“That’s right.”
“I’m Nadia Aloni, your security escort today. Please, come with me.” Her face is severe; her light blue eyes areotherworldly.
“Sure thing,” I reply.
She leads me through a stone archway and into the palace through a service entrance near the kitchens. Not the entrance I used as a child as a guest of the palace for garden parties and the like.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen, and fallenhard.
We make our way through whitewashed corridors until we enter the part of the palace I’ve seen before. Marble columns, high ceilings, gilded edging. The entire place reeks of wealth and privilege.
“His Majesty will see you in the library,” Nadia Aloni says as we approach a familiar set of double doors.
My stomach drops to my charity shop designer shoes. The King’s library? That’s where my father brought me several times to show me first edition children’s books that smelt of dust and wonder. I remember marveling at the rows and rows of leather-bound books with gold detailing in the bookcases that seemed to stretch right up into the sky. I remember climbing a ladder on wheels, wishing it would whisk me around the room as if I were Belle inBeauty and the Beastin my very own library.
The irony is not lost on me that I'm about to be lectured about my career choices by none other than the King himself in the same room where I once dreamed of my own fairy tale ending.
But that was the old me, the starry-eyed child who no longer exists.
The doors open, and there he is, King Frederic of Ledonia, the man who destroyed my life.
He’s sitting behind a grand wooden desk, flanked by a middle-aged man in a suit as he concentrates on some papers, looking every inch the monarch who could have me tossed in a dungeon for treason.
Do they still do that in the 21stcentury?
I clasp my hands behind my back and squeeze until my joints turn white.
You’ve got this.
“Ms. Fontaine,” the man at the King’s side begins. He looks like he’s in his forties, with perfectly styled but thinning hair, and a smile that could sell ice to penguins. “I’m Ronan Clementine. We spoke on the phone.”
The guy I thought was my Uncle Bertie making a prank call.
“H-hello, Mr. Clementine,” I stammer, wishing I had the bravery of a woman who hadn’t just stepped out of the staff corridor and into the royal firing squad.
“May I introduce His Royal Majesty, King Frederic,” he continues with a respectful bow of his head—for the King’s benefit, not mine—and in return, I glide my gaze over the king’s familiar face.
He’s a tall and imposing, a handsome man, even in his advancing years, “the silver sovereign”, as I once referred to him on a TikTok.
It went viral.
“Your Majesty,” I manage, doing what I hope is an acceptable curtsy despite my knees threatening to buckle beneath me. Every crazy thought I’ve had about why I’m here buzzes around my head. Should I make a run for it? I mean, who willingly meets their executioner?
“Pleasure,” the King replies, although the way he says the word suggests it’s anything but. “Please sit, Ms. Fontaine.” He gestures at a chair across from him, and I lower myself onto it, every muscle in my body rigid.
This is the end. The end of my career—or worse.
He places his clasped hands on the table, his dark eyes trained on me in unflinching directness. “I imagine you’re curious why I’ve invitedyou here today,” he says.
Ummm, yeah?
“I'm sure you have an excellent reason,” I reply.
I wonder if they have room service in the palace dungeons.
“You recently published an article about my youngest son, Prince Maximilien.”
“That's right.” That hollow feeling claims my belly once more.
