When I check the window, I see that the three paparazzi who were camped outside my building this morning are still in place. Two of them have lawn chairs and a cooler, like they’re tailgating on the sidewalk. The third is pacing, talking on his phone while his camera dangles around his neck.
I let the curtain drop and let out a deep breath. Right now, I almost feel helpless.
I still can’t believe I was banished from Montclaire by palace guards while Louis screamed my name. Now I’m a prisoner in my loft because I can’t even walk to the bodega without someone shoving a lens in my face and asking how it feels to be the royal home-wrecker. The irony of escaping one cage, just to be placed in another, isn’t lost on me.
My phone buzzes for the hundredth time, and I don’t bother looking at it. I stopped answering calls yesterday after the third reporter somehow got my number. My inbox is full of interview requests, media inquiries, and messages from people I went to art school with, who suddenly want to reconnect. Thirteen galleries have reached out about “exclusive painting opportunities,” and two lawyers left voicemails about defamation suits I never asked for.
The queen loves to use humiliation, and this time, she’s done a spectacular job.
I slide her letter from the kitchen counter and read it again, not because I’m sad, but because I want every word to fuel me.
You gave him a lovely summer with memories I’m sure he’ll think of fondly. But you were a temporary distraction, and that’s all you can be.
Patterson left four voicemails yesterday before I finally picked up a new phone. As soon as I got his call, I answered. The conversation lasted twelve minutes, during which he yelled at me for getting involved with his friend. I got a big fat “I told you so,” and then I told him to fuck off and hung up. Kendall called right after to do damage control.
Don’t get me wrong. I completely understand that he’s upset because he found out about it through a tabloid headline. When I painted the portrait, I didn’t think about my brother getting bombarded by paps after practice.
That’s not how anyone should find out about their little sister sleeping with his friend. I let him rage because he needed to get it out, and I felt like I deserved a heavy dosage of reality.
My laptop is open on my coffee table, and I have too many news article tabs on the screen. Each one tells a different version of the same story. Some say I seduced the prince, and others say he seduced me. A few have dug up old photos from gallery openings and dissected my body language, along with most of my exes, like they’re looking for evidence that I’m a man stealer. One particularly vile gossip site is running a poll, asking readers to rate whether I’m pretty enough to be his wife, and I bookmarked it so I can remember their name when this is over.
His mother thinks she’s won, thinks she shipped me back to New York, and that’s the end of it, problem solved, scandal contained. She has no idea who she’s dealing with because I’m a Cross, and my family has survived worse than a passive-aggressive letter from a woman who’s terrified of losing control. I’m drafting a Notes document, outlining exactly what happened. Just as I start taking pictures of the letter, my phone vibrates with Kendall’s name.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Whatcha doing?” she asks, and I can tell she’s smiling.
“Building a case,” I tell her.
“Ah. Can you go on LuxLeaks and look at the last article posted?”
I sigh. “I don’t want to read what LadyLuxhas to say.”
“Yes, you do,” she says.
I open up another window and go to the gossip blog. There’s one thing about LuxLeaks: she’s honest, and she tells things like it is. She’s the only truthful one out there.
As soon as the page loads, the first headline pops up.
Prince Louis Adrian of Montclaire is here for Addison Cross: CONFIRMED
I click on the article and quickly read over the text.
Hi Luxers,
Well, well, well. Pour yourself a drink because this one is MESSY.
Crown Prince Louis Adrian of Montclaire touched down in New York City right at lunch, and before you ask, no, this is not a scheduled diplomatic visit. No, he is not here for UN meetings. And, no, the palace did not announce this trip because I suspect they didn’t know he was leaving.
Sources close to the royal family confirm that Prince Louis was under palace security watch following the now-infamous ball on Saturday night, where American painter Addison Cross’s portrait sent shock waves through European high society. For those living under a rock: Cross painted herself as the future queen of Montclaire, sitting next to Prince Louis. This was supposed to be the official engagement portrait that featured Princess Tatiana of Belcova, the woman the crowned prince was rumored to marry.
What followed afterward was chaos. Allegedly, Cross was forcibly removed from the palace grounds and is banned from ever visiting Montclaire. Louis was essentially placed under house arrest, and sometime in the early hours of this morning, Prince Louis vanished from the palace. How he got past security is anyone’s guess, but the man landed at a private airfield in New Jersey and was photographed entering The Park on Billionaires’ Row.
When paparazzi asked if he was in New York to find Addison, Louis looked directly into the camera, smiled, and said, “You know it. Make sure these photos are everywhere. Charge a lot for these. It’s front-page material.”
HISTORIC. That is the word that came out of his mouth.
This man escaped a palace, committed what could technically be considered treason, flew across an ocean, and then told the paparazzi to get their bag as he posed for photos. I’m OBSESSED.
