“Are you a prince?” she repeats. “Mommy says you aren't my uncle like Zach, and you aren't her friend like Reese. So are you a prince?”
My heart pounds against my ribs.
How the hell do I answer this?
“Why do you think I might be a prince?” I ask carefully, buying myself time.
She sits up straighter. “Because you came from really far away. Princes always come from far away in the movies.”
“That's true,” I admit slowly.
“Mama said you lived in a castle when you grew up,” she says, eyes wide. “Is it far away like in the movies?”
Did she really call it that? Where I’m living now is a far cry from the luxuries I grew up with, and somehow, I’m okay with it. I’ll take that shitty, little hotel room with the peeling wallpaper and questionable stains over my parents’ prison any day.
“It was big, but not as big as the castle Princess Blanca lives in,” I tell her honestly. “But now I live in a regular place. Nothing special.”
Her face falls slightly. “Oh. But you're still a prince, right? You have to be.”
“Why do I have to be?”
She looks at me like the answer is obvious. “Because mommy told me I’m safe with you, and you’ll always protect me no matter what. That’s what princes do.”
For a second, I can’t speak.
My throat tightens.
Safe. Protect. Those aren’t fairy-tale words. They’re words that I’ve never been trusted with before.
“Well, she’s not wrong. I will always do whatever it takes to protect you, princess.”
“And Mommy, too? She needs protecting.”
She does. Tiff doesn’t just deserve a prince. She deserves someone who shows up, who stays, who doesn’t come with a family legacy of lawsuits. Someone more like Reese with his uncomplicated life.
Not someone like me.
“Your mom is pretty special,” I say quietly. “But she doesn't need a prince, Ella. She's been doing just fine on her own.”
“But it's better with a prince,” Ella insists. “Princess Blanca has Princess Isla. They're better together. Mommy should have someone too.”
“She has you,” I point out. “And Uncle Zach, and lots of other people who love her.”
“It's not the same.” She shakes her head, frustrated that I'm not understanding. “You're supposed to—”
She stops mid-sentence, her face suddenly scrunching up.
“Ella? What's wrong?”
“My tummy hurts,” she says, pressing her hand against her stomach. Her voice has gone small and there’s a little crease in the middle of her forehead.
Panic flares in my chest. “Hurts how? Like you're gonna throw up?”
“I don't know.” Her eyes start to water. “It just hurts.”
Fuck. Okay. What do I do? What would Tiff do?
“It's okay, sweetheart.” I shift on the couch, trying to project calm I absolutely don't feel. “Sometimes tummies hurt. Did we eat too much ice cream?”