by Lexi Whitlow
I nod.
“Who was paying the credit card bill?”
“He paid it from my bank account in Charleston,” I tell Owen, unsure how any of this detail matters in the grand scheme.
“So, what’s his play? Why is he coming here?” Owen asks, pouring himself a generous shot of Anglesey whiskey.
I wish I knew the answer to that question. I’m almost afraid of the answer at this point. “I don’t know, Owen,” I say. “He’s hurt. He’s angry at me. He wants to talk. I just don’t know.”
Owen sits down in a big leather club chair. He’s thinking, and that’s a little disturbing. “So, you have plenty of options here,” he says. “We can deny him access at the border when he tries to cross. Or we can wait until he shows up in Cymrea, have him picked up and deported. Or you can meet him at the palace gate and tell him to fuck off to his face, just before I have him arrested for stalking and threatening the Duchess of Brynterion, fiancée of the acting king, Crown Prince Owen, Vanquisher of Upstart Competitors.”
I can’t help but laugh, even if Owen isn’t laughing with me. All of those ideas are absurd and juvenile. “You’re better than that,” I remind Owen. “And so am I. If he shows up, I want to talk to him. I want to hear him out and set him straight. That’s the right thing to do.”
Owen frowns, setting his untouched drink on the table beside him. He’s about to burst out in a pout. “If you’re seeing him, then I’m meeting him. Officially,” he says between clenched teeth. “Bring him in. Invite him to tea. I think Conspirator’s Hall, in the south wing, is an appropriate place to receive him. Lots of paintings of beheaded traitors and hung upstarts. He should feel right at home.”
It’s astonishing to me that Owen is being like this; he’s not an insecure man. I settle on the arm of his chair, slipping my hand into his. “You can meet him and posture all you like. And then I’ll send him on his way,” I say. “But honestly, he’s an old family friend. He’s mostly harmless, and it would make me happy if you’d try to be polite. Please don’t threaten him with the guillotine.”
Owen squeezes my hand, thumbing the big ring on my finger. “You’re my real fake fiancée, and I want to keep you that way. I don’t like it that another man has ideas about you.”
“Ideas are all it is, Prince Panties-in-a-Wad,” I assure him. “What’s your calendar look like tomorrow? I’ll work him in around your other state secrets.”
“I’m free after two,” Owen pouts. “And as soon as we’ve disposed of this peasant, you and I are getting on the royal jet and going somewhere I don’t have to have to think about kingly things like tax revenue, or nobles and their demands, or old boyfriends coming out of the woodwork to lay prior claim to the only woman in the realm worth having.”
“Where are we going?” I ask. “Have you decided?”
He shakes his head, sipping his whiskey. “You decide. Somewhere you’ve never been. Somewhere exotic.”
“Hm,” I muse. “I’ve never been to Greece. I’ve never seen the Mediterranean.”
Owen brightens, sitting up from his pouty slouch. “We’ve got a villa on a little island near Mykonos. It’s beautiful, and if you want to do the touristy things, it’s just thirty minutes from Athens by air.”
“You own a house at Mykonos?” I ask, finding it hard to believe.
“On a tiny, private island half a mile away. We don’t deal with the tourists unless we want to,” Owen says. “You’ll love it!”
I’m sure I will.
Now that our travel plans are settled, I can deal with Eric Wimple and his out-sized sense of self-importance. I reply to his text.
Missed your calls but got your text. Been busy. We’ll receive you tomorrow at 2:30. Go to main palace gate and show ID, they’ll escort you from there. Did you happen to pack my missing $25k? You were the last person seen with it. Asking for a friend.
I have no idea when he’ll get the text, or where he is. All I know is, it takes a gigantic pair of wrought-iron balls to steal money from a person, strand them in a foreign country, then get indignant when they find their own way through the land mines you’ve laid for them. Eric was always guilty of theatrics. I wonder what in the hell is motivating this little show. It’ll sure be entertaining to find out, assuming Owen doesn’t have the royal guard arrest him and throw him in the dungeon.
