This woman? She’s rude and snarky and…and still holding my dog.
“You're trespassing on palace grounds,” I blurt before I have the good sense to stop myself.
There’s a flash of something on her face as her veneer drops, and even if it’s short-lived, I wonder if I’ve somehow got under her skin.
Good. She’s gotten under my skin too many times to count. It’s about time we redressed the balance.
“Actually,sir,” she replies, the word dripping in sarcastic deference. “I've just had a meeting with your father. He’s invited me to move into the palace, which I’ll be doing tomorrow. And now I'm on my way to my car. But thank you so much for the very warm welcome.”
My scowl deepens. Of course I knew she was here to see my father, and the topic of conversation was none other than me. Me, “the problem”.
The real problem here, however, is the fact that this woman now has the power to make or break me with what she chooses to report over the coming month. Father has made it painstakingly clear that he wants me to go about my everyday life with her shadowing me, confident that she’ll learn I’m more than she reports on.
But what if she’s right? What if I am as immature and unworthy of my position as she already believes?
The thought clutches at my chest like a fist that won’t let go.
Because Ihavedone all the things she’s reported on. I have been irresponsible and reckless, just as she’s said.
Even though my decisions are not me, they’re a part of me, and admitting that is hard enough to do to myself, let alone my harshest critic.
Perhaps I should be a little less direct. Bring out some of the famous Prince Max charm.
“Look. We got off on the wrong foot,” I begin, despite the words catching in my throat. “Thank you for rescuing Toffee, Ms. Fontaine. I really do appreciate it.” I flash her the smile that usually has the effect of softening the heart of even my sternest judge.
But all she does is pull her full lips into an amused smile, her big eyes dancing with mirth. “You’re welcome.”She places a soft kiss on Toffee’s head before she passes her to me, and as I take my dog in my arms, she squirms with delight at the prospect of licking someone else’s cheek.
Fabiana reaches into her purse and pulls out a set of keys. “I believe you and I are going to be spending quite a lot of time together.”
“That’s correct,” I grind out, the prospect hanging over my head like a storm cloud.
She notices the dirt on her lapel and brushes it. But it doesn’t budge.
Is it terrible that I have a small sense of victory?
Probably.
Giving up on the dirt, she lifts her chin and turns her green-eyed gaze to mine. “I’ll see you tomorrow to start on Project Prince Maximilien.”
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s what we’re calling this?”
She pulls the door open of a car that looks more like it belongs in a junkyard than on the road, and it makes a terrible grinding noise of metal on metal. “That’s what I’m calling it, sir. You can call it whatever you wish.” She slides inside the car and then pulls the door over. She starts the engine and begins to back the car out of the space.
She comes to a stop beside me, winds down her window—which she actually manually winds, the car is so old—and says, “Bye, Toffee. Sleep well, sir.”
And then she turns the wheel and drives off, gravel flicking up behind her wheels.
“This is going to be a nightmare,” I mutter as she disappears from sight, her gaze lingering in my thoughts. “A complete and utter nightmare.”
Chapter 5
Valentina
The bathroom in my room at the palace is larger than my entire bedroom at home. It's all marble surfaces and gold fixtures that probably cost more than I make in a year.
But then, this is the palace, the seat of power and wealth in this country. If anyone's going to have gold fixtures, it'll be the royal family.
I lean toward the ornate mirror, my hands in rubber gloves as I carefully apply dye to my roots with the precision of a surgeon performing delicate brainsurgery. I can't have Valentina's dark hair showing through Fabiana's blonde, particularly not here at the palace.
