by Jillian Dodd
“Yes. Anything that relates to food. He also started the World Seed Vault, which is a really cool thing.”
“I’ve heard about that. Do you know much else about him? Like, is he a nice guy?”
“Harry? Yeah. A bit of a narcissist, but maybe, if you have more money than God, that’s a byproduct. You probably met his daughter, Eliza, and her husband, Collin Pettyfer, at the Royal Ascot. She was the one with the huge black-and-white polka-dot hat.”
“Oh, I do remember them. Her husband knew Lorenzo. They played in some charity polo match together. I didn’t know that was his daughter.”
“It is. She’s conceited, and I don’t care much for her, but whatever. Okay, who’s next?” he says, showing me a photo. “Well, this is sad. It has a photo of former president John F. Hillford, but it says below that his spot will be filled in November by a former politician.”
I raise my hand.
“What?”
“It hasn’t been announced yet, but his spot will be filled by Royston Bessemer.”
“How do you know that?”
“He told me last night at the party,” I reply, “when we left you and his granddaughter alone to catch up. Speaking of that, should she really be marrying that Ty guy? You know he’s not going to be faithful.”
“Funny, those were the exact words that came out of my mouth the second you left,” he says with a sigh.
“Do you still like her?”
Peter scratches his cheek. “She’s a nice girl. Of course I like her.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“You saw me last night,” he scoffs. “I’m the life of the party.”
“And it’s getting old. For someone who doesn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps, you totally already are. We’re like him, Ares, Viktor, Gio, and Jack when they were young—just trying to make our way in the world.”
“I suppose you’re right. Seeing the way Lorenzo looks at you sort of hit me. And how Viktor is still mourning. I’ve realized there is only one girl who I’ve ever felt that way about.”
“And her name is Blair Bessemer,” I add. “You started dating her just to prove you could, but you fell for her. I could see it in your eyes. What happened? How did things end?”
“The way things always do for me. The women I date never think I’m serious enough.”
“Well, you do have a history,” I tease.
“So does Lorenzo. Did that stop you?”
“No, not that it does me much good now. He’s getting married.”
“And so is she.”
Neither one of us says anything for a moment.
Eventually, Peter moves his finger to the next photo and goes back to our original conversation. “Here are a couple of people you already know,” he says, pointing out photos of his dad, Malcolm Prescott, and Viktor’s, Aleksandr Nikolaevich. “It’s really cool that they all started out as friends and went on to be great successes in their industries. Do you think people will say that about us someday?”
I turn to him and smile. “I hope so.”
“Next is Rutherford Elingston. He was at my parents’ house for dinner. Did you meet him?”
“Briefly, yes. Lorenzo told me that his family owns most of the world’s banks and is worth about two trillion dollars. His company wanted to buy the Royal Montrovian Bank, but King Gio wouldn’t allow it. Said the man is already too powerful.”
“I can understand that,” Peter says. “There might actually be such a thing as too much money.” He laughs. “I can’t believe I just said that. Next up is Maximilian Olivier. He’s a fund manager who is rumored to be able to break a country’s economy by short-selling the billions he trades. I really like Max. He’s a hell of a skeet shooter, and after a few whiskeys, he is an entertaining storyteller.”
“I actually met him and his wife, Leah, at the Queen’s Garden Party in Montrovia. Her hat was created by Anna Remaldi, the royal milliner. Just like mine was.”
“I’m still mad they made me check my gold clippers.” Peter pouts. “I’m friends with Lorenzo. Do they frisk you every time you go to the palace?”
“You need to get over that,” I tease. “Max did entertain me and Lorenzo with a story about his recent African safari, how he planned to bring home big game trophies, but in the end, he couldn’t kill such majestic animals. I liked that about him.”
“He must have had a flask with him because they weren’t serving whiskey at the party,” Peter says matter-of-factly. “I know. I tried to get one. Then, we have Sergey Olander.”
