by Tamara Lush
“We’ll see how it goes. It’s a Wednesday, so it probably will be slow.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Oh, and Nat? Please don’t say anything to Tate. I want to tell him myself.”
“You got it, girlfriend. I’m Team Isabella right now.”
I hang up and grin at Jacques. “We’re all set.”
“Perfect.” He glances to my tablet. “Can I see the statement one last time before you send it out?”
I hand it to him. As he reads, a serious look crosses his face. Jacques is handsome, despite the years of drugs and booze that have etched a certain weariness into his face. Hopefully for Gidget, he’ll be a good partner.
“Looks solid.” He offers me the tablet.
I navigate over to my official Facebook page. The palace assistant usually posts information about my charities or meaningless royal trivia. But I also have the login, and I copy and paste our joint statement.
“You ready?” I ask Jacques, my finger hovering over the post button.
“Born ready, princess.”
My heart thundering in my ears, I take a deep breath and press send.
“There. You can’t call me princess any more,” I say softly.
Jacques reaches with his fingers and touches my cheek. “You’re a fucking queen, regardless. Pretty damned brave what you just did. I hope your lawyer man appreciates it.”
I smile, thinking of Tate’s reaction when he reads the statement. “I did it for me, mostly. And let’s face it: I made a pretty crappy royal.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, you kinda did.”
“I’d like to say my parents will understand, but they probably won’t.”
“You can’t live your life trying to please them, Isabella.”
I look at him and tilt my head. Why is he making so much sense today? Is he sober? “I think Gidget is a positive influence on you.”
“She is. And in speaking of that, I’m going to get back to her. See you back here tomorrow morning. This is the best way to get our point across to our parents. A one-two punch of the statement, then the news conference. They’ll have to go along with our wishes.”
I still have my doubts, but whatever. I walk him to the door and open it. He steps out and looks down at me, his nose twitching. “Please shower before tomorrow, okay?”
I lean up and kiss his cheek, laughing. For the first time since we were children, I feel something other than contempt for Jacques. “Of course, your royal highness. Anything for the cause.”
Then I shut the door and look down at my phone, which is already blowing up with texts and calls.
My stomach plummets when I realize that Tate is the only person who isn’t trying to reach me.
Twenty-Four
Tate
I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited to open my front door. My political donors are still on board despite the bar investigation, a big case with a developer is settling in favor of the Sierra Club, and…
There’s an engagement ring in my briefcase. A diamond. Something simple and gorgeous, and I think she’ll adore it. First, I’ll surprise her with dinner, then propose at sunset later tonight.
“Bella,” I call out, a grin stretching across my face. “Oh, Bella…”
The silence in the house stops me in my tracks. Gently, I set my briefcase down as my ears strain for some sound of life. Where’s Chunky? Usually he’d be skipping toward me on his chubby legs, sliding and skating on the white tile floor.
And usually Bella would be right behind him. Maybe they’re in the pool?
My heart speeds up as I walk out the side door, anticipating her curves in that bikini. The blue water is placid and soft, the late afternoon sun filtering through the screened-in porch enclosure. They’re not here. I head back inside. Weird.
That’s when I spot a piece of paper on the island kitchen counter. I snatch it up, my heart pounding in my chest.
I’ve decided to stay at a suite at the resort for a week or two. I think we need our space…I will be forever grateful for your help…It’s a confusing time for me…I want to proceed with caution…
“What the hell?” I say out loud, anger rising. Then I re-read the letter again. And again. My heart sinks into my shoes. Is she leaving me? No. She isn’t. Not yet, which means I still have a chance. I let out a sigh, the anger ebbing from me.
She needs reassurance.
Our signals are crossed, tangled, and short-circuited, that’s all. I need to fix the situation with some old-fashioned, face-to-face conversation. Punctuated with kisses.
“Oh, baby girl, no…you’ve got it all wrong,” I murmur, then snatch my keys and run to my car. Before I press the ignition button, I pause. In my haste to get to her, I’ve forgotten one important thing, and I run back inside.
The engagement ring. I pull it out of my briefcase and stuff the little box in my pocket.
I roar into the resort and park in Max’s spot, which is empty. I’ll deal with him later.
Then I walk in and feel like an idiot. I don’t even know where Bella is. I spot my sister at the front desk, alongside the woman who was working the day I met Isabella.
“Hey.” I’m out of breath.
“Whassup?” Nat says, not looking at me. She’s pointing to a laptop screen and explaining something to the desk clerk.
I drum my fingers on the counter.
“I’m not telling you where she is,” Nat says, still not looking at me.
“Why?”
“Girl code rules.” She pushes her long, blonde hair with pink tips behind one ear.
I roll my eyes. “She left me a note. Said she’d be here. Told me to text her.”
“Then text her.”
“I’m here, so I want to see her.”
The clerk looks up. “Are you two talking about that pretty girl from a few weeks ago? She came in smelling super bad. Like fish. And then this hot guy came in, looking for her.”
I practically crawl over the counter as jealousy fogs my brain. “What?”
“Yeah. She gave me instructions to give her man friend her suite number.”
