Holy guacamole.They mean business with a capital B.
I see a toasty warm winter in mine and Nona’s future, a fully functioning kitchen tap, and maybe even a new water heater for that price.
“I take it from your expression that the sum is amenable to you?” Ronan Clementine asks, one eyebrow arched in my direction.
“It’s…err… amenable,” I reply. “But I do need to say one thing.”
“Which is?” the king asks.
“I'm not going to create a glowing account of your son simply because you're paying me well. I will need to be honest, showing the world who the prince is behind the headlines. Warts and all.”
A muscle in the King's jaw twitches. “I'm confident that you will find my son is a truly decent fellow, despite some of his choices, and almost entirely wart free.”
My journalistic integrity wars with my bank account. On the one hand, this seems dangerously close to propaganda. On the other hand , that number on the paper could change everything for Nona and me.
And if I'm being completely honest, the opportunity to get inside access to the royal family, to see how they really operate behind closed doors? It's every royal journalist's dream.
It could make my career.
“Can you guarantee that I will have full editorial control?” I ask.
“Complete control,” Ronan confirms. “We must proceed swiftly with this project. So…”
So, it’s me or someone else. As difficult as this will be, as personally challenging to keep up my Fabiana façade, I want to be the one to take on this project.
“I'll need to speak with my boss.”
“Of course,” Mr. Clementine replies.
“When exactly did you have in mind for this to start?” I ask.
“Tomorrow would be perfect,” the king replies.
I press my lips together, my mind racing. This is the kind of opportunity that could send my career into the stratosphere, change Nona’s and my life forever.
Or this could be the most spectacular disaster of my life.
But really, what choice do I have?
“If my boss agrees, then I will accept," I say, before I can talk myself out of it because there’s no way Judith won’t agree to this. She lives for this sort of thing.
The King smiles—actually smiles—and for a moment I remember why my twelve-year-old self once thought he looked like a handsome king in a fairy tale.
He rises to his impressive height, tall and broad, just like his sons Alex and Max, and shakes my hand. “An excellent choice, Ms. Fontaine. Ronan will handle all the contract details.”
“All right,” I say. “Thank you.”
“No, no, no. Thankyou,” he replies, his dark eyes trained on mine.
I turn to leave when a thought occurs to me. “What does Prince Maximilien have to say about this arrangement?” I ask.
“He’s totally on board with it,” the king replies smoothly.
“And he’s aware it’s me who’ll be working with him?”
King Frederic’s smile widens, and I swear there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “He’s looking forward to it tremendously.”
I very much doubt that.