“Oh, I remember him,” I say with a frown. “He was at the Cartier Queen’s Cup in the Royal Box. He made his money in the tech industry and now owns an English football club. Invited us to come up for a game. He’s also very affectionate toward women he’s never met before.”
“Ahh, yes. Sergey has never been allowed at one of our parties because of it. My mother is not a fan. She says he’s very disrespectful, and I should never treat a woman that way. He also owns the second most expensive yacht in the world, built by … who?”
“Aleksandr Nikolaevich, I assume.”
“Exactly. Did you know his company also built Lorenzo’s yacht? Nice birthday present, huh?” Peter says. “All I got for my last birthday was a new car.”
“Oh, you poor—and I mean, poor—thing.”
Peter laughs out loud. “You’re funny. This board is like the Six Degrees of Yachting. Do you know who owns the world’s biggest yacht, also built by A&N Shipyards?”
“Lorenzo told me that distinction belongs to the yacht we were on at the Montrovian Grand Prix. Until that moment, I didn’t understand what the word lavish meant. The guy owns one of the race teams, but I’m drawing a blank at his name.”
“His name is Zayn Kipling. His family money goes back to the British East India Company. Really, you have already met all of the board members, except for McClellan. Maybe you should reach out to him.” He scrolls further down the page, and there is a photo of Ares Von Allister, the caption mentioning the untimely passing of their founder and that a board replacement would be announced soon.
“What do you think I should do about the vote?”
“Maybe ask the people on the board who you trust.”
“I think I will. Thanks for taking care of me last night, Peter, and for ordering breakfast. I’m feeling much better.”
“That’s good,” he says, glancing at his watch, “because we need to get to the White House and meet up with Daniel and Viktor. We don’t want to miss the parade.”
Daniel and I are standing on the second-floor balcony of the Executive Residence of the White House, known as the Truman Balcony, which overlooks the South Lawn and has views of the National Mall. There are others here as well, but since it’s Daniel’s birthday, they gave us the prime viewing spot in the center, next to the railing.
A military band is playing patriotic music. Fireworks explode and then fall from the sky in a brilliant display of red, white, and blue. While the day was warm, a soft breeze has made the evening air cool.
“Peter was right,” I say. “Once you experience a White House Fourth of July, everything will pale in comparison. From the patriotic barbecue for military families, featuring a concert with star-studded performances, to the presidential speech in honor of the USO to your poolside birthday party and now the big finale fireworks show, the whole day has been amazing. Thank you for letting me share it with you. Happy birthday, Daniel. You probably should make a wish on the fireworks.”
“I already made a wish.” Daniel turns to face me, takes my hands in his, and gives me a cocky grin. “That means I’m about to do something crazy, so remember, yes is always the right answer.”
“What are you going to—” I start to say, but then he drops to one knee, obviously having orchestrated our key position on the balcony, so it could be viewed by reporters.
“I know this isn’t what you want,” he says softly, the cocky expression gone.
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I put my hand to my mouth, and tears stream down my face as I remember the bliss I felt when seeing Lorenzo down on one knee, proposing, just nine days ago—the words of love he spoke permanently etched into the space in my brain that holds the happiest moments of my entire life, just like they are etched on the necklace I wear.
“You know this isn’t what I want,” Daniel continues. “But we have to do this if we want our happy lives back. We have to force Lizzie’s hand by putting a ring on yours.”
I can’t even believe I’m considering this. I don’t want to hurt Lorenzo any more than I already have. And I know, by walking away, by not going to confront his mother, that I broke his heart along with my own. I could easily blame him, say that he betrayed me. But, from the depths of my heart, I know that everything he confessed was true. That his love is true. I ran away with the hope that I could save his country.
And maybe, if I did that, I could somehow save myself.
“Smile,” Daniel says, standing up and looking into my eyes. “Say you will be engaged to me. Say you will pretend to be in love with me. It’s my birthday, and this was part of my wish. Throw your arms around me, make it look real, and say yes.”
