First, her sisters.
Dolores stood, her Dior dress falling simply on her frame, but no less extravagant than Miquela had come to expect from the middle Bolivar child. Miquela may have been older, but her little sister was far sager and, she would dare say, quicker thananyone else in the family. There was a reason she had been able to snag one of the richest bankers in France for a husband. The wedding was two years ago, yet the Bolivars were still recovering from the insanity it had brought to their lives.
“Hermana,” Dolores greeted coolly, exchanging kisses on the cheek. It was the first time in a long while that Miquela stopped holding June’s hand. “So good to see you. I didn’t think we would meet up in Monaco until Papa’s birthday.” Dolores looked to the woman by her side. “Who is this? Your date?¿Cuáles lenguas habla?”
“Sí, this is June.” Miquela put a protective hand on her shoulder. “She speaks English.” Miquela grinned. “Plus a little Spanish. She’s American.”
“Ah. American.” Dolores smiled, but Miquela knew it was the fakest one in her repertoire.Doesn’t matter. She’s like that with all strangers. “You’re already making nice with the locals over there, I see.”
“It is where we met, yes.” June extended her hand. “June Kingsley. Pleasure.”
“Kingsley?” Dolores daintily shook her hand before yanking her own away. The coif of blond hair on her head shook with the movement. Dangling, beaded earrings jingled. “That’s quite presumptuous of your ancestors.”
“She has a dry sense of humor,” Miquela muttered in June’s ear. To her credit, she did not falter in her polite demeanor. “This is Maria, the youngest.”
“Pleasure,” she said with the thickest accent out of the three of them. Her natural languages were Spanish and French, as opposed to Spanish and English like her siblings. Although she was London educated, so her English accent was quite… British. “I’m sorry if I should have heard of you before today. I’ve been out of the loop.”
“No worries, Marlita,” Dolores said, using the family’s nickname for the youngest Bolivar child. “Nobody had heard of Ms. Kingsley until this morning.” She flashed her sister a frustrated grimace. “As usual, our sister has kept to herself.”
“Let’s eat, huh?”
They sat around the table, June between Miquela and Dolores. Hilariously enough, it was not June who looked most out of place at the table of heralded Europeans. It was Maria, with her golden skin, dark brown hair pulled into a ballerina bun, and loud jewelry that clanked with every movement. She also wore the shortest skirt and had heels as long as her calves. Even so, with as garish as she was in such a fancy establishment, she was still far friendlier than the Queen Bee of the trio. Dolores never once took a derisive eye off June, who sat with perfect posture and even ordered a modest meal using her best French that she had picked up from one day in Monaco.Brilliant. She is simply amazing. Of course, plenty of her abilities came from her extensive experience in these types of settings, but June was a natural chameleon. She could blend in anywhere, and if she couldn’t, she could fake it. She had said many times that she only spoke a little French. Yet her accent was flawless when the waiter came around.
“A bottle of wine for the whole table,” Miquela ended her order with. “Something red from 1922. Whatever that is.” When her sister raised an eyebrow, she explained, “1922 is never a bad year for wine.”
“So sure of yourself.” Dolores cracked a wicked smile. “Don’t let her boss you around, Ms. Kingsley. She was bossing me around for years before I finally stood up to her.”
“Ah, yes, the infamous salad in my face at Christmas dinner.” Miquela had been one ornery twelve-year-old. When she was that young, she was picking on Lola whenever she had the chance. (Now, only her husband and mother were allowed tocall her Lola.) “How could I forget?” All it took was one snide comment in her sister’s direction at Christmas dinner, and suddenly, sly little Lola had belted half a dish of romaine in her face. Miquela had practically drowned in vinaigrette. After that, Dolores became bossier and more of a pain in the ass than a fun target for Miquela’s misplaced mischief.
“Did you all grow up here in Monaco?”
The three of them glanced at June, Dolores with a slight sneer on her lips. “Dolores and I moved between here and Valencia a lot. Maria came into her own when the family finally settled here, yes. So in a way, we all did grow up here.”
“Miquela and Maria went to the International School, but not me. I went to a boarding school in France.” Dolores had a look that implied she had said too much.
“That’s right. Papa said you needed to improve your French, dearhermana.” Maria was smiling, too. At least hers was genuine. “I didn’t have that problem.”
“I can inform you that my French is perfectly fine now. Pierre has ensured that.”
After the collective eye roll, they went back to friendlier topics, playing catch-up in business and family. Miquela talked about establishing business in the States and even her recent naval acquisition, to which both sisters rolled their eyes, having never shared her love for sailing. Maria talked about taking a fashion internship in Milan, although she was on the fence about it.
“You have it easy,” Dolores mumbled in Spanish so June couldn’t understand that well. “You’re the youngest, so you get to do whatever you want. Miquela has to improve the business, and I had to marry rich. You'd better appreciate your ability to fuck off to Milan and become a fashion intern.”
“It’s paid, though,” Maria muttered, completely clueless as to why Dolores was riding her ass. “What abouthermana?Isn’t she supposed to marry well, too?”
“Of course she is! She’s the heir of the family business! She can’t marry a commoner.”
Miquela glanced at June, obliviously chewing her food without a sound.Lucky. I’d love to not know what my sisters are saying.“I don’t have a timeline, though,” she said with authority. “Not like you, Lolita. You had to marry before those eggs dried up.”
“Why, you…”
June glanced up as the atmosphere turned dark. She caught Dolores’s eyes.
“Sorry. Won’t call you Lolita again,” Miquela said in English. “Didn’t realize it was still such a sore spot.” She knew.
Now that the gauntlet had been smacked in her face, Dolores would take off her dainty church gloves. “So, Judy, was it?”
June put her fork down. “June, if you will.”
