers began to trickle forward. When Jaimy finally stepped out of the pressurized cabin and onto the mobile boarding stairs, a thick, heavy wave of Mediterranean heat slammed into her chest. It wasn't just hot; it was a dense, physical presence, smelling faintly of jet fuel, dry earth, and sea salt.
"Oh my God," Jaimy muttered, squinting against the sudden, blinding glare of the sun reflecting off the tarmac.
Lucas immediately pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from his shirt pocket and slid them onto his nose. "Why does it feel like we're walking into a preheated oven? Is the runway on fire?"
"It's called summer," Wyatt replied, pulling a heavy duffel bag down the steps behind him.
"It's called suffering."
By the time they navigated the crowded baggage carousel, reclaimed their scuffed suitcases, and stepped through the sliding glass doors of the arrivals terminal, all three of them were wearing a sheen of sweat. The pickup lane outside was a chaotic maze of idling white taxis, shouting tour operators, and families waving signs.
They looked around, checking their phones. Their pre-booked taxi was nowhere to be found.
Lucas stepped toward a concrete pillar and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, flicking a lighter to life with a practiced motion. Wyatt rolled his eyes, shifting his heavy bag to his other shoulder, while Jaimy stepped closer to the curb, scanning the sea of arriving vehicles.
That was when she noticed the black SUV parked a few yards away in a restricted zone. It was a pristine, polished vehicle with heavily tinted windows that caught the afternoon light. Two tall men in tailored dark suits stood near the rear bumper, their posture rigid, eyes scanning the crowd with casual alertness.
Between them stood a young woman. She was dressed simply but elegantly in an oversized white linen shirt, dark trousers, and oversized sunglasses that hid her eyes. There was an effortless grace to her posture, one hand tucked casually into her pocket.
Even from a distance, there was something undeniably different about her. As tourists and airport workers bustled past, several locals stopped in their tracks, offering a respectful nod or a brief greeting. The woman acknowledged them with a polite, practiced tilt of her head, but her expression remained largely neutral-almost bored.
The suited men seemed to wait entirely for her cue, standing in her periphery rather than guiding her. One of them stepped forward, checking his watch and saying something in a low tone. The woman shook her head, a sharp, decisive gesture, and began walking toward the passenger side of the SUV. The man immediately stepped back, opening the door for her without a word.
Jaimy smiled to herself, watching the interaction. Whoever she is, she clearly hates being told what to do, she thought.
Just before stepping into the vehicle, the woman paused. As if sensing Jaimy's gaze, she turned her head slightly, looking directly toward the pickup lane. Her sunglasses lowered just a fraction, revealing a pair of dark, sharp eyes.
The look lasted just a second. Then she climbed into the back seat, the door clicked shut with a heavy, expensive thud, and the SUV pulled seamlessly into the airport traffic, disappearing around the bend.
"Found our cab."
Wyatt's voice broke the spell. He was pointing across the road toward a slightly dented blue Toyota that was pulling toward the curb, its hazard lights blinking.
Jaimy shook her head, shifting her grip on her suitcase handle. She forgot about the woman almost immediately. At least, she thought she did.
The drive north toward Qawra felt like traveling through a living postcard. The highway wound through a landscape dominated by golden limestone buildings that seemed to bake under the intense sun. Terraced hillsides stretched outward, dotted with prickly pear cacti, while massive baroque church domes rose high above the flat rooftops of small towns. Every few minutes, whenever the road hugged the jagged coastline, the deep, brilliant turquoise of the Mediterranean Sea flashed vividly between the buildings.
The taxi driver, a sturdy man with an impressive mustache, insisted on playing traditional Maltese folk music through the car's crackling speakers-a lively, mandolin-heavy tune that filled the cabin. Wyatt tried to politely ask if he could connect his Spotify to the aux cord, but the driver simply shook his head with a booming laugh, shouting something about "real culture" over the music.
In the back seat, Lucas attempted to ash his cigarette out the window, but the heavy wind whipped it right back inside, dropping a glowing ember directly into Wyatt's lap. Chaos erupted instantly. Wyatt yelped, slapping frantically at his shorts, while Lucas tried to help and accidentally elbowed Jaimy in the ribs.
By the time the taxi finally pulled up outside their Airbnb, the sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in streaks of dusty orange and pink.
The apartment itself was an exercise in expectations versus reality. It was small-considerably smaller than the wide-angle photographs on the listing had suggested. The furniture looked like it had been salvaged from a 1980s lounge, and when Wyatt opened the refrigerator, he found it completely empty except for a single, warm bottle of local Cisk beer.
But then Jaimy threw open the double glass doors at the end of the room and stepped onto the balcony.
The balcony overlooked the open sea. The water stretched out indefinitely, catching the fading light of the sunset, and the sound of waves crashing gently against the rocky shore below filled the air. That view alone was enough to earn absolute forgiveness for the dusty couch.