I stay still, our gazes locked. I see the pain in the depths of his baby blues, and I heard the desperation in his voice. He truly believes that this is his only option. Even though I will never love him the way I do Lorenzo, I do care deeply for him, so I wrap my arms around his neck.
“Does this mean you’re going to fight with me to get our loves back?” he asks, resting his forehead sweetly against mine.
“Yes,” I say.
Daniel pulls out a sparkling ring. One that is nothing like what he bought for Lizzie and nothing like what Lorenzo chose for me. This ring … well, I can’t help but grin at it.
“This ring is so you,” I say.
“No, it’s you. When my father was sworn in as president during a difficult time, you were right there by my side, looking adorably patriotic. When I made the Olympic team this year, you were waiting for me at the end of the pool, wearing my lucky Star-Spangled-Banner T-shirt. Even now, as I slide this ring on your finger, everything around us is red, white, and blue—from the bunting on the White House balcony railing to the trim on your dress to the fireworks in the sky. You’re already American royalty, Huntley. This ring just seals the deal.”
MISSION:DAY TEN
Lorenzo rolls into the breakfast room, looking and feeling disheveled.
“You look like something the cat dragged in,” his mother says.
“I haven’t been sleeping much lately,” he fires back, irritated.
His mother gives him her biggest of smiles. “I hope that means you and Lizzie have been burning up—”
“No,” he rudely interrupts. “Not that it is any of your business. I am not sleeping with Lizzie, for I do not love her. Regardless of if we go through with this sham of a wedding or not, do not expect heirs anytime soon.”
“Interesting you should say that, considering what happened in America last night,” his mother says, reaching for her iPad as his phone lights up with a text.
Lizzie: Please meet me in your study immediately.
“Deliver breakfast to my study,” Lorenzo instructs the steward as he stands up. “And have a good day, Mother,” he adds, although the way he says it indicates that is the last thing he wants for her to have.
He races through the palace and finds Lizzie in his office. She’s a wreck—eyes full of tears, makeup streaming down her face, and sobbing hysterically.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
She just keeps crying and shaking her head. He sits down next to her and sweetly wraps an arm around her, instantly worried something awful has happened to one of her parents.
“I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”
“No one can fa-fix this,” she stutters out, her body racked with emotion. “Look.”
She shoves her phone in his direction and then cries more. Her phone shows a social media page for the First Lady of the United States. There is a triangle atop a photo of fireworks, and he knows he should press the button and watch the video, but all of a sudden, dread fills his stomach, and he feels like sobbing, too. He knows Huntley was at the White House yesterday. He’s still tracking her every move even though he knows it’s probably not healthy.
While he’s considering handing the phone back to Lizzie, his eyes fall on the caption.
It’s been more than forty years since the child of a president has been married at the White House. Time for that to change.
#SheSaidYes #Engaged #Fireworks #NationsCapital #GodBlessAmerica @DanielSpear @HuntleyVonAllister
Lorenzo’s mouth goes dry. His stomach feels sick.
But he presses play anyway.
The video is taken from the door to the balcony. You can see the beautiful fireworks going off in the sky and hear the sounds of a band playing in the background. You can’t hear what Daniel says to Huntley, but he drops to one knee and speaks to her. Huntley’s hand immediately goes to her mouth, appearing to indicate her shock, and then she starts crying. She cried when he proposed, but this looks different. Mostly because she’s slightly shaking her head—like she can’t do it. Like she’s going to say no. Lorenzo needs for her to say no. For Daniel to get up and slink away in defeat. Instead, Daniel stands up, and Huntley gazes affectionately into his eyes.
She wraps her arms around his neck and says yes.
He knows, the second he gets Lizzie out of his office, he’s going to search the internet for an alternate view, hoping someone caught the moment so that he could try to read Huntley’s face, her emotions. His heart is aching, but his brain is telling him it can’t be true. It can’t be love. That they can’t go through with it.
