This gorgeous woman at my side has got more backbone than half the people in this room, Cyril Blackwood included.
“The enemy. Indeed. I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Blackwood sniffs, his little eyes practically disappearing into his face.
“The king felt I would be best suited to the job,”Fabiana adds.
“Lucky you, getting intimate access to Prince Maximilien,” Blackwood drawls, and there’s something in the way he says "intimate access" that turns my stomach.
“He taught me how to shoot an arrow today,” she says as she places a hand on my forearm. “Didn’t you, Max?”
“I would have thought in your line of work you were quite adept at shooting. Or am I thinking of mudslinging?” Blackwood says.
“Come now, Lord Blackwood. This is an elegant evening for visiting dignitaries. Let’s keep it friendly, shall we?” she replies, not missing a beat.
There’s one thing I’ll say for Fabiana: she can hold her own.
“I’m quite certain I can. Can you?” he replies.
“As a matter of fact, I can,” she says. “Although I've only been here for a couple of days, I suspect I'll learn a lot more once His Royal Highness and I travel north together," she says, and then looks at me and adds, “Isn't that right, Max?”
The way she says my name does something to my belly. “That's right.”
Blackwood's eyebrows make an impressive migration toward what remains of his hairline, which is no small feat, considering it’s situated halfway down the back of his head. "You're taking her to the summer palace, sir?"
I nod. "Correct."
"Good luck with that.” He harrumphs like a disgruntled walrus before excusing himself, and I watch him waddle away with a mixture of relief and irritation.
"Tell me something," I say once he's out of earshot. "Do you make friends wherever you go?"
She drains her glass, the only sign she was rattled. "In my line of work, it's hard to be everybody's favorite."
Something about her matter-of-fact tone bothers memore than it should, and I find myself saying, "I'm sorry he was rude to you."
The words surprise her as much as they surprise me.
She lifts a shoulder. “I have thick skin.”
“I imagine you need it,” I reply, and realize I mean it more kindly than critically.
A woman with a razor-sharp bob and calculating eyes approaches us. Unlike the other guests, who've been stealing glances at Fabiana all evening, this one has been openly staring, even when she spoke briefly with Blackwood as their paths crossed on her way to us.
She greets me with a curtsy and then turns to Fabiana. “I'm Miranda Thorne fromThe Post,” the woman says, extending a manicured hand toward Fabiana.
Recognition flashes across Fabiana’s face as her lips tighten. "Nice to meet you. I’m Fabiana Fontaine.”
"Oh, I know exactly who you are," Miranda says, her smile as sharp as cut glass. "I've been following your work for years. You’re very... insightful. You seem to have quite the inside track on royal protocol."
"Thank you," Fabiana replies tightly. “I was reading some of your comments on TikTok only today.”
“Were you indeed? In that case, you’ll know I’m a big fan. Huge.” Miranda's eyes dart between us. "I have to say, I'm fascinated by this new arrangement. A journalist getting such unprecedented access to a member of the royal family. It makes one wonder.” She pauses for a beat before she adds, “No. I’m being silly.”
I narrow my eyes at her. "Wonder what?" I ask, aware I’m walking right into her trap.
“Oh, nothing inappropriate or anything,” she says, clearly thinking something inappropriate is going on here. “I’m simply curious about the selection process. There are so many qualified journalists who would love thisopportunity, and yet you chose a beautiful young woman.”
“My father chose her, actually,” I reply.
What’s this woman’s beef? Is she annoyed she didn’t get the job herself?
