Chapter 3

"Do you ever wonder if I'm stark raving mad?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the chatter at Gate 19 as we waited to board our flight to Nairobi.

Daphne turned to me, her expression pensive for a moment before breaking into a grin. "Come on, Ronnie, fleeing the country to avoid your ex is completely normal and acceptable behavior."

"Ronnie" was the name we'd decided I would go by since my real name would obviously attract too much attention. At least until I was out of the country, since I was certain nobody would know me in Africa.

I felt ridiculous wearing the large leopard-rimmed sunglasses, Kastonia University T-shirt, and the oversized hat with sunflowers printed around on the rim. It was only a matter of time before someone would figure out who I was. Luckily, we could slip through the security checkpoint unnoticed with the help of Daphne's uncle, who is the director of airport security.

"I still can't believe you talked me into dressing like this," I muttered as the first-class passengers boarded our flight.

Daphne leaned closer. "We just look like a couple of fun, enthusiastic travelers with a zeal for life. Besides, going undercover is fun! Now, I see why the Americans celebrate Halloween. The only thing missing is some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. I hear they are very popular in the US."

The disguises we'd picked up at a souvenir shop on the way to the airport seemed to draw more snickers than stares, but I couldn't help but feel my anxiety levels beginning to rise. Each passerby seemed a new threat, their glances like daggers of suspicion.

As I attempted to hide my royal visage behind my Vogue magazine once more, I noticed a man in my periphery lifting his phone to take a photo of us.

"I think our cover has been blown," I said.

"Relax—he's just admiring our lovely sense of style," Daphne said.

"I'm not so sure about that," I said as the man stood and walked in our direction, his eyes sparkling with the unmistakable eagerness of someone on a mission.

"Excuse me, ladies," he chirped, notebook in hand. "I'm gathering stories for my blog about everyday people at the airport. Could I steal a moment of your time?"

I offered him a tight-lipped smile and changed my voice, hoping it sounded convincingly deep. "We're about to board. Time's tight, but thank you for your interest."

"No worries …" He tilted his head, a puzzled grin forming on his face. "Love the hat, by the way. Big fan of pepperoni pizzas?"

"They're sunflowers, actually," I corrected, keeping my tone light.

"Really?" He squinted at the hat, as if trying to see it in a new light, then shrugged. "Oh, sunflowers then. Neat." His gaze lingered a moment too long. "You look incredibly familiar."

Before I could fumble through a cover-up, Daphne stepped in with her characteristic snappy timing. "She's a doppelg?nger for that woman you see on billboards—you know, the one selling luxury yachts and dream vacations."

The man chuckled, undeterred. "Or like a celebrity going incognito with that hat and sunglasses. Imagine that?"

From the seat across from us, a middle-aged woman in a yellow dress piped up. "She does look like a movie star! Reminds me of a young Jamie Lee Curtis!"

"Yes, exactly!" the blogger exclaimed, snapping his fingers.

An older gentleman, clad in a sleek noir ensemble, joined in. "That would mean she's related to Tony Curtis. That would be an interesting twist!"

Before I could deflect, the blogger mused aloud, "Then we'd be just a step away from some real Hollywood royalty, wouldn't we?"

Royalty? This was hitting a little too close to home.

The lady leaned forward, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, Tony was fabulous in Some Like It Hot. And Jack Lemmon? A gem in Grumpy Old Men."

The blogger nodded appreciatively. "Classics, both of them! Were you at the film festival this weekend? You sound like a cinephile."

"I was indeed!"

"I'm surprised I didn't see you."

"With so many faces, it was easy to miss one," she replied with a chuckle.

"Yet, none as memorable as yours," he replied with a playful wink. "Mind if I feature you in my blog?"

Her warm laughter filled the air. "My dear, that's the smoothest line I've heard all day. Why not? Let's see if your questions are as charming."

With a grin and a nod, she followed him, leaving us behind.

I leaned in towards Daphne, a mischievous glint in my eye. "To think, romance sparked by a mistaken identity and a few movie references."

Daphne smirked back. "In a world full of scripts, spontaneity reigns supreme."

Just then, the airport intercom crackled to life, interrupting the murmur of impatient travelers. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. We are now boarding all passengers for flight 527 with nonstop service to Nairobi. Please have your boarding passes and passports ready."

"Here we go!" I exclaimed, springing to my feet with a mix of excitement and nerves. As I darted towards the gate, it seemed like a marathon had started without me knowing—thirty eager passengers zipped by, securing their places in line ahead of us.

