by Thorne, Gigi
Crown Jewels
Gigi Thorne
CROWN JEWELS
by Gigi Thorne
Copyright © Gigi Thorne
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.
Cover Design: Mayhem Cover Creations
Editor: Write Way Creative
First Edition
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Who is Gigi
Also by Gigi
1
Adele
“You’re not Jessica.”
I’ve been dreading this moment, and it’s even worse than I imagined it would be what with this hulking palace security guard squeezing the hell out of my bicep. Honestly, I’m shocked he took me up on it when I shouted “I work for Marissa Leigh, I swear, and I really can’t get anyone fired today, especially not myself.”
I feel the penetrating glare of astonishment that mirrors the expression of my boss’s boss, Marissa Leigh, cutting right through me. Marissa is the best hairstylist in the hemisphere, and there she is, glaring at me as her graceful body blocks the entrance into the most massive bridal suite I’ve ever seen. My boss’s boss, Marissa Leigh, the best hairstylist in the hemisphere, glares down at me, her body blocking the entrance into the most massive bridal suite I have ever seen. It shouldn’t have been a surprise—it’s a royal wedding, after all—but I didn’t expect the suite itself would be the size of a ballroom. And I did not expect to find myself at the palace this morning. My shoulders are still sore from the endless shampooing I did on my shift yesterday. I’m dying for Motrin.
Normally I’d be waking up about right now to get in some exercise before rushing to my shift at the salon. The job has been a godsend, really—I was five days away from being evicted from my apartment when I got hired. But I’m not some cosmetology phenom. I'm only a lowly assistant who sweeps clippings from the floor, so it never crossed my mind that I’d be here. Now. To help with styling hair and applying makeup for the princess’s wedding.
“I’ll remove her from the building right away,” booms Mr. Bodyguard, sounding unbearably smug.
It’s now or never.
“Hi,” I squeak finally, trying to exclude a peppy, confident attitude and hide my fear of being on the verge of getting thrown in the palace dungeon. I stick out my left hand, which is awkward, but I can’t do anything else with Mr. Bodyguard’s fingers still clutching my right arm in a vise-like grip. “My name’s Adele, and I’m covering for Jessica today.”
Marissa considers the guard for a moment. “Did you run a background check?”
He shrugs a phone out of his pocket. “Everybody who enters this wing of the palace undergoes a background check, but she only showed up this morning—”
“Well, did you do one?”
“Yes. Came up clean.”
Her suspicious gaze sweeps back to me.
My heart is pounding in my throat. We're not following protocol, but when Jessica called me a while ago in a panic, I didn’t have any other choice. She begged me to hurry over here to take her place in between retching episodes in the background. I told her it wasn’t a good idea, but her voice went freakishly sharp. “It’s better than nothing,” she barked, then threw up again.
Marissa, the country’s hottest hairstylist and the owner of the salon where I a am nothing more than a lowly assistant to her own assistant, Jessica, frowns. “Where is Jessica?” Then she gives a short shake of her head. “Never mind. I’ll deal with her later. Show me your badge.”
I dig into my pocket—again, with the wrong hand thanks to the clingy security guy—and yank it out. Thank God I stuffed the little laminated badge, which allows me entry into the employees’ entrance at the salon, into my pants pocket before I left. Marissa scans it absently, looks me up and down from head to toe again for good measure, and snorts out a little huff. “Come on then. There’s no time to lose. And try not to make another scene.”
She turns on her heel. Marissa wears all black, like the rest of us, but her heels are black Louboutins.
Mr. Bodyguard abruptly releases me like he’s dropping a piece of roadkill and stalks off in a huff.
I rub my arm, trying to get some feeling back into it, and hurry to follow her inside. Technically, I wasn’t the one who made the scene. It was when I tried to ask for directions to the bridal suite that it became a bit of an issue. Obviously, tensions are running a little high today.
I frantically assess the situation, trying my best to get my bearings.
There are people everywhere. There are at least twenty women wearing silky robes over their slips, laying draped over various pieces of furniture, flutes of champagne in hand. I’d kill for a mimosa right now, just to calm my nerves, but there’s no chance of that. At the opposite end of the room, six salon chairs have been set up, along with portable workstations and mirrors. The top-tier stylists from Elegánce, Marissa’s salon, are orbiting around five more women, all of them focused on the mirrors.
What the hell am I going to do in here?
Marissa stops in front of the sixth, empty chair.
“Were you trained at my institute?”
“I—yes.” I spent a year at some half-rate place two towns over, realized it was a sham, and finished up the coursework to earn my cosmetology certificate at the Elegánce Institute.
That was three months ago.
“Good. When the stylists are done, finish the look and ask if they want any help with makeup.” I swallow hard. Marissa has absolute faith in what her institute teaches its students.
