by Nell Stark
“Thalia d’Angelis,” Her accent was curious—mildly British, but not as clipped and with the hint of a drawl in some syllables. “Formula One driver. I met the rest of your family last year at the Grand Prix.”
Realization dawned, and with it came relief. Alix had met plenty of F1 drivers over the years, and they were all the same: arrogant, thrill-seeking men obsessed with running in circles. Impossibly beautiful or not, Thalia was cut from the same mold.
“I see,” Alix said, careful not to betray any of her dismissiveness. “I was out of town for last year’s race.”
“I think I heard you were studying in America?”
“Yes, for a master’s in public health.” Alix tried to remember what she had heard her family members saying about Thalia. Florestan’s speculation that her recent promotion to F1 had been a publicity stunt certainly didn’t bear repeating. But before she could find the right words to move their conversation forward, Kerry spoke up.
“How interesting. Did you have a particular focus?”
“Global health,” Alix said. “My capstone project involved fieldwork in northeastern Uganda. I just returned a few weeks ago, and am interested in doing more to benefit the region—hence my interest in speaking with Ashleigh.”
“I wish you all the best with that,” Sasha said. “But forgive me if Uganda is not one of my favorite places in the world at present.”
“The institutionalized homophobia there is certainly a problem,” Alix said carefully, wondering if Sasha had any inkling that the Monegasque royal family was its own small bastion of social conservatism when it came to LGBT rights. “But I think it’s a more significant issue in the urban centers than outside them. Where I was, in the rural northeast, the central government has very little sway. For the most part, the tribes make their own laws.”
“But are the tribes any more accepting?”
“That’s a good question,” Alix conceded. “I honestly don’t know.”
A waiter stopped by to ask if they wanted anything from the bar, and in his wake, the conversation veered off toward lighter topics. As time passed, Alix realized that their group had unsurprisingly become the hub of the party. They were soon joined by Arthur, who brought with him two other princes—Ernst from the Netherlands, and Sebastian from Belgium. Maeve immediately monopolized the former, and Alix wondered how Thalia felt about that, since it appeared they had come together. But rather than seeming affronted, Thalia joined in to a conversation between Arthur and Kerry about football. Content to watch and listen from the periphery, Alix fell back on a mental trick she had learned as an adolescent for surviving high society parties—to play the anthropologist and study the social relations in the room.
As their group continued to expand, the first thing she noticed was the number of congratulations attended by caveats. Roughly three-quarters of those who stopped by to deliver their “best wishes” prefaced their remarks with some variant of “I never thought I’d see this day, but…” or “You’ve become downright respectable, Sasha,” or “Kerry, you must be very special to have convinced Sasha to settle down.” Each time someone delivered such a line, Alix wanted to wince. Why couldn’t people simply express happiness for them, no matter what they might be thinking? She watched as Kerry, who had yet to let go of Sasha’s hand, stroked her thumb lightly across Sasha’s knuckles. They were both maintaining grace under pressure, but at what cost?
Alix had never had an interest in actively following the sordid affairs of her fellow royals or other celebrities, but news had reached her of Sasha’s many peccadilloes throughout the years. The tabloids loved her, and she had seemed more than willing to feed their salacious appetite. But now here she was, cuddling close to her wife—the word felt strange in her mind, but it was undeniably the correct one now—not only happy, but also unafraid to champion social justice.
The sudden pang of loneliness was unexpected, but as her analytical mind took over, it made sense. Alix had yet to experience the kind of emotion that made a person want to share their life with someone else. She had never made relationships a priority, and as both the most introverted and plainest of her siblings, she had never been pursued by a man who was more interested in her personality than her royal titles. Those kinds of suitors were easy to spot and even easier to turn down. Once in a while, she thought she must be missing something important, but that feeling always passed. Relationships involved work, energy, and sacrifice—she knew that much from watching her parents. But Alix was enjoying the work she had chosen, and she didn’t want to have to negotiate with or worry about the opinions of someone else.