“I’m her man friend,” I snarl.
Nat shoots me a sharp look. “Whoa there, macho Camacho. Take it down a notch.”
“I’m calm,” I say through gritted teeth. “What’s her suite number?”
Fortunately, the desk clerk tells me before Nat can protest, and I stalk off. What the hell is going on? Has Isabella been truthful with me? When did she have time to find another guy?
I break into a fast walk to the east wing of the resort, then sprint up the stairs to the second floor and rip open the door. Just as I’m about to round the corner, I hear Bella’s voice.
“Of course, your royal highness. Anything for the cause.”
I hide in the ice machine nook and peer around the corner in time to watch her press a kiss to a guy’s face. I practically topple over with surprise and the dark green brick of jealousy weighing down my stomach.
The guy grins. He looks all too familiar. Holy shit, it’s that Prince Jacques guy. I clench my jaw so hard that I feel pressure in my sinuses.
I pretend to fiddle with the ice machine and a stray bucket as Jacques struts out. He doesn’t notice me, and I fill the bucket with cubes.
Now what the fuck do I do?
Here’s what I do: I head for the poolside bar and toss back a shot of whiskey.
Solid plan, no?
Then I order a beer in a can and take it to the beach, sinking into a lounge chair to watch the sun as it races toward the horizon. I don’t focus on the few tourists lazily wandering the beach, or the seagulls, or the beauty of the pink and orange sky.
My mind reels for the first half hour, thoughts and memories bouncing around. Then I start to analyze every event in my relationship with Bella, as if I were arguing a case in court.
How could I have gotten this so wrong? Was I so in love with her that I ignored important signs? Is she really in love with Jacques? There’s only one way
to find out and that’s to knock on her door.
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I don’t notice Max and Nat creeping up. They plop down in the chair next to me and I sit up, startled.
“Tatum Hastings, Esquire. Why are you out here alone?” Max asks. “More importantly, why the hell did you park in my space?”
“I told you, doofus. It’s because of Isabella,” Nat says.
He shoots her a smirk. “I know. I’m just trying to get him to talk.”
She rolls her eyes. “Let him be.”
“If you wanted to let him be, why did you tell me where he was and why did you come out here with me?”
“Shut up, you two. Jesus.” I say, finishing off my beer and shaking the can in Max’s direction. “Can one of you be useful and grab me another?”
“Drinking won’t solve anything,” Nat says primly.
I mimic her words aloud.
“What happened?” Max asked.
I sigh and tell them everything in excruciating detail. I even tell them about the engagement ring. Nat yawns and stretches out on the lounger.
“This is a classic misunderstanding. Bo-ring,” she says in a singsong, taking out her phone and scrolling with her thumb. “Go talk with her. She’s having a difficult time right now.”
I screw up my face. “What do you mean?”
Nat opens her eyes wide and gives me an annoying snort, one only a little sister can give her big brother. “She doesn’t want to marry Prince Douche. She was arrested and raked over the coals by the world’s media for the most absurd crime of the century. She met you, and God only knows why, but she fell in love with your sorry ass. You were probably moody or uncommunicative and sent her mixed signals and that’s why she left your love nest.”
I frown. Did I?
Nat continues ticking off points from her fingers. “She has difficult, stuffy, arrogant parents. Unlike us, who have difficult, oversharing, and weird parents.”
“Did Ma show you the photos of Dad’s colonoscopy, by the way?” Max asks her.
“No! I wanted to see those,” Nat says.
I shut my eyes, exasperated.
“Sorry. Back to you, man.”
I open my eyes and stare hard at my brother. “Let’s focus. I’m the ignored middle child, remember?”
“No, I’m the ignored, middle child,” Nat whines. I flip my middle finger at her, and she sticks out her tongue.
“Can we be serious for a minute?” I plead.
“Right. Well, I don’t understand why you just don’t go knock on her door,” Max says, his brow furrowing.
“Because if she left my house to stay here, if she wrote me that letter, if she was kissing the prince dude, then maybe she doesn’t care for me like I thought she did,” I say, realizing that I’ve turned into a doubting, quivering mess.
I sit up and inhale. “But I’ve gotta man up and find out once and for all. At least tell her how I feel.”
“Atta boy,” Max says, clapping me on the shoulder. “But what about your political career? How did today’s meeting go? Sorry I couldn’t be there.”
I wave him off. “We’ll discuss it later. I have nothing new. In a holding pattern because of the Bar investigation. And honestly, I don’t know if I care.”
“You might want to listen to that inner voice,” Max says.
“What are you, Mom?”
“Wait, you two,” Nat says sharply. Then she tips her head back and lets out an explosive laugh. “I think we have more details to add to this situation.”
“What?” Both Max and I twist our heads in our sister’s direction.
She hands me her phone, and I squint, then read aloud.
“The Princess of Montignac and Prince Jacques of Lutzelbourg announce they will not create a new household, nor will they wed.”
“Create a new household? What the fuck? It sounds like they’re going to Ikea,” Max mutters.
“Shhh,” Nat hisses, and I continue.