Daphne and I shuffled forward, inching toward the jet bridge in a procession reminiscent of a slow march rather than the glamorous start to our adventure I'd imagined. We were nearly at the gate when the flight attendant, her eyes sharp behind her glasses, halted me with a gesture to my head.

"I'm sorry, but could you please remove your hat and sunglasses for a moment?" she asked. "Just for identification."

With a reluctant sigh, I lifted my hat just enough to reveal my face and pushed my sunglasses down to the tip of my nose. The attendant's reaction was immediate; her eyes widened.

She definitely knew who I was.

I attempted a casual smile, which felt more like a grimace, as she scrutinized the photo in my passport, then back to my face, her gaze flickering with recognition. Hastily, I replaced my sunglasses and hat.

Her body tensed, and for a terrifying second, it looked as though she might curtsy right there in the terminal.

"Please don't," I whispered urgently, leaning in.

She snapped upright, confusion etched across her features. "Pardon me?"

"It's crucial—for national security reasons—that you don't acknowledge who I am," I implored, the absurdity of my request not lost on me.

"Of course—your privacy is our concern," she said, then shook her head slightly, as if to clear it. "I mean, your safety is our priority and honor." Her movements were almost mechanical as she scanned my boarding pass and handed back my passport. "Enjoy your flight."

"Thank you," I said, relief washing over me as I stepped onto the ramp, the weight of her gaze still on my mind. Once on the plane, I kept my head down. I navigated the narrow pathway to my seat in the very back.

"Look, Mommy," a young girl exclaimed, pointing at me. "She has pepperoni pizzas on her hat. Can we have pizza when we get to Kenya?"

"I don't think that will be possible, but we'll see," her mom replied gently.

Ignoring their conversation, I continued down the aisle and finally reached my seat in the back, just one row away from the bathroom. Attempting to sit down proved challenging, as my hat was so large and cumbersome. I couldn't lean back comfortably.

As I fumbled to find a comfortable way to sit, a tall man with glasses and a baseball cap paused in the row in front of me, helping an older woman stow her luggage.

"I just adore your hat—it's so quirky and fun," she said, her eyes lighting up as she glanced down at me. "Don't you think so, son?"

"Absolutely," the man chuckled, glancing at me as he secured her bag overhead. "It's your favorite flower."

Finally, someone who didn't think they were pepperonis.

"You see, son?" she nudged him. "That would make a perfect birthday gift, much better than the usual gift card."

"When's your birthday?" I inquired.

"Today, actually," she beamed. "I just turned eighty."

"Happy birthday," I responded, spontaneously removing my hat. "I think this should be yours."

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly?—"

"Please, I insist," I smiled, handing it over.

She accepted it with a delighted grin. "You are too kind. I wish I had something for you."

"Well …" I glanced at the man's head. "I do have a soft spot for baseball caps."

"Give her your hat, son," she directed without hesitation. "You have hundreds of them."

He smiled, removed his cap, and handed it to me. "Easy come, easy go. I packed more anyway." He titled his head to the side. "By the way, you look familiar."

I slid the hat on and smiled, trying to come up with a quick reply before they figured it out. "People say I look like a young Jamie Lee Curtis."

"You do!" the woman said. "I just loved her in the Halloween movies." She smiled. "Thanks again for the hat, honey."

"My pleasure," I said as I watched the man place it overhead with their bags.

I settled back with the much smaller, more comfortable baseball cap, a wave of relief washing over me. Reclining in my middle seat, I thought to myself that I should have ditched the unwieldy hat a long time ago.

Just as I settled in, a middle-aged woman with twitchy eyes wearing an orange and black zebra-print sweatsuit lumbered into the window seat beside me, and a young man in a smart blazer claimed the aisle seat on my left.

No sooner had the woman clicked her seatbelt shut than she turned to me with an intensity that could startle a mannequin.

"My husband died on a plane," she declared, gripping my arm for dramatic effect.

I blinked, unsure if this was some kind of odd icebreaker. "Oh … I'm terribly sorry to hear that."

"Don't be," she waved a dismissive hand. "He thoroughly deserved it."

"Okay then …" I mumbled, suddenly very interested in the safety card in front of me.

"Do you believe in karma?" she continued, her eyes narrowing with curiosity as she waited for my answer.

Cautiously, I buckled my seatbelt, bracing myself. "I guess it depends on the context."

She nodded as though I'd just agreed to a profound life philosophy. "Exactly! Harold, may he rest in pieces—or not—was a first-rate scoundrel. Sold fake insurance to retirees, squandered our savings at the casino, and even forgot our anniversary. Twice!" Her voice crescendoed with each sordid revelation.