“Mind if I sit?”
Alix looked up to see Thalia patting the back of the chair next to hers. “Not at all,” she said, anticipating that Thalia would return to her conversation with one of the others. Instead, she found herself once again the focus of those brilliant blue eyes.
“So, Alix—it is Alix, right?”
“Yes.”
“Where in America were you studying? I was born and partially raised in Arizona.”
“I was in Boston.” Alix remained purposefully vague, not wanting to seem like a snob.
But Thalia grinned knowingly. “Let me guess—Harvard?”
“Yes.” Alix felt silly at having been found out so easily, and she despised feeling silly. “And you?” she asked, hating the defensive impulse even as she succumbed to it.
“I never even tried to go to university. Secondary school was more than enough for me. All I ever wanted was to race professionally.”
Alix had suspected as much, but Thalia didn’t seem the least bit ashamed. “And now you have your wish. Congratulations.” Alix hoped that would be the end of their conversation. She found Thalia’s intensity rather disconcerting.
“Thanks.” But instead of taking the hint, Thalia crossed her arms on the table and leaned in. “You’re the first Monegasque royal I’ve ever met who has shown zero interest in Formula One.”
Alix couldn’t help but be impressed by her forthrightness. “Every family has a black sheep.” When Thalia laughed at her rejoinder, Alix felt absurdly proud.
“Isn’t that the truth. That’s me as well.”
“Oh?”
“I was a mistake,” Thalia said with a self-deprecating grin. “Back in his glory days, my father won the American Grand Prix and then painted Phoenix red. That involved knocking up my mother, who was dancing at a club at the time.”
Taken aback, Alix had no idea how to respond. Her panic must have been blatant, because Thalia leapt into the sudden silence. “Don’t feel sorry for me. My father’s guilt has always made him overly generous.”
At last, Alix could empathize. “I’ve never lacked for anything, either. But sometimes that makes the longing even worse, doesn’t it?”
Something subtle changed in Thalia’s expression, like ice slowly breaking its bonds to become water. As her bravado fell away, she became even more beautiful. “Yes,” she said softly, as if speaking to herself.
That single syllable was laden with a dozen emotions: pain, nostalgia, wistfulness, even a hint of anger. Instinctually wanting to comfort her, Alix reached out…only to pull back her hand as though she’d been burned when Sebastian, crown prince of Belgium, stepped into her field of vision. Feeling herself blush, she struggled to meet his eyes. She hadn’t done anything wrong, so why did it feel like she had?
“Hello, Pommelina,” he said in French. She didn’t bother to correct his use of her first name and instead returned his salutation in kind. When he remained standing, she reluctantly rose to join him. Thalia stayed seated.
Sebastian, five years her senior, had once been a ranked professional golfer. Now that he had retired from the sport, genetics had caught up with him, lending his face and physique a puffy plumpness. Camille had dated him briefly before deciding that he wasn’t nearly interesting or edgy enough for her.
After some small talk, he leaned in closer. “I need to step out to take a call, but w
hen I return, would you like to dance?”
Dread filled Alix’s chest like a balloon, but she tried to remain nonchalant. “Oh, I wouldn’t make a very good partner. I haven’t danced in years.”
“That’s fine. We’ll take it slowly.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a buzzing phone. “There’s my call. See you soon.”
Alix watched him go, wondering whether she should confront him about his proprietary attitude or simply ignore it and give him what he had asked for.
“What was all that about?” asked Thalia, who clearly did not understand French.
“He asked me to dance, over my own protests,” Alix said, trying to let go of her frustration. “I’m afraid he’ll find me a poor partner; I was never very good to begin with, and I’m horribly out of practice.”
In one graceful movement, Thalia stood and extended her hand. “Let’s practice now.”
Alix’s first impulse was to look around the room for anyone who might be watching them, intentionally or accidentally. What would they think of this scene: Thalia, one arm outstretched, clearly propositioning her for something? Would they assume she was a lesbian by association?
