by Iris Morland
“You want to talk to him first,” I repeated slowly. “Why?”
“Because I want to understand why he’s doing this. And I want to see if I can get him to change his mind.”
I opened my mouth to tell her she was wasting her time, that she was crazy, that her father was only going to betray her trust, but I bit my tongue just in time.
Niamh shot me a sad smile. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“You think I’m a naive idiot. I’m not. I don’t have some crazy idea that my dad is going to redeem himself. But he’s dying: he told me that himself. Why go to the trouble, then, of selling secrets for money? He’ll be dead soon. And I’m pretty sure Satan doesn’t let you bring cash with you to the depths of hell to use at the commissary.”
“Your father could simply be hedging his bets. It’s good to be prepared, you know, in case you do need money for the commissary in hell,” I said, deadpan.
“You can buy threadbare blankets and broken spoons for a thousand dollars. And you get rick-rolled twenty-four-seven.”
We both laughed. Soon, though, Niamh’s expression turned serious again.
“I just want to talk to him first, before the palace does. Just…let me do this.”
I sighed. “I don’t want you to get hurt. What if he tells you some story that you want to believe, but he ends up breaking your heart? What if he convinces you that it’s all a lie?”
“My dad is clever, but he’s no criminal mastermind. Besides, he seemed to have a soft spot for me, last time I saw him.”
I wasn’t convinced. I could just imagine Connor manipulating his daughter to believe some ridiculous story where he was the hero and we were all the villains. Never mind that he’d throw his own daughter to the wolves without a second thought.
“Are you certain you weren’t imagining it?” I said the words gently.
Apparently, not gently enough. “No, I wasn’t. Look, I’m not saying he deserves the Father of the Year Award. He’s a deadbeat dad: I know that. He abandoned Liam and my mom, me still in the womb, and ran off without a care in the world. But I’m also worried that the palace will back him into a corner, and he’ll do something even worse.”
“Worse than blackmailing his own daughter?” I scoffed.
Niamh was now buttering her roll with irritated motions. “I can make him think I’m on his side. Gain his confidence. Make him think I want in on the plan.”
Now I was horrified. “Are you fucking out of your mind?” The words burst from my mouth.
Niamh bristled. She was gripping her butter knife so tightly that I was half-afraid she’d launch it straight at my heart. “You don’t have to be a dick about it. It’s just an idea.”
“You have no idea what you’re playing with, Niamh. You’re a part of something much bigger, more complicated, than you can even imagine. This isn’t just about you and your relationship with your dad. This is about the entire royal family and what this information being leaked could mean for the palace itself.”
I could see her eyes sparkling, but not in a happy way. Sparkling, because she had flames burning inside of them now.
“I’m well aware that your precious throne is at stake here.” She said the words slowly, like arrows being shot toward a target. “I’m well aware that I’ve married you solely to keep your secret, that if it’s discovered, my brother’s life will be upended when it’s discovered he should be the heir. You don’t have to tell me for the millionth time that I’m just a pawn in this stupid fucking game of yours!”
Her voice rose to a shout. One footman, who was standing near the entrance to the dining room, widened his eyes.
“There’s no need to shout,” I said coolly. “I can hear you just fine.”
“You’re such a prick!” She still had her butter knife in her hand. When it seemed as though she was about to throw it at me, the same footman stepped forward to intervene.
“Your Highness! Not the silver!”
Niamh froze. I froze. Then Niamh began to laugh and dropped the knife into the footman’s open palm.
“My husband is a douchecanoe, but I’m not going to stab him in the heart with a butter knife.” Her gaze met mine. “I’d at least use a steak knife.”
I knew Laurent had bad news for me when I returned to my apartment, because he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. He tended to gaze at the ceiling, too.
When I’d been younger, I’d assumed he’d been afraid to see me angry. Now, though, I realized he just hated giving anyone bad news: me, my mother, even one of the servants. Once he’d been tasked with telling the staff that their holiday bonuses would be late due to a banking error, and apparently, he’d nearly bounced himself into a wall out of nervousness.
“I’m going to guess that you’re not here to tell me that Salasia is going to the World Cup for the first time,” I said wryly. I tossed my jacket onto the back of chair and sat down with a sigh.
Laurent bounced. “I’m afraid not, Your Highness.”
I just waited.
Laurent pulled a tablet out—from where, I didn’t know—and tapped across the screen a few times before handing it over. “Be advised that these images are…upsetting.”
He was wrong: they weren’t upsetting. They were enraging.
It took my brain a moment to understand what I was seeing, but when the pieces clicked into place, a tide of anger pulsed through my entire body. Topless, wearing only a bikini bottom, was my wife, lounging on a chair during our honeymoon. Despite all of the precautions and security measures that had been taken, someone had managed to take photos of my wife’s naked breasts and was now making money from them.
“I thought the villa was secure,” I said, my voice tight.
“It was, sir, but perhaps not secure enough. Most likely this photographer used a long lens and was physically some distance from the villa.”
“And he, or she, was probably staking out the villa in the likelihood they could snap these kinds of pictures.”
