“Perhaps.”
I bow to my mother, then turn to Addison. She curtsies with perfect form, her eyes downcast, every inch the professional artist.
“Your Highness,” she murmurs.
“Miss Cross.”
I walk out before I do something stupid, like touch her, or smile at her the way I want to, or say any of the thousand things running through my head.
The door closes behind me, and I exhale. That went well. Better than well. My mother likes her. Actually likes her, not only tolerates her. That has to mean something.
I head back to my office, my mind racing with possibilities. Maybe this isn’t as impossible as I thought. Maybe there’s a path forward that doesn’t require me to choose between duty and my heart.
For the next hour, I attempt to focus on the stack of documents that has been piling up all week. Trade agreements, diplomatic correspondence, requests from the council. I sign where I’m supposed to sign and initial where I’m supposed to, but my mind keeps drifting back to Addison. The way she held her own with my mother.
A knock interrupts my thoughts.
“Enter,” I call, not looking up from the document in front of me.
The door opens and closes with a soft click. When I glance up, Tatiana is standing inside my office.
She’s wearing a red dress that clings to every curve, the neckline plunging almost to her navel. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and her lips are painted to match the fabric. She looks like she’s dressed for a seduction, not an afternoon visit.
“Princess Tatiana.” I set down my pen, but don’t stand. Don’t offer her a seat. “I don’t recall scheduling a meeting.”
“You didn’t.” She moves toward me, trailing her fingers along the edge of my desk. “I wanted to speak with you. Privately.”
“If this is about the event schedule?—”
“It’s not about the schedule.” She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Heavy. Cloying. “I saw your interview. The one denying the blind item.”
“And?”
“No one believed you.” She tilts her head with practiced sympathy. “You looked miserable, Louis. Trapped. It’s obvious to everyone.”
“Is there a point to this conversation?”
“The point is that I understand.” She moves closer still. “We’ve known each other since we were teenagers. I’ve always felt a connection between us.”
I almost laugh. Connection. Right.
“Tatiana—”
“Let me finish.” She holds up a manicured hand. “I know this arrangement isn’t what either of us planned. But I could make it easier. I could be good for you. You might even learn to love me, if you gave me a chance.”
Learn to love her. Like love is a skill you can practice. Like I haven’t spent years proving I was incapable of feeling it for anyone I was supposed to want.
“I appreciate the offer,” I say flatly. “But I’m not interested.”
Something flickers in her eyes. She’s not used to rejection. Women like Tatiana have been told yes their entire lives.
“You haven’t even considered it.”
“I don’t need to. I know what I want.”
“And what’s that?” She leans closer, her perfume overwhelming. “Because from where I’m standing, you don’t seem to know at all.”
Before I can respond, she moves. Fast. Her leg swings over mine asshe straddles my lap in the chair, her dress riding up her thighs. I realize with disgust that she’s not wearing anything underneath.