And then she realized the homophobic turn her thoughts had taken and was ashamed. Talking to Thalia, taking her hand, and even sharing a dance did not make her a lesbian. And besides, no one was watching her. No one ever did—that was the upshot to keeping a low profile.
“Come on.” Thalia was grinning again. “You don’t want to trip over his feet, do you? And become a social media sensation tomorrow?”
“When you put it that way…” Alix let her palm slide against Thalia’s.
“You have calluses.” Thalia’s tone betrayed her surprise. Had she taken Alix for some kind of fragile feminine flower who refused to threaten her manicure?
“So do you,” she fired back.
“I race cars for a living.”
“And I spent much of the past three months planting crops and digging wells.”
Thalia had the wits to look somewhat chagrined. “Touché. I’m sorry for making ignorant assumptions.”
“Apology accepted.” Alix realized they were moving in the opposite direction of the Throne Room. “Where are you taking me?”
“There’s a small antechamber between this room and the Grand Staircase or whatever they call it. Perfect for a dancing lesson.”
Alix worried that someone from the palace’s security detail would take exception to them leaving the drawing room, but nothing happened when Thalia opened the door and slipped through. They emerged into a rectangular, wood-paneled chamber, its walls lined with upholstered benches.
“Okay.” Thalia stopped and turned, but retained Alix’s hand. “The DJ’s been playing a good variety, but I’m guessing Prince Sebastian will ask for something slow.” She paused expectantly but rolled her eyes a moment later. “What, no swooning?”
“I’ve never swooned in my life,” Alix said firmly, even as she felt another pang.
“That sounds like a challenge.” Thalia winked as she pulled her closer.
Alix didn’t resist the movement, but neither did she allow Thalia to completely eliminate the space between their bodies. Other women might find Thalia’s playfulness endearing, but she found it rather manipulative. “Why are you flirting with me? Won’t your date be upset?”
“Maeve is busy reaching for the next rung on the social ladder.” Thalia placed one hand on Alix’s shoulder. “Mirror me. There you go.”
Surprised at her nonchalance, Alix let her fingertips rest lightly in the dip of Thalia’s collarbone as she debated whether to continue the conversation. But why not? She would probably never see Thalia again after tonight. “That doesn’t bother you?”
“We were never serious. Just having fun.”
“I don’t understand that.” Alix hadn’t meant to speak that thought, but Thalia didn’t seem affronted or uncomfortable.
“That’s because you are oh-so-serious.” Thalia stepped closer, shifting her palm to the bare skin between Alix’s shoulder blades. “Lighten up. This is a wedding, not a funeral. Dance like no one’s watching. Maybe try having some fun with your Prince Sebastian tonight.”
Before Alix could retort that he most certainly was not “her” Prince Sebastian, Thalia began to move—at first slowly, and then in a more intricate pattern across the floor. Alix tried to anticipate her movements and keep pace, but the harder she tried, the clumsier she became. And the clumsier she became, the more she wished she had never agreed to this. She had let herself give in to peer pressure. What did it matter if she didn’t enjoy, nor was particularly good at, dancing? She was under no obligation to play the role of Cinderella.
“Whoa, whoa,” Thalia said after the third time that Alix stepped on her toes. She halted unceremoniously. “You have got to stop trying to lead.”
“Excuse me?” Alix could feel herself blushing, but she refused to be apologetic.
Thalia shot her a bemused look. “I get it. You’re an empowered, twenty-first-century woman who actively resists stereotypes and has no patience for chauvinism. Fine. But someone has to lead in a dance, and Sebastian isn’t going to follow.” She pulled Alix closer, until the space between them had all but disappeared. “Relax. Being pliant on the dance floor doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice your feminist ideals.”
The absurdity of that statement made her have to laugh. “I certainly hope not.” She took a long, deep breath. “I’ll do my best to temporarily give up control.”