“Princess Isabella and Prince Jacques say they are unable to continue their relationship due to irreconcilable differences. They remain dear friends and thank everyone around the world for their well wishes and privacy at this delicate time.
“Additionally, Princess Isabella is renouncing her title and claim to the royal family of Montignac. She has decided, for the time being, to focus on her charity work and other personal matters in the state of Florida, in the U.S.A.
“For more information on Isabella’s charity work, go here…”
“I’d say you’re a personal matter,” Max says, forming air quotes with his hand.
“Although you should be considered a charity because you need a lot of help,” Nat says good-naturedly.
I slide off my sunglasses and grin, then stand up, slightly wobbly from the two drinks and the heady knowledge that the woman I love is just a few hundred yards away, hopefully waiting for me.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I have to propose to a princess.”
“Former princess,” Nat calls out. “You’d better treat her like a queen, otherwise you’ll have me to deal with.”
The last thing I hear is my brother and sister talking about Dad’s colonoscopy, and then I dash into the resort.
Twenty-Five
Isabella
“Mother, this shouldn’t come as a surprise.”
She sputters and stammers in my ear. “Isabella, I cannot believe you sent those that…those…words into the world. Via Facebook, no less, and not through official palace channels.”
Always proper. Always official. That’s Mother. I’m pacing my suite as I talk with her on speakerphone. Since I posted my royal resignation and breakup, my phone hasn’t stopped buzzing with notifications, texts, and messages. After a brief text exchange with Poppy, I haven’t answered any except Mother’s.
Because in the end, I’m still a good daughter. Even though she’s about to disown me.
“You wouldn’t listen to me otherwise. I had to do something drastic.”
“And poor Jacques. How could you?”
I giggle.
“This is not funny, young lady.”
“No. You’re right. It’s not funny. It’s hilarious. Because Jacques is already married.”
I hear my mother inhale a long, thin breath, and it’s so satisfying. This is the final blow to the arranged marriage, and it gives me no small thrill to reveal it. “Remember the Las Vegas stripper? Well, he married her. And he’s in love. He’s the one who came to me, here on Paradise Beach. Begged me not to go through with the engagement.”
“My blood pressure. Jacques, where are my pills?” Mother calls out.
“Therefore, it would have been an even bigger scandal had we actually gotten engaged and the press got wind of his actual marriage. Or God forbid, we’d gotten married and he was a bigamist.”
“Mercy me,” she whispers.
“Regardless,” I say briskly. “I wasn’t going to marry him. Because I’ve fallen in love with someone. For real.”
I wish could be as sure and secure about this as I sound. Tate still hasn’t texted or called. I feel like screaming in frustration as the moments tick past, but still, it makes me smile to say his name. And to say the word love in the same breath.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“No. I’m trying to share some wonderful news that any mother would be thrilled over. I’m in love with a good, wonderful, handsome man. He’s a lawyer and makes an excellent living. He comes from a decent, kind family, he owns his own home, and he cares for the environment as much as I do. And I’m sorry that you choose to not be in my life because we’re going to have babies and our house will be filled with small infants and so much love and you. Will. Be. Left. Out.”
By now I’m crying. If only all of that about Tate could come true. I want his babies. I need to talk with him. Where is he? I need him, dammit.
There’s a long silence, and a weird hiccupping noise on the other end. And that’s when I realize that Mother
is crying. My cold, unfeeling mother is actually shedding tears. At least I think she is, otherwise she might be gasping for air.
“Mother?” I say softly. “Are you okay?”
“I am sorry. Your words struck a chord.” Her voice cracks.
“As well they should.”
There’s a rustling noise, and a dainty sniff.
“Well?” I say.
“Well, what,” she snaps.
“Are you still going to disown me?”
She lets out a sigh. “Oh, Isabella. Regardless of whether you are a princess or not, I will not disown you. I might be disappointed for a few years because I wanted you to be queen. I wanted our country, my legacy, to be recognized as one of the great European monarchies. That is what I wanted for my daughter. Because you are our only daughter, after your sister passed. She was meant to be queen.”
“I know, but it’s time to let go of that. I’m thirty years old. You don’t get to decide what you want for my life. It doesn’t work that way. I’m not queen material. Especially when the queen to be smells like turtles and the king to be got married while blind drunk at the drive-through Elvis chapel in Vegas.”
She gasps. “Turtles? Oh, Isabella. Are you also wearing those awful sandals?”
I look down at my feet and grin. “Yeah, I’m wearing those ratty old Tevas you hate.”
She lets out a strangled groan, then pauses. “Will you at least let me see the grandchildren?” she asks in a soft voice.
I pause at the sliding glass door window and look out at the sunset. It’s the kindest Mother’s sounded in years, and a fraction of my hurt and anger softens. “Of course.”
We spend the next two minutes going back and forth about whether I’m already pregnant. I can tell she doesn’t believe me, but the heaviness in my chest lightens. Maybe I haven’t lost my family entirely. Maybe there’s hope. Maybe this is a new beginning.
As I’m trying to tell her that Tate’s used condoms—a detail that makes her deeply uncomfortable, which is why I bring it up out of sheer, improper glee—there’s a knock on the door.
