“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, Your Highness.” She leans down and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. “You taught me that.”
Before I can respond, she turns and walks toward the stairs. I try to stand, but my legs won’t cooperate, so I watch her go.
“I’m winning that contest. You will never be able to stop that. But you have control of everything else. This isn’t the 1900s anymore.” She glances at the painting of my grandmother, taking it in one last time, then at me. “Step into your power.”
Then she’s gone. Her footsteps fade down the spiral staircase, leaving me alone with the echo of her words.
I sit there for a long time, letting my heartbeat slow down. The candle flames dance from the sea breeze coming through the windows. If these walls could talk …
When I finally stand, I face the portrait. My grandmother looks back at me, young and hopeful and trapped by her own fear.
“I won’t make your mistake,” I say quietly.
Then I take the stairs two at a time and leave.
13
LOUIS
Sleep never came, so I spent the hours after Addison left staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment in the clock tower. I keep seeing her face when she looked at my grandmother’s portrait. I can’t shake the image of her on her knees, taking control like she’d been waiting her whole life to unravel me. She left me wrecked with her words ringing in my ears.
“Step into your power.”
She said it like it was simple, like I could decide to be different and the world would rearrange itself around my choice. She doesn’t understand that I’ve been playing defense my entire life because offense wasneveran option. Or is it?
Around four in the morning, I give up and move to the window to watch the sky shift from black to gray to pale pink. The Mediterranean stretches out beneath the cliffs, and I think about my next move. Can I live the rest of my existence regretting my choices?
By the time dawn breaks through my curtains properly, I drag myself to the bathroom and stand under the shower until my skin turns red. The hot water pounds against my shoulders, and I keep hoping it will ease the fog in my head. I dry off and dress slowly, choosing a navy jacket and gray trousers. I adjust my collar twice before I’m satisfied with what I see.
The man staring back at me looks like the crown prince of Montclaire, but I don’t feel like him anymore.There is so much hiding behind tailored clothes and a clean-shaven face. My eyes give nothing away. Right now, I look like a man who slept eight hours and woke up ready to charm a room full of women competing to marry me. The performance begins before I even leave the room, and I’m already exhausted.
The breakfast hall is buzzing when I arrive. It’s filled with the sounds of silver against porcelain and polite laughter. Seven pretty women sit around the long table in clothes fit for the future queen. Fresh flowers are arranged in the center in shades of white and blush pink. Morning light catches the crystal glasses, making everything sparkle. The smell of fresh bread and coffee fills the air, but my stomach is too knotted to feel hungry.
My mother sits at one end of the table in a pale blue dress, and she catches my eye the moment I walk in. Her expression says,be charming,don’t embarrass us,andthis is your future, all at once.
My father sits at the far end with his newspaper raised, though I can feel him tracking my movements without looking up. He’s been doing that my whole life—watching me from behind something, there in case I fail. He means well.
“Your Royal Highness.”
Princess Cornelia rises first and curtsies low enough to give me a view of her cleavage, but I look away. I’m a fucking gentleman. She’s blonde and tall, and her dress is cut to emphasize every curve. While her smile is bright, her eyes are empty. She has the royal stare … it’s almost as bad as a death rattle.
“Ladies.” I take my seat in the middle of the table, and a server appears with coffee before I can ask. The cup is warm in my hands, and I take a sip to buy myself time before I have to speak again. “I trust you all slept well?”
A chorus of responses rises around me. Each woman tries to make her response memorable.
Princess Monique mentions the thread count of her sheets, then the view from her window, and barely pauses for breath between topics. She’s dreamed of the palace gardens and woke up inspired to write a sonnet about the roses.
What follows is a forty-five-minute performance.
I ask questions, and they answer. I laugh at jokes that aren’t funny because that’s polite. I give compliments and make eye contact forexactly the right amount of time with each woman. I rotate my attention like a sprinkler system designed to water every flower equally. My coffee goes cold because I forget to drink it, and once my eggs turn rubbery, I’m finished.
Princess Arabella describes her poetry collection at length, explaining how she finds inspiration in nature and heartbreak, and the way light falls through windows at certain times of day. I nod and ask follow-up questions that make it sound like I’m interested, even if my mind keeps drifting to the clock tower. Then I think about Addison’s gaze when she looked up at me. She sees me in a way no one at this table does. These women see the crown. Addison sees the man underneath it. It terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
“And what about you, Princess Valentina?” I turn to her, forcing myself to focus. “What occupies your time when you’re not attending royal functions?”
She giggles. “Oh, I adore fashion, travel, and hosting parties. I threw the most wonderful masquerade last spring, and everyone said it was the event of the season.”
