Beth Cornelison - Protecting Her Royal Baby

Hunter gave her an odd look. “That you remember, but not your aunt Robyn?”

She paused, considering his question. “That does seem like an odd detail to recall when so much else is blank, but the doctor did say my memory would return in random pieces. No rhyme or reason.”

He lifted a shoulder. “True. And Sorsha is fine. Grateful for her breakfast.”

Brianna gave the screen saver another happy glance before swiping the screen to search her phone for contact names, photographs, messages, anything that would help her. As she scrolled her contacts, she found a listing for Robyn Elyse Rosenberg. Could that be the woman who identified herself as Aunt Robyn? Worth a shot.

She tapped the screen to call the woman, but the call went straight to voice mail. “Um, hi. It’s Brianna Coleman,” she said, feeling awkward. What if Robyn Elyse Rosenberg was a business contact, her ob-gyn or her real-estate agent? “I’ll call again later. Bye.” She disconnected the call and frowned at Hunter. “So do I just go through my contacts list and ask anyone who answers, ‘Do you know me? Who am I?’ That seems...weird.”

He rolled up a palm and sent her a commiserative moue. “You have a better idea?”

She sighed. “No.” Glancing back down at her phone, she noticed she had an alert indicating four messages were waiting for her. The first three were voice messages, one a repeat from the dry cleaner, another confirming her appointment for today with a Dr. Greene’s office. Her ob-gyn? That’d be worth looking into later. The third message was from someone named Phil Holtz asking her to call him.

Frowning, she shook her head. “Phil Holtz. That name means nothing to me.”

“Oh, that’s the guy you were planning to sell your car to. Guess you should let him know it got totaled.”

“I was selling my car?”

Hunter nodded. “Seems so. The paperwork was all on your kitchen table.”

“Oh.” She grunted and glanced at the phone again. The last message was a video sent via text message.

Curious, she opened the video, then gasped as a man filled the screen. Chris. Or rather, Prince Cristoff. “Oh, my God, it’s him!”

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