"Okay," Jaimy admitted, leaning her elbows against the warm stone railing as the sea breeze caught her hair. "This view is incredible. You can't complain about this."
From inside, a loud sneeze echoed. Lucas was wiping dust off his hands. "I'd trade the view for a functioning air conditioning unit. It smells like old books in here."
"You've been here exactly one hour," Wyatt called out, tossing his bags into the smaller bedroom.
"I'm committed to my brand, Wyatt. I'm committed to complaining."
Nobody doubted it for a second.
After unpacking their wrinkled clothes and washing the airport grime from their faces, the trio headed out into the warm evening toward the local night market.
The coastal town felt completely transformed after sunset. The oppressive heat of the afternoon had mellowed into a thick, lingering warmth that radiated from the limestone streets. Strings of golden fairy lights stretched between balconies overhead, illuminating the crowded pathways. Music-a mix of modern pop and acoustic guitars-drifted from the open doorways of bars and crowded restaurants. Locals sat at outdoor tables, drinking wine and talking animatedly, while tourists wandered slowly between the wooden market stalls.
The air was dense with a dizzying mix of smells: charred fish from open grills, crushed garlic, fresh citrus, and the sharp, clean scent of sea salt. Jaimy took a deep breath, loving the energy of it immediately.
The market itself was a labyrinth of color and sound. Vendors shouted out their prices over the murmuring crowd. There were wooden crates stacked high with crusty, fresh-baked Maltese bread, jars of local honey, mounds of dark olives, fresh sheep's milk cheeses, and rows of unlabeled wine bottles.
Wyatt immediately became distracted by a vendor selling intricate silver filigree jewelry, leaning in to ask about the craftsmanship. Lucas, meanwhile, disappeared toward a stall offering free samples of sun-dried tomato paste on crackers, nodding solemnly as if he were a renowned food critic.
Jaimy smiled, content to let them do their own thing, and wandered down a quieter aisle on her own.
And that's when she saw her again.
The woman from the airport.
She was standing by a vibrant spice stall, looking at large sacks of cinnamon and ground coriander. She had traded the formal trousers for dark jeans, but she still wore the white linen shirt, the sleeves now rolled up to her elbows. She was speaking in fluent, rhythmic Maltese with an elderly vendor whose face was etched with deep laugh lines.
The conversation seemed familiar, comfortable. The old man said something, gesturing widely with his hands, and the woman threw her head back and laughed. The expression completely transformed her entire face, erasing the bored, distant look from the airport and replacing it with something bright and incredibly warm.
For a second, Jaimy forgot what she was doing. She just stood there, a few feet away, watching.
Then, as if feeling the weight of a gaze again, the woman looked up. Her eyes locked onto Jaimy.
The laughter died down, but the smile remained on her face-small, slightly amused, and deeply confident. It was the look of someone who knew exactly what effect she had, and who had caught Jaimy staring red-handed.
A sudden, fierce heat rushed into Jaimy's cheeks. She quickly looked down at a basket of dried lavender, pretending to be intensely interested in it, her heart thumping against her ribs. When she risked a glance back up a few moments later, the woman had paid the vendor and disappeared into the swirling crowd.
But this time, try as she might, Jaimy couldn't completely shake her from her thoughts.
Later that evening, after a dinner of fresh pasta, a bottle of local white wine, and an entirely too long debate over which bar looked the least touristy, they found themselves in a crowded courtyard bar tucked away down a narrow alleyway.
The bar was beautiful. Ancient limestone walls shot upward, creating a secluded pocket away from the main streets. Fairy lights hung in dense canopies overhead, casting a warm, amber glow over the packed wooden tables. The crowd was a loud, vibrant mix of languages, and a playlist of old jazz tracks echoed softly off the stone.
Lucas, true to form, had already managed to introduce himself to a table of British expats and was currently deep in a high-stakes card game. Wyatt had struck up a conversation with the bartender, passionately arguing about a recent Champions League football match.
Jaimy, needing a breath of air, ordered a gin and tonic and slipped away to a quieter corner of the courtyard, leaning against a stone pillar to enjoy five minutes of peace.
"You look bored."
The voice was smooth, carrying a slight, melodic accent.
Jaimy turned her head. The woman from the market was standing right beside her, holding a glass of dark wine. Up close, her dark hair was slightly messy from the sea breeze, and her eyes were incredibly sharp, taking Jaimy in with an easy, confident smile.
Jaimy couldn't help but laugh, the surprise catching her off guard. "Are you following me?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing," the woman replied, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "The airport, the market, and now my favorite bar. It's starting to look suspicious." She offered her hand, her fingers slim and ringed in silver. "Elena."
"Jaimy," she replied, shaking her hand. Elena's grip was firm and warm.