“Your Royal Highness. Miss Ballantyne. Your visitor, Mr. Eric Wembley, has just checked through the main gate and is being parked. Shall I show him into the Conspirator’s Hall when he arrives?” asks our head butler Townsend, who is absolute overseer of all things related to the royal household.
“Yes, Towns,” Owen replies. “Thank you.”
I think it’s ridiculous that we’re to receive Eric in the one room in this expansive palace dedicated to people executed by the crown. On the other hand, it’s also funny, given the state Eric must have worked himself into to come here.
We make our way to the south wing, a place hardly visited anymore except by tourists and morbid historians. Tea is ready and waiting when we arrive.
I gaze up at the walls and am appalled at the number of headless corpses documented in paintings hanging floor to ceiling. “This is a grim room,” I observe. “We should have a Halloween party in here. With an authentic replica of a gallows, and maybe a pile of fake heads in the corner.”
“You joke,” Owen observes. “Rooms like this serve as a reminder to all of us. Life is fragile. Choose your battles wisely.”
“Is that what this room is for?” I ask. “I thought it was about intimidating your opponents and reminding them what ruthless, bloodthirsty stock you come from.”
“That too,” Owen admits. “That’s why we’ve been around for seven hundred years.”
“Your Royal Highness and Miss Ballantyne,” Townsend announces, stepping into the grand hall with great pomp. “Mr. Eric Wembley of Charleston, South Carolina.”
The next thing I see is Eric slouching in, looking around like a lost puppy in a great big, noisy kennel. He’s dressed in white slacks and a rumpled Oxford shirt with a seersucker jacket appropriate only in Charleston. He’s looking around like a kid who lost his mom in the grocery store.
“Eric!” I say, stepping forward, feeling slightly sorry for him despite all the drama that’s passed between us.
He sees me, and in that instant all his questions, doubts, and insecurities melt away. He’s once again transformed into the arrogant, preposterous New York banker. “Is this real?” he asks. “You expect me to believe that this is where you live? It looks like one of your photosets. Are you paying by the hour, or a day rate? I think Merchant Ivory or Netflix would love to scout this pile as a location. Maybe my employer could backstop some financing for it?”
I pause ten paces away, contemplating his insult. I consider where it’s come from. This palace, with its ancient fortified walls, its mirrored halls, and its acres of history can be intimidating to someone—like Eric—who has no legitimate family history of his own to cling to. His grandparents, like my own, were successful merchants. That’s it. Before that, the genealogical record is sketchy at best.
“Or maybe you can tell me what you’re doing here?” I ask, matching his preposterous pretense. “For the record, the royal palace of Beaumaris isn’t for rent. And yes, I do live here, along with a dozen other members of the royal family.”
Eric laughs. “This is rich,” he says. “Six weeks ago you couldn’t manage a credit card on your own and were couch-hopping across Europe. Your credit rating is shit. You’re unemployed and your family is bankrupt. Now you’re a tabloid-cover porn star with pretensions of grandeur.”
I’d forgotten just how deep Eric’s cruel streak runs. I’m just about to say so when I see his focus shift behind me. He hadn’t noticed Owen before.
Owen walks forward slowly, taking his place beside me, waiting for a proper introduction.
“Crown Prince Owen, this is my friend Eric Wembley. Eric, this is Crown Prince Owen, acting king of Anglesey.”
>
Owen does not offer his hand. Instead he adds, “Acting king and future husband of Norah Ballantyne, the future Duchess of Brynterion, the future Princess of Anglesey, possibly the future Queen of the Realm.”
Really? Princess and queen are not in the contract. This is new information.
“Now that we’ve all reconnected, perhaps we can get to the point of your visit. What do you want?” Owen asks.
Eric grins, sizing up Owen. He’s not intimidated in the least—or he’s not letting on that he is. “I want to spend a little alone time with my old friend,” he says, eyes flashing confidently. “This is quite a fancy place you have here. I noticed a park mentioned in the brochure they gave me at the gate.” He returns his attention to me. “Norah, would you like to take a walk? Give me a tour of the park?”