Probably the same things Huntley thought when his engagement to Lizzie was announced.
“Well?” Lizzie cries out. “What are we going to do?”
“What can we do?” Lorenzo asks, feeling broken.
“I’m going to have to call him. I can’t let him do this. He’s just rebounding.”
“It’s my understanding, he and Huntley were together before you met Daniel at the Queen’s Ball.”
“Sure, they might have slept together, but it wasn’t like that. They have a closeness, but it’s more friendly than serious.”
“Getting engaged seems pretty serious to me,” he challenges.
“And that’s the worst part,” she bellows as a calendar notification pops up on her phone. “We are doing this for our country. They have no such pressure. That means he proposed because he actually wants to marry her.” She looks down at her phone and rolls her eyes. “I’m supposed to have a magazine interview in thirty minutes. The press secretary is wondering where in the world I am. I can’t do it, Lorenzo. They asked you about Huntley in our interview. What if they ask me about Daniel getting engaged? I will start bawling. I … just can’t today.”
Lorenzo takes his phone out of his pocket, calling his personal assistant and telling her to clear Lizzie’s schedule while she’s grabbing the remote and turning on the TV.
That is the wrong thing to do because the engagement video is playing on the screen while the announcers are dissecting it.
“I think I’ll go to my room for the day and watch all the gossip,” she says, walking out. “I know I should avoid it, but I brought this on myself, and I need a day to wallow in it. I promise I will shape up and go back to my duties tomorrow.”
After she leaves, Lorenzo flips to a celebrity gossip channel, which is featuring photos of both Huntley and Daniel. It also interestingly shows a photo of her and Peter Prescott attending the engagement party of the daughter of the Speaker of the House the night before. Huntley is smiling, looking gorgeous in a sheer Dolce & Gabbana dress that he recognizes from her closet in DC. Lorenzo feels a pang of jealousy. Upon further inspection though, he notices Peter has his arm slung around her, but they look like good friends, not lovers. And th
at makes Lorenzo happy.
The moment quickly fades as the announcer starts dissecting the engagement footage. “Look at this. Fireworks in the sky, Marines band playing in the background, and you’re standing on the balcony of the freaking White House when the man you love gets down on one knee and starts speaking from his heart. This is my favorite part. Watch Huntley put her hand over her mouth in shock and start crying.”
He remembers when he proposed to Huntley just a few short days ago. There was no fanfare and no symphony, but the music in their hearts and the fireworks between them still trumped it. And he will carry that memory like a photo that will forever be etched into his heart, his soul, and his mind.
Lorenzo hits rewind and plays it again, wondering what it all means. Why would she agree to marry Daniel, to a White House wedding, and not to marrying him? It doesn’t add up. Part of him wonders if she has a new mission.
The announcer continues, “Watch as he stands up to be closer to her, how he leans his forehead against hers, and how they just gaze into each other’s eyes. It’s such a poignant moment. Then comes the big finale. She wraps her arms around his neck and says yes, but I’m dying to see the ring. While I appreciate the First Lady’s post, come on, Huntley, why are you not posting it all over your social media? You gotta know, girl, that we wanna see the rock!” The announcer turns her head to the side. “Oh my gosh! This just in—an official press release from the jeweler. I’m going to read this verbatim.
“‘We are pleased to announce that, last night, Olympic athlete and First Son Daniel Spear presented billionaire heiress Huntley Von Allister with a custom engagement ring designed by the future groom and created by our expert craftsmen. A six-carat pear-shaped diamond set in platinum, surrounded by a halo of rubies, wrapped in a ring of sapphires. Happy birthday to Daniel and best wishes to the happy couple.’
“Well, it sounds beautiful! Now, we just need to see it.” She squints her eyes and puts her hand up to her earpiece. “I have just received word that Daniel Spear has posted a photo. Let’s get that up on the screen!”