"Oh, dear," I responded, my mind scrambling for an escape route from this airborne confessional, but coming up empty.

"And never marry just for their looks," she tossed in, leaning closer as if sharing state secrets. "Big mistake."

I glanced awkwardly at the young man to my left, who seemed utterly enthralled by his phone, oblivious to the unfolding soap opera. Was this normal behavior in coach class? Do people just unload their baggage on unsuspecting strangers?

She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And then, would you believe, he ran off with his dental hygienist! I mean, she'd been inside his mouth and had seen his gums. They were bloody like a vampire's if he ever got around to flossing. You'd think she'd have known better." She shook her head in disbelief, her eyes wide with the sheer audacity of it all.

"Healthy gums are important," was all I could come up with, my royal upbringing offering no protocol for this level of personal disclosure.

"His plane going down was just the universe's way of balancing the scales, if you ask me." Her chuckle was dark, filled with a grim sort of satisfaction. She then sighed heavily, the drama appearing to not be quite complete. "All that stress made me physically ill, but trust me, my airsickness is much worse and quite the spectacle." She began rummaging through her zebra-print bag, pulling items out and then stuffing them back in. I was shocked when she pulled out a pack of what appeared to be camouflage-print emesis bags. "I love a theme!" she announced loudly. "Could you check and see if there are extra barf bags in your seat back? I have a feeling I'll need them."

While I internally questioned the practicality of camouflaged bags, I discreetly gestured to a couple of neatly folded blue airline bags, offering a sympathetic smile. Just then, the young man to my left peeled off his headphones, his interest finally piqued by the mention of airsickness.

"Did I overhear something about getting sick on flights?" he piped up, his voice surprisingly eager.

"Yes, it's awful," the woman affirmed, clutching the barf bags as if they were golden tickets. "Trust me, you don't want to witness it."

Given the sold-out flight, it wasn't like we had any other option.

"Well, you're in for a treat!" he said, his eyes twinkling as he leaned eagerly across my personal space to address her. "I've developed a natural remedy for air sickness that will revolutionize travel forever." He paused for effect, clearly thrilled by our captive audience. "It's based on an herb they use in the Andes for altitude sickness. Just chew it, and your nausea vanishes—like magic, all natural and scientifically sound!"

The woman perked up and her interest piqued despite herself. "Really? An herb, you say?"

My eyebrow arched involuntarily. My agricultural studies had introduced me to nearly every plant on the planet, and this sounded dubious at best.

"And it really works? Where can I get some?" she inquired.

His smile widened. "It's still in the prototype phase, but imagine being the first to invest in something that could change flying forever! I'm currently looking for backers. Interested?"

There it was—the sales pitch.

It smelled as fishy as it sounded.

I caught the woman's eye, who seemed oddly intrigued despite her late husband's notorious scams. Was she really falling for this?

Feeling a responsibility to intervene, I cut in. "You're talking about coca leaves?"

"One hundred percent," he grinned, "in a gummy form."

I shook my head. "That's not feasible."

He bristled. "And you're suddenly an expert on the subject?"

"Actually, yes," I replied coolly. "I have a master's degree in agriculture from the University of Copenhagen. Besides, coca leaves are banned in most countries. How do you plan to navigate that?"

He faltered, then muttered, "Still figuring that out."

"And they're addictive," I added, for good measure.

The woman's interest deflated. "Why would I want in on that?"

"It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance," he tried again.

"Pass," she said flatly.

His frustration bubbled to the surface as he glared at me and grumbled, "Looks like I am sitting next to a literal buzzkill."

"I can help you with your problem," I said, spotting an escape. "My friend, who is sitting up in the middle of the plane, would love to swap seats with you. Seat twenty C. Tell her Ronnie sent you."

He picked up his things and stood. "Gladly."

The woman chuckled as he walked away. "I like your style, Ronnie. By the way, I'm Ann. Thanks for getting rid of him."

"Anytime, Ann." I smiled, then watched as Daphne made her way back to us, relief etched on her face. "Welcome to the VIP section."

"You are a lifesaver!" she said. "Do you mind if I have the middle seat?"

"Not at all." I stood and let Daphne slide into her seat, then I took the one on the aisle.

She beamed, settling in, then fastening her seatbelt. "My seat mate wouldn't stop bragging about his arm-wrestling days at the local pub. He kept showing his ‘victory grip' on the armrest!" We both burst into laughter as she mimicked the action. "It's all in the wrist!"

"Men!" Ann said, shaking her head with a laugh.