I glance up at Owen, who’s not in the least pleased. I slide my hand into his. “We won’t be long,” I assure him. “I’ll see you upstairs shortly.”
He nods. “Take Duncan.”
It’s ridiculous to think I need a bodyguard on palace grounds, but if it makes Owen feel better, I’m willing to concede to his request. It’s a small thing.
Duncan follows us discreetly at twenty paces as Eric and I make our way into the courtyard garden and onto the path leading to the park.
“Insecure little prick, your prince,” Eric observes. “What does he think, that I’m going to kidnap you? Or ravish you while we stroll through the shrubbery?”
“Eric, really—what do you want? And where is my money?”
“Your money is safe,” he says. “What I want is your attention.”
“You have my attention,” I say. “What do you want with my attention?”
“I want you to explain to me how you live with yourself after leading me on, playing me for years, making me believe you always intended to come back to me. And now this. I have to read about your engagement on Twitter? I get to see pictures of you fucking on Facebook?”
He’s unbelievable. “Eric, I never led you on. You let yourself believe something you wanted to believe. I was never coming back to you. That was—and is—all in your head.”
“I came to Paris,” he says. “I hung out with your weird friends.”
“Exactly. I didn’t invite you—you just showed up,” I remind him. “We’re childhood friends. I wasn’t going to be rude and tell you to get lost.”
“We dated.”
“For a month. Please stop this.”
“And now you expect me to believe that you’re in love with a pompous ass like that buffoon up there. I know you better than that. You used to laugh at people like him.”
“I still do laugh,” I say. “And I’m laughing at myself. But yeah, Eric, I really do love him.” Saying it aloud, even if it’s just for the sake of getting Eric to back off, makes this thing Owen and I have that much more real. Saying it sounds right—it feels right. It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to believe it, but it feels good. “I think I loved him since the first time I saw him,” I say. “It just took me a little while to get used to all the trappings…”
“You’re such a bitch, Norah,” he spits, cutting me off, stopping on the path, his expression tilting to outrage. “You strung me along while always scheming for something better. Just using me as a backstop. Using me whenever it was convenient…”
That’s not true, but now that I see the intensity of his anger, any interest I have in convincing him of my sincerity disappears. I don’t have to sit still and let an arrogant, puffed up little shit like Eric speak to me like that.
“I think this has gone far enough,” I say coolly. “You can keep the money, Eric—I don’t need it anymore. Don’t contact me again. Our friendship is done.”
I turn to walk away, but Eric grabs my arm, roughly pulling me back.
I see Duncan bolt into action just as Eric sneers, “You don’t say when we’re done. I say…”
Duncan puts himself between Eric and me while pressing a thumb forcibly into Eric’s wrist. Eric whines, letting go of me.
“Take a step back,” Duncan snorts, shoving Eric backward.
From out of nowhere, four other royal guards appear. Two step up to flank me while two more join Duncan, flanking Eric.
“Escort him off the palace grounds,” I cry, tension rise in my throat. “Our conversation is over.”
“It’s not over,” Eric shouts while the guards herd him away. “I say when it’s over!”
Duncan returns to my side as soon as Eric is out of sight. “Are you alright, ma’am?” he asks, his expression grave.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “I had no idea he would behave like that. I’m sorry…”
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry he was able to get close enough to get a hold on you. I should have been more vigilant. It’ll never happen again, ma’am. I promise.”
“It’s okay, Duncan, really—I’m fine.”
Duncan looks almost as shaken as I feel.
“Let’s keep this between us, shall we?” I ask. “I don’t think Owen needs to know every detail.”
Duncan’s brow creases in a neat vertical line just between his dark brows. He hesitates. “Ma’am, I won’t volunteer any information. However, if the prince asks I’m obligated to tell him. You can count on the fact that he’ll ask.”
Well shit. “Fine,” I say. “I understand.”
