“Did you see the archery video? I posted it not that long ago,” I say.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And you didn’t use the footage of me missing the target.”
“You asked me not to.”
He slides his eyes to mine. “Is that a sign of things to come?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I ask you not to use some footage or report on something I’ve done, will you agree?”
“Be careful. You're teetering on the edge of propaganda with that request.”
He raises his brows, his eyes sparkling. “And we wouldn't want that.”
“No, we wouldn’t.”
We reach the entrance to the Grand Hall, where a couple of royal guards flank the doorway, with the sound of voices chattering and soft music emanating through the doors.
“Here we are. Shall we go in?” he asks.
My body buzzes with anxiety. “That's what we're here for.”
He offers me his arm, and as I hook mine through, I have to fight not to shiver at the closeness.
Fail.
“Thank you for escorting me,” I say as the doors swing open, my heart thudding at the prospect of coming face to face with a roomful of people I’ve made a sport out of writing about. A roomful of people who have no clue I used to be one of them.
Will they turn their backs on me?
Abuse me to my face?
Or worse yet, will they work out who I really am?
He places his hand over mine. “I didn’t want you to get lost again,” he says, but there’s no sting in his words, and the quirk of his lips tells me he’s only teasing.
“It was a very beautiful music box,” I reply.
“If you say so,” he replies.
I open my mouth to respond, but there’s nothing I can say. In entering that room and looking at that music box, I was taking a stroll down memory lane to a time when life was simpler for me, but Prince Maximilien of the House of Canossa is the very last person I could ever tell.
Chapter 10
Max
Stepping into the room, I glance around at the sea of familiar faces, dressed up to the nines in their finery and sparkling jewels. As the doors are closed behind us, heads turn like a Mexican wave, and words are whispered throughout the room.
Fabiana and I are the talk of the town.
By now, every person in the room will be aware that she’s here to report on me, to show the country “the real Prince Max”. What they don’t know is,standing here with her on my arm, I swell with pride to have this gorgeous woman on my arm—despite the fact I know she's only here because my father’s paying her.
When I came across her in the Red Salon, it was hard not to notice how utterly stunning she looks tonight in that deep blue dress. What was she doing in there though? Prying for her articles? But why? What interest can a music box hold for a journalist?
