The folder sits open on my desk, pages spread across the surface like evidence at a crime scene. It’s past midnight, and I should be sleeping. But that’s impossible when I’m forced to have Addison in the same room as me without being able to speak to her.
Delphine recently gave me this folder of information. I’ve been through the palace art archives, going back sixty years. I’ve read inventory lists, written in faded ink, that smelled like dust and old libraries. There are catalog numbers and locations for every piece Henri Beaumont created during his tenure, provided nothing has been moved.
The paper is yellowed with age and brittle on the edges, so I handle each page carefully as I cross-reference locations against what I know. Most of the paintings are exactly where they should be. They’re hanging in galleries around the palace and in private quarters throughout. I’ve personally checked myself, and Davis—the guard who’s required to be my shadow per my mother’s orders—is my witness.
Just as Addison quickly discovered, one painting has vanished.
I pull the page closer, reading the notation for the hundredth time.Landscape, oil on canvas, forty-eight by thirty-six inches. Original location: queen’s sitting room, west wall.
But it’s missing.
There is no updated location or transfer record listed. It vanishedwithout any indication of where it went. The dimensions match the faded rectangle on the wall. It’s a dead end—again.
I shove back from the desk and pace to the window. As I stare out at the dark grounds, I press my palm against the cool glass. If I move to the edge of the room, I can barely see the cottage. It looks like the lights are off, which means Addison is probably asleep. Or maybe she’s lying awake in the middle of the night, like me. Instead of sheep, I’ve been counting the days until this ends. My neck aches from hours of hunching over documents, and I roll my shoulders to loosen the knot that’s been caused by stress.
This week so far has been frustrating.
Tatiana promised to help me see Addison, but every attempt has been blocked byconvenientcomplications. Monday, she had a headache that required me to join her at dinner. Tuesday, the queen scheduled an impromptu tea that ran four hours long. On Wednesday, Tatiana claimed she couldn’t find a time to break away to help. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday brought excuse after excuse until I stopped believing her.
Three pre-portrait sessions happened while I was trapped in meetings I couldn’t escape, but since I know the process, Addison said it wasn’t needed. Delphine caught me in the hallway yesterday and reported that Addison had been professional, composed, and revealed nothing during her private meetings with my mother and Tatiana as they discussed poses. I wish she weren’t wasting her energy on something that will never be displayed.
There are a few days until the ball, until Tatiana and I end this in front of an audience. I’m growing more impatient with every passing day. Not being able to talk to Addison makes me stir-crazy, and now I somehow want her even more.
I grab my jacket and head for the door.
Davis straightens when he sees me. “Your Highness. It’s late.”
“I’m aware.” I keep walking. “I need to speak with Princess Tatiana immediately.”
“Sir, the queen has requested?—”
“I don’t care what my mother requested.” I stop and turn to face him. “I’m going to the north wing; you can follow me if you’d like.”
He hesitates, and I continue down the corridor with his footsteps trailing behind me.
This part of the palace feels different at this hour. It’s nothing but long empty hallways and shadows. I pass the guest quarters, where dignitaries and extended family members sleep. Most are oblivious to the drama unfolding around them. The air is cooler from a draft from somewhere. I pull my jacket tighter as I round the final corner.
Tatiana’s suite is at the end of the hall, and I don’t bother knocking. The door is unlocked, and I push it open to find her sitting at her vanity in a silk robe and lingerie set, brushing her dark hair with long, rhythmic strokes. The soft rasp of bristles through her hair is the only sound in the room.
The space smells like jasmine and vanilla—too sweet, in a way that makes me want to open a window. It’s warm in here, and fresh flowers sit on every surface. The furniture is ornate in a style that doesn’t match the rest of the palace because she’s made this space hers, like she’s planning to stay.
She meets my eyes in the mirror without surprise, her gray gaze steady and cool, like she was expecting me.
“Louis.” She sets down the brush and turns on her stool. “What a surprise.”
“We need to talk.” I keep my eyes focused on her face, even though her body is on full display.
“So I gathered.” She gestures to the bed. “Please sit.”
I close the door behind me and lean against it with my arms crossed. She walks toward me, shaking her hips like they’re a weapon. The silk robe whispers against her legs as she moves. The material of her bra and panties is thin enough to see through, and I’m sure that’s intentional.
“You haven’t held up your end of the deal,” I say.
“I’ve tried.” She pushes off the robe, settles into one of the chairs, and crosses her legs. “You can look.”
“I’m good,” I tell her.
“This is yours, Louis. I will let you do whatever you’d like.”