A current of emotion, raw and powerful, rippled beneath the surface of Thalia’s eyes. For a moment, Alix felt the brush of the sublime on her mind, an echo of the awe and longing she’d experienced only when alone in nature. But then Thalia blinked and grinned and said, “All right, here goes,” and they were dancing again.
Alix fixed her gaze on the slim knot of Thalia’s tie and breathed deeply, hoping to reach something like the meditative state she sometimes found while doing yoga. Incredibly, as Thalia guided her across the floor, she neither stumbled nor misstepped. It was strange to be dancing with another woman, but not unpleasant. The difference was subtle. Thalia was taller, but only by a few inches. She moved confidently, but her physical cues weren’t heavy-handed. And there was a kind of softness about her—not that she ever would have verbalized it in those terms to Thalia—that helped Alix relax into their shared movements.
“There, that’s it,” Thalia murmured, warm breath washing over the sensitive shell of her ear, raising goose bumps on her arms. “Less thinking. More feeling. I know that’s tricky for you brainy types.”
Discomfort at her own visceral reaction gave way to vexation at being manipulated. “Less flirting. More practice.”
Thalia laughed in evident surprise at being called out. “This is practice. Sebastian will definitely be flirting with you.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“You’re really not interested in him?”
“No.”
“Let’s try a twirl.” Gently but firmly, Thalia pushed her away, retaining the grasp on her hand as she initiated the spin. When they reconnected, Thalia continued her inquisition. “Why not? Is he not your type?”
“My priority right now is founding a not-for-profit, not finding romance.”
“And you can’t multitask?” Thalia twirled her again.
Once the world had stopped spinning, Alix decided to give her a taste of her own medicine. “Why the interrogation?”
Thalia cocked her head and took a long moment to reply. “You’re not stereotypical, and that’s interesting.”
Alix was pleased by that assessment but didn’t want her to know it. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was intended as such. Ready for a waltz?” Without waiting for her reply, Thalia led her in a sweeping series of turns along the periphery of the room. Their self-created breeze swept her hair back from her face, and a smile tugged at her lips before she could remember to suppress it.
Alix narrowed her eyes, more in a mockery of irritation than from true annoyance. “Is this another attempt to prepare me for Sebastian’s advances?”
“No. This is me trying to beat him to the punch.”
Alix couldn’t tell whether she was joking, and the uncertainty sobered her. “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” she said, trying to walk the line between gravity (in case Thalia was actually serious) and good humor (in case she wasn’t).
“Possibly.” Thalia slackened their pace, returning to the more conventional slow dance. “To make it up to me, why don’t you explain how someone born and raised in Monaco, with motorsport in their blood, has such a distaste for Formula One.”
“When did I ever use the word ‘distaste’?”
“You didn’t have to.” Thalia grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m not offended—just curious.”
Alix didn’t know how to respond. No one had ever questioned her lack of interest in racing or asked her to justify her opinion of the sport—either because they didn’t care, or because she never had. Unlike Florestan, she had always been more interested in books than in cars, and unlike Camille, she preferred a quiet corner or solitary walk to the glamorous party scene that attended the circuit.
“It simply isn’t how I want to spend my time. I don’t understand its allure.”
“Because?”
Out of patience with Thalia’s needling, Alix abandoned politeness. “Frankly, I don’t see the point of driving grossly inefficient gas-guzzlers around in a circle, repeatedly, at suicidal speeds. It’s wasteful and reckless. You don’t even go anywhere!”
Thalia halted their swaying movements. “Jeez, tell me how you really feel. You do know that Formula One has all kinds of regulations to protect the drivers, right?”
But Alix refused to back down. “Are you trying to tell me it’s safe?”
“Of course it isn’t safe. What would be the point if it were?”
“That right there,” Alix said, raising her hand from Thalia’s shoulder to jab her finger emphatically, “is my problem. I am a medical doctor. How could I possibly enjoy a sport in which the practitioners voluntarily throw themselves in harm’s way at the highest possible speeds?”