“Got it.”
They come like an assembly line, and I recognize each and every one of them from the pictures I've seen in the magazines. The groom’s relatives are mixed in with members of the royal family. My hands shake when the Duchess of Hartwell flops down in the chair in front of me and tilts her head back. “Darling, this is exhausting. I need another drink.”
“Right away,” I chirp, abandoning the makeup brush on the workstation. “I’ll be right back.”
She closes her eyes. “Good.”
I wheel around in a big circle. Where are the mimosas coming from? A couple of people step back from a table near a large set of double doors, and—yes. There. An honest to God butler stands next to the table, which has been decorated within an inch of its life with exotically colored floral centerpieces and a massive champagne fountain from which the butler fills glasses and mixes them with the perfect proportion of what I assume is the freshest squeezed orange juice the country has to offer.
I hustle toward the table. This isn’t conventional stylist business, I don’t think, but my main goal is to make it out of here with my job intact. And my nerves, if I can help it. In another stroke of luck, the butler doesn’t give me any shit, and I rush back to the Duchess with drink in hand.
Her eyes roll back in her head as she takes the first sip. “You, my dear, are a godsend.”
I murmu
r something that sounds grateful and step around behind her, patting lightly at her hair with my fingertips. There’s not a curl out of place. I don’t know what Marissa was thinking when she said to “finish the look.”
“Can I—” I clear my throat and start again. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you? Makeup?” This is a ridiculous question and I know it the moment the words leave my lips. The Duchess already has makeup on. The Duchess probably has her own makeup artist, considering the artful way her fake lashes have been applied.
“No,” she laughs. “I just need a moment to gather myself.”
She gathers herself for fifteen minutes, during which time the suite starts to hum with more frenzied activity. Every moment that passes, the time of the wedding is drawing closer. I steal a glance into the VIP area of the bridal suite at the exact moment an enormous confection of tulle and Swarovski crystals is lifted into the air by no fewer than three women. I can’t catch a glimpse of Princess Charlotte, but she must be buried in the center of the circle, unless royalty have some strange ritual where they dress the empty air first.
I turn back to my chair. The Duchess is gone and another woman, one looking harried and totally rumpled, slides in ahead of me.
“I’m late,” she says, wrenching off her cardigan and dropping it to the floor next to the chair. “I need a chignon. Make it smooth.”
My base instinct is to stare at her in the mirror with my mouth hanging open, because….me? She chose me? Well, it was an empty seat. I muster all two months of my training and set to work. And honestly, I fucking nail it. Her hair is sleek as hell when I’m done, and she looks up from her phone after twenty-five minutes, obvious surprise written in the jut of her eyebrows.
“Good,” she says to her reflection. “Nice.”
“Lovely,” I echo. Then she ambles away, nose in her phone.
I take two more late arrivals, the pace increasing, but honestly, I feel pretty good about this. This is where Jessica would have been standing, and now that I’m here…well, it’s only a chance for me to climb, isn’t it? If I do a good enough job, maybe I could end up on the assistant level at the salon, and then I’d be rolling in it. So much money I could afford a one-bedroom. God that would be nice. I’m so sick of listening to my fridge rattle against the wall all night. It’s the kind of thing that will drive a person insane.
“I need your help.”
The fingers wrapped around my bicep this time bring back the uncomfortable memory of the security guy except they're not as thick and strong and aren't bruising my flesh, but I still wheel away from my empty chair on full alert.
“Hi. What? Oh—”
It’s someone from the actual bridal party. She’s wearing one of the identical blush-pink dresses, and her makeup has been exquisitely applied. That’s why I haven’t seen Marissa. She’s been personally attending to the bride and the bridal party. That eyeliner is so subtle it can only be her handiwork, but it’s getting overwhelmed by the high color in this woman’s cheeks… I draw myself back to the woman with her fingers attached to my arm. I know her. Princess…Edie? From a neighboring country? Grew up with Princess Charlotte, I’m sure of that—
“We’re having an emergency,” she says, the tone of her voice low. I look past her. No one around the bride is doing anything but rushing around in a rather low-key way.
“What kind of emergency?”
“It’s—” She screws up her lips. “It’s a developing emergency. A matter of…protocol.”
I have no earthly idea what she’s talking about.
“I’m keeping Aunt Rachael at bay,” she continues urgently. “But she’s upset about the entrance order for the family at the church, and we have to pacify her.”
“Of course.” I nod seriously, then nod a little more for effect. I have no idea what she's talking about or why she's telling me about it.
“She’s about to go off. But Princess Charlotte has told her she can wear the September Sapphires. They’re across the hall. All of the jewelry has been set out in the Blue Room.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” I try to smile encouragingly. “I can’t go in there.”
