I scoff. “It’s all in your head.”
It’s not, and we both know it.
“You know, I didn’t think you’d actually wear it,” I say. “It’s a hippie accessory, not something associated with high-flying blue bloods.”
“You want to know the real reason I never take it off?”
“Tell me.”
“Two reasons.” He holds up his index and middle fingers. “It’s a homage to the late lamented Antoine the Tattoo Artist, and a symbol of my fealty to you.”
I laugh, picturing Antoine on his knees swearing eternal loyalty to me, Queen Laura Yang of Belleville.
“Speaking of things people never take off,” he says. “How do you explain this?”
He traces my magnificent diamond-studded gold pendant. It hasn’t left me since the day he closed the clasp at the back of my neck.
Our fingers brush as I touch it, too. “It goes with everything.”
“True. Although I think it looks best when you’re in the nude.”
“Is that how you want me to dress for today’s function?”
He tucks his free arm under his head. “I do hope Princess Felicia or Prince Richard, whoever is cutting the ribbon this year, brings good news.”
“Let it go, my love. It really doesn’t matter.”
He frowns. “It does to me. They should officially recognize your contribution, Laura. You should be Lady of the Brassiere.”
“I don’t care about titles.”
“How about fairness?” He arches an eyebrow. “I was knighted, although I didn’t risk my life either.”
I wink. “It’s not your fault that Kurt was too busy licking his wounds to give our quest his undivided attention.”
“Agreed. So, why should you miss out?”
“Because I don’t care,” I repeat. “And neither should you.”
Even as I speak, my hand slips under the sheets to his crotch to check if he’s still hard. To my delight, he is.
My fingers wrap around his warm, velvety length. “This, however, is something I care about.”
“How deeply?”
I level my eyes with his. “To the hilt.”
The lawn isalive with excited chatter. The smell of freshly poured wine blends perfectly with the fragrant September air. Servers in crisp uniforms glide between clusters of guests, balancing trays of canapés and sparkling glasses. Antoine, Gigi, Henri and I form one such cluster. Gigi’s baby bump is starting to show, which means our conversation gets constantly interrupted by someone congratulating her and Henri.
After another congratulator walks away, I turn to her. “Do you think Princess Felicia will stay long enough to see the art exhibit?”
I know she will, and frankly, Gigi’s heartfelt approval of my work means more to me than her mother’s. But empty talk distracts me from worrying about what the Evorian elite will think of my work when they see it later tonight.
“She will,” Gigi says, scanning the crowd. “It’s tradition. Mother loves tradition almost as much as she loves charcuterie boards and gossip.”
Before I can reply, a man bursts onto the lawn. His face is pale and his voice is shaking as he calls for Princess Eugénie and the Duchess of Rohinn. Gigi blanches. Henri grabs her hand and starts pushing through the crowd toward the man. Confusion, tinged with panic, sets in.
The man’s words fall like a hammer, “There has been an attempt on Princess Felicia’s life.”
