The prince’s thumb caressed the ring. “Whatever you think the girl is worth to you.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but... You got her papers? Passport? I don’t want to lose that ring and then have her skip out on me.”

“But of course. One phone call.” The prince gave him an oily smile and reached for his phone. Coop pretended to stare out the window during the short, barked conversation in Arabic. He and the prince had struck a deal.

Coop couldn’t wait to get away, but he wasn’t turning over the ring without the girl, and he knew how to take his time. He finished his drink and sidetracked the prince’s story about a particularly repulsive sex game by recounting a story of his own, this one about last season’s Giants game. Finally, the two of them were on the elevator riding down to the lobby.

One of the royal henchmen stood at the front desk riffling through a stack of passports he’d apparently retrieved from the hotel safe. Since the United States and Canada had a loose border, Coop had tried to convince Piper that a passport wasn’t absolutely necessary, but she’d been her own stubborn self.

“Without a passport, it’ll be nearly impossible for her to apply for legal status,” she’d argued. “She won’t be able to go to school and get health care. They’ve stolen her identity, Coop. The passport represents what little of it she has left. Promise me you’ll at least try.”

He hadn’t promised anything, but the short time he’d spent with the prince had steeled his resolve.

The henchman handed the passport over to the prince. A diminutive, robed female figure stood off to the side, clutching a small cloth duffel. Her head was down, so Coop couldn’t see her face. She had no way of knowing what was happening to her, and she had to be terrified.

The prince didn’t spare her a look—she was a mere female—but gave Coop the passport. Coop flipped it open with his thumb. Glanced at the name and the photo. He walked over to the girl and tilted up her chin with his thumb. Just like he was buying a fucking slave.

It was unmistakably her. Dark brows, round cheeks, trembling lips, and deep brown eyes wide with terror, something he couldn’t do anything about right now.

He pocketed her passport and turned back to the prince. “You enjoy the ring, Your Highness. And that Lombardi trophy right in the middle? Solid platinum.”

But the Lombardi trophy on the real ring, which was locked in his bedroom safe, was picked out in diamonds—genuine ones, not the cubics that crusted the reproduction rings. He’d had half a dozen replicas made to donate to various charity auctions. The bidders all knew they were copies, but they’d still been popular items.