“You have to.” She grabs at my arm again. “Do you understand me? You have to. I’m the only thing keeping—”
“This is unacceptable.” The sound of a piercing voice comes from the direction of the bridal suite. “Absolutely unacceptable.”
“I have to get back,” Edie hisses. “Go across the hall, get the necklace, and come back here. Right. Now.”
“But I—” She doesn’t stop to listen, only turns and hurries away.
Okay then.
I look around desperately, but the butler is nowhere to be found, and everyone—absolutely everyone—is talking to someone else. From the doorway of the VIP suite, Edie catches my eye and shoots me a glare. “Go,” she mouths.
So I do.
The hallway is busy. The majority of people out here are guards, pacing back and forth. Directly across from the bridal suite is a fancy-ass door. Mahogany. Something like that. I know instantly that if I want to avoid another scene and keep my job, I’d better keep my mouth shut. Get in. Get the necklace. Get out. The end.
I stride purposefully across the hall, my heart latched in my throat, and grasp the handle to the big, heavy door like I’m sure it’s going to open.
It does.
And inside?
Oh, my God.
2
Adele
Compared to the violently pastel chaos of the bridal suite, this room is an oasis of deep navy. It smells expensive in here, and it should. It’s clear that whatever this room might usually be used for, it’s being used for something entirely different today—the royal jewelry store.
Not a store, exactly, but narrow tables and stands swathed in a sumptuous navy fabric line the walls. I should have seen this coming. It’s not like the royal family is going to display their heirloom jewelry like it's a flea market. Of course it’s going to be delicately arranged. It feels as if the room is holding its breath, as if someone was in here just moments ago, moving each piece so it would cast a glow from the rays of luxury lighting.
The…luxury lighting.
Every piece has its own little spotlight. There are several empty jewelry stands, missing the piece it was designed to display, and that makes me move quickly to the other side of the room. People are constantly coming and going, preparing themselves to sit in the pews at the wedding. I shouldn’t be standing here frozen to the spot like an idiot the next time someone bustles in.
The September Sapphires. I’m looking for the September Sapphires, only—
Only I have no idea what the September Sapphires are. Am I looking for a set of earrings? A bracelet? A…tiara?
My heart hammers in my chest. September Sapphires. Okay. If they have an official name, then they must be well known, so they’re probably on Google, right? There’s probably a picture of exactly what I’m looking for.
I yank my phone out of my back pocket, ignoring the fact that we’re never supposed to touch our phones while we’re at work for Marissa, and call up a search. September Sapphires. Search. There. Go.
It seems to take forever, probably because I'm deep inside the palace. The place is fortified. Heck, I bet the royal family has its own wifi network. They don’t go around waiting for radio waves to penetrate through several feet of concrete.
Come on, phone, I whisper anxiously.
The search loads agonizingly slow, doing that thing where the words are visible for one moment and disappear the next. Come on. Come on.
I click on the images option.
And because they’re images, I’ve condemned myself for another agonizing wait. Beads of sweat start pooling under the collar of my shirt. Should I go accost Edie and ask her what in God’s name the September Sapphires are? The thought of barging into the VIP bridal suite in a wild-eye panic doesn’t seem like it would be a very good idea.
The page I've been waitin
g for finally loads.
The September Sapphires, it appears, are part of an enormous, ostentatious necklace that has been part of the royal treasury since 1805. The sapphires themselves are in a range of sizes, set into gleaming white gold in an intricate pattern.
Hot damn, does it gleam.
And wouldn't it figure that all this while, I’ve been standing right in front of them.
They’re a sight to behold, honestly. And the matching jewelry stand on which they're displayed holds them up so close to the silk table covering that they almost appear to float in midair.
The next piece on display to the right is a tiara, nestled like a baby in a cushion of crushed silk.
I don’t see what’s to the left until I’m reaching for the Sapphires.
It’s…rubies.
The deep red draws my eye, the light from above catching and refracting in all their cut angles. A shiver runs down my spine at the sight of them. Two huge rubies, big enough to be…
…what?
They can’t be earrings, surely. What if they’re some kind of replacement for another gem? Are the precious jewels in here a snap-and-go set-up?
The next moment, none of that matters. Because these are huge rubies. Absolutely massive. If I had rubies like that…
I certainly wouldn’t keep them. No way. I’d sell them immediately. I’m not a jeweler, but I have to assume, just by their perfect shape and the way the light explodes out from each and every angle and crevice that they’d be worth a fortune.
A fortune that would whisk me right out of my shitty apartment, where some unhinged man stands screaming in the middle of the street at one in the morning. It would whisk me right into a little salon of my own. I’d make it feel like this room—cool and understated and luxe—and I’d make a living charging fair prices for my work.
