For the first time, I notice he's completely drenched in sweat, the collar around his jacket stained wet.
Time to panic. Several murmurs run through the crowd.
The Prince stands up at the same time I do, and he sees me, several rows behind the other journalists. Our eyes lock for one intense second. We share our confusion, dismay, and utter shock before dad rolls out of his chair and goes crashing down on the podium.
Everybody jumps out of their seat, searching for a better view, chattering away. Cameras snap, hyenas feasting on daddy's suffering. Several swarms of guards flood the stage, surrounding my father and the Prince, one carrying a small white box with a red cross on its side.
I can't see what's happening. My heart races, and I try to push forward, shuffling through the purple rope separating the media from the interview stage.
The kingdom's official cameras have got to be off by now. Even if they aren't, it's too late to worry about embarrassing myself or my dad any further, when he's up there seizing up, sick or dying or maybe both.
I don't bother with the tiny staircase. I move right past it before anybody can notice and haul me away. My hands clench the edge of the podium, and I pull myself up, cursing the skirt I'm wearing for tangling up when my leg finally gets enough leverage.
Somehow, I manage it, without getting yanked away by the guard. My eyes turn to dad and the little crowd hunched around him, barking orders back and forth in that rich, regal accent that's becoming chalkboard on my ears.
“Hurry, boys, hoist him up! Get this man the hell out of here. I want an ambulance out front in the next sixty seconds.”
No, I can't just stare. I have to move.
One step forward, and my fucking heel catches on the stage's edge, throwing me backward. It's a long enough fall to do some damage if I slip, so I throw my weight forward.
I don't know what's worse. The fact that my dad is having a stroke or a heart attack right in front of me, or that these stupid, stupid shoes are twisting my ankle, sending me crashing to the floor next to him.
There's no time to brace for impact. Next thing I know, I'm falling, face first into the podium's hard black surface. I wonder if I'll get to share a room at the hospital with dad when I break something.
But I don't hit the surface. Something catches me, yanks me back, saving me from hitting the floor.
Make that two big somethings.
Hands. Thick, strong, determined, and locked around me.
Blinking back the dizzying confusion, I open my eyes. Prince Silas' dark blue irises widen when they see my face.
Like my heart wasn't already beating a hundred miles an hour. I'm lost for words.
Any words.
He's holding me in his arms like we've just done the last move in a fiery dance. His fingers press into my skin, tense and surprised, but completely unshaken. In control.
What the hell does a woman say when she's literally been swept off her feet by one of the most powerful, handsome, and arrogant men in the world? A man I'd scoffed at every time he showed up in the tabloids or in clickbait on the web?
The Prince, the heir to the throne, who's probably laid the female population of a small country. The Prince, with those ridiculously deep, beautiful blue eyes that are always saying fuck me.
And right now, they're trained on me.
Me, Erin Warwick. Intern. Nobody. Damsel in distress.
She, with the worst heels in the world. Him, with the icy, dominating eyes a woman could lose herself in forever.
“That's my father!” I stammer, trying to explain, hoping I'm not about to get tasered and thrown to the floor when the royal guards catch up to me.
“Don't move, love,” he says, never breaking eye contact. “Everything's going to be fine.”
Easy for you to say, I want to tell him. But I can't find the words.
Everything starts spinning again. This time, it's got nothing to do with the crappy shoes. I'm on the verge of blacking out.
“Stay with me,” Prince Silas growls, his fingers pressing harder in my skin.
Dad groans, several feet away, reminding me why I'm up here, mysteriously thrown into a Prince's arms by my own clumsiness in these God forsaken heels. They're starting to move him.
Wait, damn it – dad! I have to follow him. I have to –
I never get a chance to do anything. The guards I've been expecting surround us, but the Prince holds one hand up, telling them to stand down. His hands tighten on me one last time.
One on my shoulder. One against my lower back, holding me up, helping me back on my feet.
“See that she has a ride to the Royal hospital, and wherever she'd like to go after that,” Silas snaps, looking away from me at last.
I'm barely able to stand on my own without collapsing again. Thankfully, I don't have to support my own weight for long.
“Right this way, madame.”
Several guards tug sternly, but gently on my arms, leading me down the stairs, right behind the entourage that's ferrying dad away.
Just a few minutes later, I'm outside the palace, led down the hundred marble steps, and into one of the sleek black sedans below. A man sits next to me in the back. The driver stomps the gas as soon as my seat belt is on, without saying a word.
I'm grateful for the silence. I hate it, too, because it lets me think. Exactly what I can't afford to do just yet.
I won't let myself comprehend what a complete disaster this is until I know dad's going to be okay.
A couple hours go by just waiting. Then, I'm in his room, staring at my father laying feebly in bed. It's a tiny, clean, white chamber. Sterile looking. Maybe just a little more stylish than the bland, depressing places I'd find back home in LA.
Nobody ever said the kingdom didn't have a great medical system. Its reforms and upgrades were personally encouraged by Her Majesty, whose reign has always turned a lot of attention to her subjects' health and wellness.
That's what the Wikipedia article says, anyway, something I lazily gloss over while I wait for dad to wake up.
His hand feels so cold in mine. Whatever they've given him, he's out like a light.
It's early morning the next day, and I haven't slept a wink. We're both waiting for the initial test results to come in.
They've checked his heart, done several x-rays, and determined there's no need for immediate surgery. I'm not sure if that's good news, or a sign there's something worse lurking in his system. Something much harder to fix.
Morning light drifts over us, somber as it is bright. I'm starting to drift off myself, when dad finally groans. He sits up while my grip tightens on his hand, easing him awake.
“Christ. Feels like I got hit by a damned freight train. How long was I out, Erin?”
I shrug. “All night. It's early morning now.”
Dad reaches up, running a shaky hand across his face. About a second later, his eyes stretch huge, and suddenly his fingers tangle around mine.
“The interview – shit!” He pauses, like it takes the full horror several seconds to set in. “I blew it, didn't I? Jesus Christ.”
“Don't think about that now, daddy!” I lean in, stroking his fingers, kissing him softly on the forehead. “You need to get some more rest. There'll be plenty of time to sort out what happened later with the palace, I'm sure.”