My hands were shaking as I returned the tablet to Laurent. I was liable to smash it against the wall. Shame that that wouldn’t stop the photos from being distributed. I knew very well that once something was uploaded online, it was nearly impossible to eliminate it entirely.
I rose and poured myself a glass of whiskey. I took a few sips to steady my breathing. “Have you informed the princess?” I said.
“Not yet, sir. I wanted to advise you of the situation first. Also, the photographer, who remains anonymous, is so far refusing any take-down notices from the palace. It’s likely that we’ll need to take legal action.”
Which meant more publicity and, ironically, more widespread distribution of the photos. I felt sick. Suddenly the whiskey felt like a fire in my belly.
“Should I inform Her Highness?” said Laurent quietly.
“No, not yet. If this photographer,” I said the word with a sneer, “loves money, we can try to buy him out without drawing attention to the photos.”
Laurent didn’t say the words I already knew, that it would be nearly impossible to keep this under wraps.
Instead, he merely said, “You’re certain, sir?”
I laughed darkly. “Not at all. But when has that stopped me?”
And if this photographer wouldn’t be cowed by the legal arm of the palace, well, I would happily run him through myself. At that thought, I couldn’t help but smile a little.
Chapter Nine
I’d been to too many formal dinners and luncheons to count. I’d attended ones with dozens of foreign dignitaries, politicians, and other royals. I’d met people who’d been so obvious about gaining my family’s favor that I’d felt slimy afterward. I’d seen prime ministers who’d not understood royal protocol, even one being so obtuse as to take my mother’s hand and shake it, which was not at all the thing.
But all of those events paled in comparison to this informal family dinner my parents, my wife, and I were suffering through. Conversa
tion was stilted, the sounds of eating and drinking filling the silences.
My father sat at the head of the table as protocol dictated, my mother to his left. I sat at his right, while Niamh sat next to me. More than once, I’d caught Niamh’s gaze, wanting to apologize for the awkwardness. She’d merely wrinkled her nose at me and bit back a smile.
I couldn’t help but notice that my mother seemed thinner than normal. She barely touched her food, cutting most of it into smaller and smaller pieces. My father seemed intent on his filet, his potatoes gratin, his spinach salad. He commented on the taste of the wine, but that was all.
I tried to carry the conversation, but my parents were oddly tightlipped. Niamh also tried, but even she gave up after a few attempts.
My gut twisted. Why had my father requested this dinner, only for us all to sit here like statues? I had the sudden urge to drink five more glasses of wine and get completely hammered.
After dessert, my mother said to Niamh, “Have you chosen which tiara you will wear for your coronation?”
“Oh, I have no idea. They’re all so…” Niamh smiled. “Sparkly. And expensive.”
I gave her a warning look. Hinting about money was a bad idea with my parents.
“I would recommend the Marquise Tiara. It isn’t overly large, and I can speak from experience, it isn’t very heavy,” said my mother.
My father looked up from his plate. “The Marquise? No, no. That wouldn’t be at all suitable. No princess has worn that dingy thing in generations.”
“I had no idea you had such strong opinions about tiaras,” I said.
“I have strong opinions about coronations.” My father turned his attention to Niamh. “Let me recommend the Rose Tiara. Olivier’s mother wore it, and my mother before her.”
Niamh looked a little green at the edges. “Is that the one with the big ruby?”
“The very one.”
“Oh, it’s a lovely piece, but I think it might break my neck. It’s very heavy and probably too big for my head.” Niamh chuckled.
I considered the wine in my glass. “Isn’t the Rose the one that Prince Henri gave to Princess Therese when she discovered that he had a mistress? An apology tiara, if you will.”
The silence was like a heavy cloak. My father’s nostrils were flared; my mother was staring down at her plate. Under the table, Niamh dug her heel into my foot, and I had to restrain a yelp.
“Is that really the story?” said Niamh, her tone light. “Maybe Prince Henri had it changed so he’d seem cool. Maybe he was madly in love with his wife.”
“That’s the story that’s always been told,” I replied.
“Or maybe he flirted, but he didn’t touch.” Niamh shrugged. “Or maybe the princess was just very jealous and didn’t like her husband to look at any woman.”
“Seems a bit extreme, getting so upset that your husband has to buy you a tiara like that to atone.”
Niamh looked to my father. “What do you think? Was the story true, or was the real story a lot more boring?”
My father looked almost stunned that Niamh had spoken to him. Even funnier, she hadn’t addressed him as “sir.” At a dinner like this, with servants attending, Niamh should’ve addressed him as such. But my wife was hardly known for following the rules.
“I don’t know. I can’t say I’ve researched the subject much. I’m sure there’s documentation, letters—”
Silence. I was half-tempted to stab myself in the eye from the tension.
“There were no letters.” My mother said the words softly. “I’ve looked. Apparently, Princess Therese asked her daughter to burn most of her letters. No one knows why, but most likely, they weren’t meant for the public to read.”
“Then perhaps she was the one who was having an affair?” said my father.
“Or perhaps it will remain a mystery,” I said.