Daphne glanced up at my head. "Hey, what happened to your sunflower hat?"

I smirked. "I traded up for a better model."

"Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the screens in front of you as we demonstrate the safety features of this aircraft," a flight attendant announced over the PA system. "Thank you for choosing Kastonia Airlines for your journey today. We'll be in the air shortly."

After playing the safety video, the plane began its taxi to the runway, and the hum of the engines grew louder. Soon, we were in the air, and the flight attendants started bustling down the aisles, offering drinks.

"Give me the hardest thing you've got, then triple it," Ann said.

It felt good to laugh amidst the chaos, a brief respite from my slightly stressful undercover journey. Luckily, the next few hours of the flight were uneventful, except for a minor meal mishap. As I tried to saw through the somewhat tough chicken breast, my efforts were abruptly halted when the end of my plastic knife snapped off. The broken piece took flight—sailing over Daphne's lap, ricocheting off Ann's left breast, and finally coming to rest underneath the seat in front of her.

"Seems even the utensils are plotting their escape," Daphne quipped.

I winced, then said, "Sorry about that, Ann. I hope I didn't hurt you."

She waved it off, then gestured to her breasts. "Not to worry—they're not real. I didn't feel a thing."

At that moment, a man with piercing eyes sauntered down the aisle, his intense gaze fixed on us.

"I smell trouble," I said under my breath.

He paused in front of me, leaning casually against the seat. "So, who are you two trying to hide from with those sunglasses and hats?"

Caught slightly off-guard, I tensed, but Daphne responded with a grin, "From you, obviously. Though it seems our plan needs some work."

He rubbed his chin, eyeing us both. "Out of four hundred passengers, you two stand out. Is it a fashion statement or something more?"

"We're just following doctor's orders after laser eye surgery—strict light avoidance," I explained quickly. "Please excuse us while we go back to eating now."

His smile widened. "First, tell me who you are."

The flight attendant who had checked us in at the gate approached, her tone firm but polite when she said, "Sir, the seat belt sign is on. Please return to your seat."

I mouthed a thank you to her as the man walked away, and she winked back at me before returning to the front of the plane.

"I'm glad he"s gone, but there now seems to be a different kind of foulness lingering in the air," Daphne whispered as she wrinkled her nose and winced. "It's like the flight was rerouted through a dairy farm during a heatwave."

Ann gestured over her shoulder to the wall directly behind our seats. "That unpleasant stench that is burning the hairs inside our nostrils is the airline's free gift to you for picking the worst place to sit on the plane."

"Not that we had a choice, but I actually thought these were supposed to be good seats because of their proximity to the food and bathrooms," Daphne said.

Ann looked at us both, her eyebrows knitted together. "Is this your first time flying?"

"Is it that obvious?" I replied.

"Well, while you both savor the lingering aroma of pasture paradise, please excuse me while I make good use of this." Ann reached for the airsickness bag and began to fill it.

Just then, another man attempted to shimmy past three people in the aisle who were waiting for the bathroom. His ample belly collided with my shoulder, jostling my elbow from its spot on the armrest.

Daphne turned to me and smirked. "Having fun yet?"

The hum of the engines became a soothing lullaby after the meal. The oddities and tensions of the flight's earlier episodes—complete with quirky strangers and my own undercover efforts—faded into a quiet blur as sleep claimed me.

Unfortunately, my peace was short-lived.

Whispers seeped into my dreams.

They grew clearer and more insistent.

"Isn't that …?"

"It looks like her!"

"Princess Veronica, right?"

"Quick! Take a photo!"

Confusion swirled in my mind as I opened my eyes, blurring the line between sleep and wakefulness. Faces peered at me from the aisle, some trying to be discreet, others shamelessly raising their phones to capture the moment. I glanced down and saw the baseball cap that was supposed to be my incognito shield was now just a flattened accessory on my lap. My sunglasses had completely disappeared, nowhere to be found. This could not be happening to me. I was wide awake and utterly exposed.

Or was I?

"Ronnie—wake up," Daphne said, her voice echoing in my mind as I felt a pressure on my arm. "Ronnie …"

My eyes shot open, and I looked around.

"That must have been some dream—you kicked me," she said.

More like a nightmare …

"Sorry about that," I said to Daphne, then glanced at the food tray in front of Ann. "Looks like we slept right through the second meal, too."

Ann grimaced, a grey tinge around her mouth. "Count yourself lucky. It was a cold breakfast sandwich with some mystery meat that didn't agree with me. And the tart juice practically gave me permanent fish lips."

