Brief Encounters

Timeline 1 (Part 12)

Jeanna's POV

My phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up with a message.

William:
"Hey, Jeanna. Just wanted to check in—did you make it home safely?"

I carried the glass of wine to the couch, curling my legs beneath me as I sank into the cushions. The room felt too quiet, the hum of the fridge now a distant murmur. My mind wandered back to the dinner—his laugh, low and warm, echoing in the back of the restaurant.

I hated how vividly I could picture him, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He looked at me like I was someone worth knowing, not just a curiosity or a passing fascination. It had been so long since anyone made me feel that way, and it terrified me.

Because the truth was, I was no stranger to being let down. Life had a funny way of handing you the world with one hand and taking it away with the other. I knew what it was like to reach for something beautiful and have it shatter in your grasp. And William? He was so far beyond my reach, it felt almost laughable to even think about him in that way.

But he did think about me. I could feel it in the way he lingered after our dinner, in the way his texts carried more than just polite concern. He was earnest in a way that made my chest ache, and that earnestness was dangerous.

The glass in my hand was nearly empty, so I set it down on the coffee table and leaned back, rubbing my temples. I knew what Paul would say if he were here. Don't overthink it, Jeanna. Let yourself enjoy the moment. Stop trying to predict the future.

But Paul wasn't here, and the future wasn't just a hazy question mark—it was a looming storm cloud. What would the headlines say tomorrow? What would William's family think? And worst of all, was I strong enough to face it?

A buzz interrupted my thoughts, pulling my focus to my phone. His messages were still there, sitting unanswered.

I picked it up and stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wanted to tell him everything—how I was scared, how I didn't think I could do this.

Instead, I typed a simple reply:

"I made it home fine. Thanks for checking in."

Short. Polite. Safe.

I hit send and set the phone aside, ignoring the dull ache in my chest. Safe was good. Safe kept people at arm's length. And that was exactly where William needed to stay.

At least, that's what I told myself.

When I finally woke, the soft morning light filtered through the blinds, landing in streaks across the countertop where my cheek had rested. My neck ached from the awkward angle, and I groaned, rubbing at the stubborn crick. The clock on my phone blinked with almost smug insistence—8:00 AM. A new day, no plans, no work.

I peeled myself off the counter, wincing as the stiffness radiated down my spine. My wine glass sat abandoned, still half-full, a bitter reminder of last night's fruitless attempt to quiet my mind. I shuffled to the bathroom, the chill of the tiles shocking me awake as I turned on the shower. The warm water cascaded over me, soothing my body but not my thoughts.

By the time I stepped out, towel wrapped tightly around me, I felt marginally more human. I dressed in my comfort go-to: a sleeveless top tucked into high-waisted pants, a blend of casual and composed that helped me feel like I had some semblance of control. Adding a light coat, I grabbed my keys and stepped out into the crisp morning air.

The cold filled my lungs, brisk and sharp, and I welcomed it like a lifeline. Each breath was an anchor, pulling me back into focus. The city was just waking up, its streets beginning to hum with life. I turned the corner of my building, thoughts lingering on where to get breakfast—a simple act to reclaim the morning.

But the peace was short-lived.

The moment I rounded the corner, the quiet was shattered by a storm of camera flashes, rapid and relentless like lightning. My heart leapt as a swarm of reporters closed in, their microphones thrust forward, their voices a cacophony of overlapping demands.

"Jeanna, is it true you've been spending time with Prince William? Are you two official now?"

"Has he met your family yet? Are you in love with him?"

"Is William planning to visit you in New York? Can we expect an announcement soon?"

The questions stung like tiny darts, fast and unrelenting, each one sharper than the last. I forced myself to keep moving, my pace quickening as their voices rose behind me. My fingers trembled as I fumbled with my car keys, the reporters pressing closer, their questions slamming against the windows like a torrential downpour once I managed to climb inside.

I gripped the steering wheel, taking a shaky breath. Anywhere but here. That was my only thought as I turned the ignition and pulled away, leaving the mob behind. My safe haven—the coffee shop down the street—beckoned like a lighthouse in a storm, and I parked with a sigh of relief.

The jingle of the doorbell was a familiar comfort as I stepped inside. The warm aroma of coffee wrapped around me, grounding me as I approached the counter. But even here, I could feel the weight of eyes following me.

"Good morning," the barista greeted me, his voice tinged with forced cheer. He fumbled with the register, his fingers clumsy, and I knew he recognized me. He was trying to act normal, but the tension in his movements betrayed his curiosity.

"Just a black coffee, please," I said, my voice steady despite the swirl of emotions inside.

The coffee came quickly, and I retreated to a corner table by the window. I cradled the cup in my hands, the warmth bleeding into my palms as I took a slow sip. Outside, the newsstand caught my eye—tabloids lined up in neat rows like a jury ready to pronounce judgment.

One cover stood out: a photo of William and me from last night, taken through the restaurant's glass doors. "Royal Romance? Jeanna's Night with Prince William Sparks New Dating Rumors!"

My stomach knotted. Another headline screamed from a neighboring paper: "Jeanna's Royal Obsession: From Henry to William—Does She Have a Thing for Power?"

It was cruel. Calculated. They had reduced my life, my choices, to a salacious narrative that fit neatly between glossy pages. A wave of nausea rolled through me as I realised how easily they had written my story for me, painting me as just another girl chasing a fairy tale