The shock of this little altercation has left me shaky and slightly sick to my stomach. I feel vaguely lightheaded. I need a few moments to myself, to calm down and collect myself before facing Owen and the barrage of question that I know are coming.
I make my way back to my apartment and to my bedroom. I kick off my shoes and climb into the big, canopied bed, flopping down right on top of the expensive, hand-embroidered spread. My stomach is a knot, crampy. My head aches from the anxiety of dealing with Eric and his hurled accusations. I’ve heard Eric say hurtful things about other people, but I’ve never been the object of his jibes. That reaction was over-the-top, not at all like him. Unless, of course, I never really knew him at all. I’ve had other people—people we both grew up with—tell me he has a ruthless, vindictive side. I never saw it. I didn’t really believe it. Now I understand.
My phone buzzes in my hip pocket with a text alert. I lift it and see Eric has sent me a text. Hopefully it’s an apology for behaving like a psychopath.
You’re going to regret this. I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born.
I roll my eyes at the text. He’s such a drama queen.
I hadn’t planned on a nap, but I’m so tired all of a sudden. I just need a little quiet time. I drift off to sleep, thinking about Eric and his meltdown, wondering what I could have done to earn such a crazy rant and the threatening text that followed.
12
Owen
The maids have all our things packed for the trip. Our bags are stacked in the parlor, just waiting for me to call the valets to take us to the airport.
I haven’t seen Norah since her friend Eric was here. Townsend informed me he left the palace and that Norah had gone upstairs for a nap. That’s out of character for her, but she’s been moody for the last several days. I want to get her away from this place, if only for a little while, so we can spend some time just getting to know one another better.
I spent all morning in a meeting with the Minister of Finance, going over next year’s budget. We have a trade deficit that’s starting to become concerning, which means I’m going to have to spend the next several months working with economists and business leaders from all over the world to try to develop a plan to address our revenue challenges.
Unlike my royal peers in the rest of the world, I actually have to lead my country, participating in every decision impacting our people. I wish all I had to do was show up for ribbon-cuttings and charity balls. That would be so much easier.
“I see you’re almost ready to go,” I hear my mother say from behind me.
I put down the report I’m readin
g and turn toward her. “I’m going to go fetch Norah shortly,” I say. “Then we’ll head out to the airport.”
Mother nods. “Who was your visitor earlier?”
Nothing gets past her. “Eric Wembley,” I say, retuning to my report. “Friend of Norah’s. Upstart. Peasant. Thorn in my side.”
Mother laughs, walking around my desk, facing me. She’s wearing a Cheshire Cat smile. “Ex-boyfriend?”
I shrug, not looking up. “Norah says no, but I can tell he’s interested in her. And she won’t let me put him in the dungeon. She’s insisting I be polite. I did my best.”
“As much as this annoys you, Owen, keep in mind it’s very difficult for an average bloke to compete with you. I doubt this young man poses much of a threat.”
I look up from my report. “Mother, I think I’m in deep trouble.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, regarding me with caution. “Why is that?”
“I’m really in love with her.”
My mother smiles reservedly. “I can see that. I’ve been able to see that for some time. Don’t be afraid of love, darling. And don’t be afraid of losing it. Just cherish every moment you have it near. You’ll be fine.”
Sitting back in my chair, I lay the report down on my desk. “She runs hot and cold. She’s angry with me right now.”
Mother nods. “I’d be angry, too,” she says. “That stunt you pulled with the paparazzi was juvenile and disrespectful. You can’t treat your wife-to-be like a pawn in a game, or like an employee.”
“It’s complicated, Mother.”
“I know it’s complicated. Don’t make it more complicated by creating drama. If you love her, always look out for her best interests even when they conflict with your own, and just be there for her. Tell her, without equivocation, how you feel about her.”
It sounds so simple. It’s never that simple.
“Don’t over-think things, Owen,” Mother says. “And don’t underestimate yourself. Your greatest strength isn’t that you’re going to be king—it’s that you have the heart of a lion. Show her that heart and the strength behind it, and she’ll treasure you more than you ever imagined possible.”