Daphne and I shared a smile, the stress of my nightmare easing away as we descended into the tranquility once again. Best of all, the passengers were uninterested in the royalty disguised among them.

Our landing was smooth, a soft touchdown into the world far removed from dramas, arranged marriages, and prying eyes. The connecting flight was brief, the smaller aircraft taking us to our final stop, the northern, more verdant section of the single most salubrious wildlife habitat on the planet, the Serengeti-Maasai Mara ecosystem. And best of all, I could dress normally and remove my hat.

Over fourteen hours after leaving Kastonia, we arrived at Sir Richard Branson's Mahali Mzuri in Kenya's Motorogi Conservancy. Normally, this place can book up months or even a year in advance, but a cancellation opened up two suites at the last minute. We were lucky enough to get one of them when Daphne called from the airport before our first flight.

This luxurious safari camp featured tented suites on a ridge, offering panoramic views of wildlife-rich plains. Its design was a tribute to exclusivity and eco-friendliness, with canvas canopies and wooden decks blending into the natural surroundings.

Daphne and I were thrilled as we approached the main lodge, breathing in the fresh, earthy scents of acacia and wild grass. Mahali Mzuri was not just a stunning resort, it was a sanctuary from Prince August, providing a much-needed escape and a deep connection with nature at the same time.

Upon arrival, a friendly employee greeted us with a warm smile. "Welcome to Mahali Mzuri! May I help with your bags?" He glanced around for more luggage.

He could keep looking all he wanted, but he would find nothing. Our escape from Kastonia had us scrambling with nothing but a few things in our carry-on bags. Time hadn't allowed for packing; everything happened too quickly, too urgently.

"We traveled extremely light," I said with a casual shrug, sharing a look with Daphne. "Just the essentials. We'll need to pick up a few things while we're here."

"Outdoor gear, SPF moisturizers, industrial-grade insect spray, and enough malaria medication to sedate a herd of wildebeests," Daphne said with a chuckle.

"And if we can buy locally, even better," I added.

"Of course, many of our guests enjoy the local crafts and attire. I will point out where you can acquire everything you need," he responded, leading us to our suite.

The tented suite itself was a haven of luxury (and more like the size of a studio apartment), decorated with vibrant African textiles and equipped with all the modern comforts disguised in rustic charm. It really was more like a high-tech tent on steroids since it was designed with three separate spaces: the bedroom (with our two double beds), a living room, and a full en-suite bathroom. There was even a deck right off the living room that overlooked the valley.

With the weight of our rapid departure from Kastonia momentarily lifted by the serene ambiance of our new surroundings, we changed out of our incognito attire into jeans and T-shirts and headed back out.

The main building was a grand pavilion under a tented roof, with open walls allowing a gentle breeze to drift through. Plush sofas and handcrafted furniture invited guests to relax and mingle. The deck outside offered an infinity pool that seemed to spill over into the savanna.

As we approached the bustling hub of activity, voices and laughter mingled with the sounds of the wilderness. The lodge was alive with guests from all corners of the globe, each enchanted by the beauty of the Kenyan plains.

"We made it without being discovered," Daphne said, pointing to the bar. "I think a celebratory toast is in order."

"I agree," I said, walking with her to get a couple of drinks, with nothing covering my head or my eyes. I felt completely free.

We ordered two dawas, a popular local drink recommended by the bartender, a concoction of honey, brown sugar, and lime that he muddled with vodka. Right before we were about to toast, a voice cut through the cheerful noise, a voice achingly familiar and entirely unexpected.

"Princess Veronica, such a pleasure to see you."

The words hit me like a shockwave, resonating deep within as I turned, my movements slow, weighted by a different cocktail, one part disbelief, one part dread.

There he was—Prince August—amidst a throng of oblivious adventurers and tourists, his presence as commanding as ever. He stood there, tall, strikingly handsome, a smile playing on his lips that masked the turbulent history we shared. My brother, Caleb, stood by his side with a wide grin, unrestrained, like he had just arrived at the Alps for a week of skiing. The sight of them here, in this remote sanctuary, felt like a punch to the gut.

How was it even possible that they were there? How could they have found us? We hadn't told a single soul we were coming here.

My heart hammered against my chest, the beats echoing loudly in my ears as the room seemed to tilt on its axis. Daphne's grip on my arm anchored me just enough to keep me from spinning into a full-blown meltdown.

"What are you doing here, August?" I choked out, my voice tight with rising anger and panic as I glared at him.

He squared his shoulders and stepped closer with a gaze so intense it was impossible for me to look away. "I'm here to win back the only woman I have ever loved."