For the next hour, the noise of the courtyard bar seemed to fade into the background. Then that hour turned into two, and then three.
Eventually, they left the bar behind, wandering away from the noise and into the labyrinth of narrow, empty streets illuminated only by the warm glow of historical streetlamps. They talked about everything and nothing-traveling, music, the pressure of family expectations, and what it felt like to want to escape your own life for a while.
Yet, as the night went on, Jaimy realized she was learning surprisingly little about the mechanics of Elena's life. Elena mentioned she lived in Malta, that she loved being on the open sea more than anything, and that she hated being recognized in public, but she kept the details vague. Whenever Jaimy asked more specific questions-what she did for work, or where exactly she lived-Elena would smoothly redirect the conversation with a clever joke or a question of her own.
Normally, that kind of evasiveness would have annoyed Jaimy, making her feel guarded. Instead, she found herself completely captivated. The mystery didn't feel like a wall; it felt like an invitation, making Elena all the more intriguing.
By the time they reached the edge of the old harbor, midnight had long since passed. The bustling town was asleep. Moonlight shimmered in a long, silver path across the dark, glassy water of the bay. A few traditional luzzu fishing boats, painted in bright blues and yellows, rocked gently in their slips, their ropes creaking softly against the wood.
They sat down on a low, weathered stone wall overlooking the water, the quiet of the night wrapping around them. The fast-paced conversation finally slowed, and a comfortable, heavy silence settled between them.
Elena turned her head, looking at Jaimy's profile in the moonlight. "You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head from here."
Jaimy laughed, looking down at her shoes. "Everyone keeps telling me that. My friends say I overanalyze every single detail of my life."
"Maybe everyone is right."
"That's incredibly rude," Jaimy said, nudging Elena's shoulder with her own.
Elena smiled, her eyes dropping to Jaimy's lips for a split second before returning to her eyes. "Maybe. But it's true."
The smile lingered, and so did the intense eye contact. The moment seemed to stretch out, suspended in the quiet air of the harbor. Neither of them looked away. The space between them felt charged, heavy with anticipation.
Then Elena leaned slightly closer, her movement slow and deliberate, giving Jaimy every chance to pull back.
Jaimy didn't. Instead, she met her halfway.
The kiss was soft, warm, and entirely unhurried. It tasted faintly of red wine and the salt in the air. When they finally pulled apart, neither of them spoke immediately. The rest of the world felt miles away, reduced to nothing more than the sound of the water lapping against the stone wall.
Elena smiled, her hand reaching up to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind Jaimy's ear. "There you are."
Jaimy blinked, her heart hammering. "There who is?"
"The girl who has been staring at me all evening. I was wondering when she would show up."
Jaimy groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Oh my God, please don't remind me."
Elena laughed, a clear, melodic sound that was absolutely impossible not to love. She stood up from the wall, smoothing down her linen shirt, and held out her hand.
"Come with me," Elena said softly.
Every rational, overanalyzing part of Jaimy's brain told her she should say no. She had to get back to the Airbnb; her friends would wonder where she was; she barely knew this person. But looking up at Elena beneath the moonlight, she didn't care.
She stood up and took Elena's hand.
The walk back from the harbor was quiet, their fingers intertwined as Elena led the way through a series of arched stone pathways that felt hidden away from the rest of the world. By the time they reached the heavy timber doors of the secluded estate, the outside world had faded entirely.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, the atmosphere shifted. The quiet restraint of the evening dissolved.
Elena turned, her back pressing against the cool limestone wall of the entryway as she pulled Jaimy in by the lapels of her jacket. The distance between them vanished instantly. When their lips met this time, the gentleness of the harbor was gone, replaced by a sudden, magnetic urgency.
Jaimy's hands found their way to Elena's waist, gripping the soft linen of her shirt, while Elena's fingers tangled deep into Jaimy's hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. Every breath felt shared in the shadowed hallway. The scent of sea salt and warm skin was intoxicating, pulling them closer until there was no space left between them.
Elena let out a soft sigh against Jaimy's mouth, her hands moving down to trace the line of Jaimy's shoulders, guiding her seamlessly down the dimly lit corridor toward the bedroom. They moved together without breaking contact, trailing kisses from lips to jawlines, completely consumed by the rhythm of the moment.
When they finally reached the edge of the grand, canopy bed, Elena paused, her dark eyes catching the faint moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains. She looked down at Jaimy, her breath shallow, a soft, breathless smile playing on her lips before she leaned back down to continue where they left off, letting the rest of the world melt away entirely.
The next morning, bright, unfiltered sunlight streamed through a set of unfamiliar, heavy velvet curtains, waking Jaimy from a deep sleep.
She blinked, disoriented by the high, ornate ceiling and the sheer size of the bed she was lying in. She rolled over, expecting to see a shock of dark hair, but the other side of the bed was empty. The sheets were cold.