“Maybe the letters were super smutty,” said Niamh with a winsome smile. “Maybe Prince Henri liked to write dirty letters, so the princess definitely didn’t want those leaked. Maybe he wrote letters like James Joyce did.”
I choked on my wine. Niamh reached over to pat me between my shoulders.
My parents looked confused. “James Joyce? The Irish author?” said my mother tentatively.
“The very one.” Niamh leaned forward conspiratorially. “He was totally obsessed with his wife and wrote some crazy letters to her. Sexual letters.” Niamh’s eyebrows waggled.
Now it was my turn to step on my spouse’s foot. “I doubt my parents are interested in some dead author’s letters.”
“Not if they read them.”
I gave her a warning look, but she just laughed lightly. She waved a hand.
“Fine, fine, I’ll stop talking about it. But be sure to look them up some time. They’re very enlightening. Lots of ‘lecherous lips’ and ‘dirty backsides.’”
“They sound…intriguing.” My mother patted her mouth with her napkin. “Let’s go to the drawing room for some tea and coffee, yes?”
No one disagreed. I whispered in Niamh’s ear before we left the dining room, “Behave.”
She batted her eyelashes. “I didn’t even mention all of the fart stuff! So much fart stuff, Olivier!”
I pinched her own dirty backside. She just stuck out her tongue at me.
In the drawing room, my mother soon cornered me. Niamh was sitting with my father, regaling him with probably some lurid tale. I just hoped she didn’t get out her phone and begin a dramatic reading of one of those damn letters. I’d read a few of them, and they weren’t the type of thing you could forget reading about, that was for sure.
My mother seemed tense. Her lips were thin as she drank her tea. I awaited her scolding, which I knew I deserved.
Instead, she eventually asked, “The servants are talking, my dear. That you two have yet to consummate the marriage.”
If this was my punishment, well, it was a just one. “We prefer to have sex in closets. Under the stairs. Places the servants don’t expect us to have sex,” I quipped.
“Be serious. You know very well that if that were true, the gossip would be just rampant.”
“I don’t see why this is even a discussion.”
My mother set her tea aside, only half drunk. “Olivier, you arrive home. Then suddenly this girl arrives, and you’re just as soon engaged. You wouldn’t hear of anyone asking questions or wondering if this was something you really wanted.”
“I wanted it.”
“And then, you began asking your own questions…” She clasped her hands together, staring at the wedding ring on her finger. “I understand why you’re angry.”
My knuckles whitened. “I’m not angry.”
“Try not to break that cup, will you, dear?”
I set my cup down with a clack. “Your life, your decisions, they’re your own, but you should’ve told me. Did you really think my parentage would stay a secret forever?”
“I hoped that it would. For everyone’s sake.”
I stared at her, appalled. “Didn’t I have a right to know?”
“What did it matter? Your father—Étienne—was the man who’d been your father since the beginning. Isn’t that what matters?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Mother. It isn’t becoming.”
She flinched, but she rallied quickly. “I don’t want you to make the same mistake that I did, sacrificing yourself in the name of duty. Despite what you might believe, I want you to be happy.”
I gazed at Niamh, her hands moving as she spoke animatedly, my father looking overwhelmed.
“I didn’t marry her because of duty,” was all I said before rising to go to my wife.
Chapter Ten
I didn’t have time to wallow in my frustration with my parents for long. After the arduous dinner was finally over, it took all of five minutes for Niamh to come bursting into my room without even a knock.
I was in the process of unbuttoning my shirt when Niamh opened the door to the adjoining room. I co
cked an eyebrow at her.
“Did you need something, wife?”
She didn’t take the bait. “I can’t find the cat or the kittens. I’ve looked everywhere.”
Considering how large the palace was, I doubted she’d truly looked everywhere. Just thinking about where those cats could’ve gone gave me an instant headache.
“I’m sure they’re fine,” I said. “Aren’t cats self-sufficient?”
“I’m just worried they got outside. What if something happens to them?”
“They were born outside. They’d probably be happier out there.”
Niamh growled, frustration marring her features. “I know you don’t care about the cats, but I’m not about to let them get hurt after bringing them here. Besides, it wouldn’t be good if Portia moved them somewhere where they aren’t wanted. What if she moved them to your mother’s room, for instance? I doubt she’d enjoy having a bunch of cats around.”
“Who is Portia?”
Niamh rolled her eyes. “The mom cat. Keep up, will you?” She turned to get before adding in a sly voice, “Nice chest hair.”
I made a point to only re-button my shirt so my chest was still exposed. Niamh, dressed in a robe and slippers, seemed like she was trying not to look at my chest as we began to search the east wing.
“You looked in your room?” I frowned. “Weren’t they supposed to stay in the kitchens?”
Now Niamh was definitely not looking at me. “I might’ve moved them upstairs.”
“Niamh—”
“Celia was the one who suggested it! She was afraid the kitchen staff would throw them outside.”
“Which would make perfect sense.”
Niamh was currently bending over to peer under her bed, her ass high in the air. I was very tempted to squeeze it, but I also didn’t want to risk my limbs, either.
