“But since the Royal Court seems intent on dragging this out,” she continues, “you should hire someone now, for the duchy’s sake.”
“You think it’s that urgent?”
She rises to her feet. “I wouldn’t wait. Find someone honest. Someone competent.”
“Thank you.” I take a breath. “That’s unexpectedly sincere.”
“I’m always sincere,” she says, moving past me toward the door.
“Eva.”
She pauses but doesn’t look back.
“You were right about the books,” I say. “You were right about Eric. If Geoffroy had listened to you?—”
“But he didn’t.” Her voice is quiet. “And it’s too late to matter.”
Then she walks out the door.
13
EVA
I’m at the far end of the kitchen counter, staying out of Stéphanie’s and Claudia’s way. The cook and the housekeeper move like a well-oiled machine. Late afternoon is always the busiest time in the kitchen, but today it’s on another level. Stéphanie is preparing a special dinner, and Claudia is lending a hand. So am I within the limits of my modest cooking skills.
We’re expecting distinguished guests from Pombrio—the youngest prince, Maximilian, and his wife, Princess Lucie.
I’m peeling apples for Stéphanie’s signature tarte Tatin, and I’m not proud of the results. My knife slides too fast at the top, too slow near the base. The peel comes off in ragged spirals.
Fitting.
It’s been a week since Alex moved into Fort Vauclairt. A whole week! His toothbrush lives here now as do his coffee mug and his awful, soul-draining punctuality. I have the impression that every time I turn a corner, he’s there, standing, sitting, or walking like he owns the place. Which, legally, he does.
For now.
Pauline says our case is building momentum. The unions’ testimony, Prince Richard’s letter, Geoffroy’s oral commitmentswitnessed by enough credible people to make them admissible, and the local support are solid gold. The court is slow, but not blind. Pauline thinks we have the far stronger claim. And I believe her. Most days.
Eric Latour, that oily barnacle of a man, is finally gone. I didn’t throw a party, but Claudia, Brigitte, and I did share a celebratory croissant. And maybe a glass of champagne.
Alex fired him without ceremony. No yelling. No drama. He just simply said, “You have twenty-four hours to clear out.” And Eric was gone, like candle wax scrubbed off a white tablecloth. I didn’t thank Alex. It wasn’t a personal favor. He did what was right for the duchy.
Now he’s quietly looking for a new estate manager without the usual job posting or announcement on LinkedIn. Just discreet calls through his tight-knit network, seeking recommendations for someone competent and honest. He’s reached out to Basil, Derek, and some friends.
When I asked why not advertise, he said he trusts word of mouth better and that reputation outpaces résumés.
Honestly?I agree.
But I hate that I agree.
I hate that he’s doing exactly what I would’ve done.
And the part I hate the most?
It’s that I haven’t forgotten the night at the Royal Pombrio, that stolen moment when the line between desire and hate, reason and instinct blurred in the most tantalizing way.
I haven’t forgotten the feel of him, or the sight of him naked, or the way he moved… And there’s no universe in which I’ll ever forget the way he looked at me when I came undone in his arms.
Alex made love as if I mattered. As if he cared. As if he wasn’t going to turn into a monster sooner or later. And for one night, I let myself believe I wasn’t alone.