Jaimy sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. On the grand mahogany bedside table sat a small, heavy piece of cream-colored stationery.
She picked it up. Written in elegant, sweeping cursive were just a few words:
Thank you for the adventure.
- E
That was it. No phone number. No surname. No instructions on how to contact her.
Jaimy stared at the note for a long time, a quiet, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She tossed the note into her bag, got dressed, and slipped out of the quiet, winding estate, heading back toward Qawra.
An hour later, Jaimy spotted Lucas and Wyatt sitting at an outdoor table outside a small café near their apartment. A basket of pastries and two empty espresso cups sat between them.
The moment Jaimy approached the table, both of them froze. Lucas stopped mid-sentence, his coffee cup suspended halfway to his mouth. Wyatt's eyes went wide.
Jaimy became intensely suspicious immediately, pausing by the back of an empty chair. "What? Why are you guys looking at me like that?"
Neither of them answered for a beat.
"Seriously, what?"
Lucas slowly set his espresso cup down, pointing a dramatic finger at her. "You disappeared. You didn't come back to the apartment last night."
"Yes," Jaimy said, sitting down and pulling a pastry toward her. "I was out."
"You spent the night with her. The girl from the market."
"Yes, Lucas. I did. It's a long story."
Wyatt suddenly dropped his forehead into his open hands, letting out a low, agonizing groan. "Oh no. Oh, sweet retail-price television drama, no."
Jaimy paused, a piece of pastry halfway to her mouth. "What is wrong with you two?"
Lucas stood up from his chair, leaning across the small table, his expression a mix of sheer panic and manic delight. "Please tell me you know who she is, Jaimy. Please tell me you got a last name, a digital footprint, anything."
Jaimy frowned, her defensive walls going up. "Her name is Elena. We just talked, okay? She lives here."
"Elena what?" Lucas pressed.
"...Just Elena. She didn't really mention her last name."
The silence that followed was heavy and alarming. Wyatt slowly raised his head from his hands, pulling his phone from his pocket with the gravity of a man delivering bad news.
"No way," Wyatt whispered, his thumb tapping the screen. "There is no actual way this is real life."
"Wyatt, you're scrolling like a crazy person, what is it?"
Without a word, Wyatt turned the phone screen around, sliding it across the metal table until it stopped right in front of Jaimy.
Jaimy leaned in and stared. Then she stared harder, the breath caught in her throat.
The screen showed a local news article. The lead photograph featured a striking, high-resolution image of Elena. She wasn't wearing a wrinkled linen shirt; she was wearing a tailored, emerald-green formal dress, standing alongside a row of stiff government officials in a grand courtyard. She was smiling for a wall of flashing cameras-that same small, amused, confident smile.
The bold, black headline above the photo read:
PRINCESS ELENA ATTENDS NATIONAL FOUNDATION GALA EVENT IN QAWRA
Jaimy's brain completely stalled, the gears locking up entirely. She looked at the photograph. Then she looked up at Wyatt's pale face. Then she looked back down at the pristine image of the woman she had kissed by the harbor.
"No," Jaimy whispered.
"Yes," Wyatt said solemnly.
"No. It's a lookalike. It's a common face."
"Jaimy, look at the jawline. Look at the silver rings on her hand."
Lucas looked like he was about three seconds away from passing out from pure, unadulterated laughter. He gripped the edge of the table for support. "You spent the night... with the actual Princess of Malta."
Jaimy grabbed the phone, her hands shaking slightly as she scrolled through the article. The text detailed the royal family's itinerary, mentioning the Princess's known fondness for escaping her security detail to visit local markets and coastal towns.
The same eyes. The same smile. The same woman.
Her stomach dropped through the floor.
Suddenly, everything flashed backward in her mind. The black SUV at the airport. The suited men who didn't give her orders, but waited for them. The locals bowing and greeting her in the market. The absolute refusal to give a last name or talk about her occupation. The massive, historic estate with the mahogany furniture.
"Oh my God," Jaimy breathed, dropping the phone back onto the table.
"Exactly," Wyatt said, leaning back in his chair.
Lucas finally let out a loud, booming bark of laughter, drawing looks from the neighboring tables. "You accidentally hooked up with royalty! We come on a budget holiday, and you manage to romance the crown!"
Jaimy slowly sank back into her chair, her head spinning as she stared blankly at the bustling Maltese street. For several seconds, she couldn't even process the sheer absurdity of the situation.
Then, a sudden, horrifying realization hit her, and her eyes went wide.
"I never even asked for her phone number," Jaimy whispered. "I don't even have her last name."
Lucas groaned, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "That somehow makes it ten times worse. You ghosted a princess."
And somewhere across the golden, limestone island, in a palace far grander than their dusty Airbnb, Princess Elena was probably laughing too.
