Monday morning arrived in a blur of gray skies and nervous energy.
The three-week countdown was officially at zero.
Because I was his executive assistant, my work for the morning didn't involve sitting at my desk; it involved riding in the back of a sleek, black company town car toward a private airfield on the outskirts of the city.
William's flight was scheduled to land at exactly nine in the morning, and I had been awake since five, my stomach doing continuous, anxious flips.
When the car pulled past the secure gates of the hangar, the private jet was already taxiing down the runway, its massive engines whining to a halt.
The driver stepped out to open my door, and I stepped onto the asphalt, the crisp morning wind biting at my bare ankles. I smoothed down the fabric of my pencil skirt, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Then, the heavy cabin door of the jet lowered.
