Armani
The antiseptic smell hit me the moment I stepped off the elevator. Hospitals were the same everywhere—even in exclusive rehabilitation facilities like this one. I paused outside room 412, straightening my already impeccable tie and running a hand through my hair. Twenty hours of travel had left me disheveled, a state unbecoming of Montovian royalty. But I wasn't here as Prince Armani today. I was here as a husband trying to salvage what remained of his marriage.
My royal advisors would have a collective aneurysm if they knew I'd flown commercial, with only a single security detail who I'd instructed to wait in the lobby. No entourage, no press, no diplomatic arrangements. Just me, following my wife across an ocean because I couldn't bear another day without her.
Seven days of sil
