"You haven't seen me eat soup.It's not pretty."
"I'm sure it's not as bad as you think."
"Peter, I once splashed tomato bisque on a first date.On his white shirt.He looked like a murder victim."She paused."There was no second date."
"His loss."
She looked at me with surprise."You think?"
"Anyone who can't handle a little soup splash isn't worth your time."I bumped my shoulder against hers."For what it's worth, I think there are ways to teach someone without tearing them down first."
"You really think she was being too harsh?"
"I think she was being a bully.And I think you're trying so hard to become someone else that you're forgetting who you actually are."
"Maybe who I actually am isn't good enough for this life."
The defeat in her voice made something twist inside me.Here was this incredible woman: intelligent, compassionate, brave enough to sacrifice six months of her life to help prevent a war, and she was sitting here thinking she wasn't good enough because some etiquette instructor had convinced her that the way she walked wasn't royal enough.
"Betty," I said, and there was more urgency in my voice than I'd intended."You need to know something about the prince."
She looked at me sharply."What about him?"
"He's not what you think he is."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he's not the stuffy, condescending aristocrat you're picturing.He's not going to care if you can't curtsy properly or if you use the wrong fork or if you splash soup on his shirt.He's going to care about whether you're kind to people, whether you're genuine, whether you treat others with respect."
"How do you know?"
Because I'm him, I wanted to say.Because I've been falling for you while watching you torture yourself over stuff that doesn’t matter.Because I'm not worthy of you, but I'm selfish enough to want you anyway.
"Because I know him," I said instead."And I know he'd rather have someone authentic than someone perfect."
"You really think so?"
"I know so."
She was quiet for a moment, studying my face like she was trying to read something there."Peter," she said finally, "who are you really?"
The question hung in the air between us.I could tell her the truth right now.End the deception, deal with the consequences, start over with honesty instead of lies.
But then I thought about the intelligence briefings, about Putin's submarines positioning themselves for Mediterranean action, about forty-five days to prevent an international crisis.I thought about Congress and defense treaties and all the people whose lives depended on this marriage working.
And I thought about Betty's face when she found out the truth.The hurt.The betrayal.The realization that even Peter, the one person she'd trusted to see her clearly, had been playing a role.
"I'm someone who thinks you're remarkable," I said, which was the truth, even if it wasn't the whole truth."And I'm someone who knows that any man would be lucky to marry you."
"Even a prince?"
"Especially a prince."
She smiled then, the first genuine smile I'd seen from her since the lesson with Madame Delacroix."Thank you.I needed to hear that."
"Did you bring the latte?"
Her smile widened into something real."Of course I brought the latte.What kind of monster do you think I am?"She reached into the bag she'd been carrying and pulled out a travel cup."Maple cinnamon, as promised.I even drew a little horse in the foam, but it might have gotten jostled on the walk over.Could be more of a horse-adjacent blob now."
