by Aven Ellis
I gather up my notes and planner and tuck them inside my bag. If I know Jillian, she probably arrived fifteen minutes early and is shooting dirty looks at the paparazzi who are no doubt waiting for me.
I begin walking through the corridors, past more Chippendale benches and oil portraits, and retrieve my phone from my bag. I want to send Christian a quick text, as well as answer my group message on WhatsApp with Bryn and Chelsea.
My screen is filled with notifications, including missed calls from Christian and Mom and texts from Paisley, Mom, Bryn, Chelsea, and Christian.
Ah, must be from today’s press escapades. I wince. Mom is going to freak if she sees video of that photographer jostling me. I have a feeling her phone calls and texts are about that, and I’ll have to reiterate how all birds get bumped in flight now and again.
Then it hits me.
Christian will be livid about this.
Oh, no, in the shock of the morning, I didn’t think how he would react. He will be upset, I’m sure. I’ll be honest and tell him it was jarring, but Jillian made sure I got to work okay. I can handle this, even if I’ll grudgingly have to accept a ride to work to do it.
The first message I tap open is from Paisley, a string of charged obscenities and rage against Dishing Weekly and a question if I am okay.
I open the garden side exit door, which is for employees. Foreboding fills me. Paisley is furious. I know a camera jostle wouldn’t make her fly into a rage.
I don’t want to look to see what has her so upset.
Christian has told me not to do it.
But I need to know.
I nervously bring up Dishing Weekly with my Google app, and, with horror, I see I’m the lead story on their website.
It’s a photo of me walking down the sidewalk with Jillian, but they’ve drawn an arrow pointing to the paralysis on the side of my face. The headline screams:
BRAVE CLEMMIE BATTLED BRAIN TUMOR!
After life-saving surgery as a teen leaves the right side of her face in paralysis, she finds happiness at last with the Golden Prince.
My stomach lurches. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I gasp for air, but I can’t get anything in. Dishing Weekly somehow got a hold of my medical past and has shared my private pain with the world. I feel violated. That is something I wanted to share with only certain people. My right to decide who hears my story has been ripped away from me. The one thing I wanted from my new life here with Christian was to be a normal girl.
Now everyone will see me as the girl who had a tumor. They think I need a prince to rescue me when the last thing I want is for anyone to save me or protect me or think I need to be kept on a shelf so I can’t break.
All of that is lost.
I’ll never get it back.
And with that thought, I burst into tears.
Chapter 29
It’s Harder Than I Thought
Heavy sobs rack my body, and I drop my bag to the ground. I put my hands over my face, wondering how I can get myself together enough to walk to the car, to face the paparazzi, who now know about my medical past and will scream questions about it repeatedly in my face, forever trapping me in that box.
“Clementine?”
I turn toward the sound of someone running down the path toward me. Through my tears, I see Roman, the young gardener I met this morning.
“Clementine,” Roman asks, stopping next to me, “what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I shake my head no. I can’t speak, so I hand him my phone, which still has the awful article pulled up.
He quickly wipes his hands on his jeans, which are dirty from working in the shrubbery all afternoon. Roman takes my phone, and his eyes widen as he reads the article.
“I-It’s true,” I say, my voice wobbling. “B-but I d-didn’t want everyone to kn-kn-know!”
“Of course not,” Roman says, handing me back my phone. “They are vultures, those bastards.”
“They’re out there,” I say, jerking my hand across my face. “I don’t want to go out to the car. I can’t face this now.”
As I say the words, I feel weak. I should be all, screw you, I don’t care, I’m not letting you make me run and walk out with my head held high. I’m proud of the fact that I went through the surgery and came out okay. I’m a survivor.
But I don’t feel that way. Instead, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Terrified.
And I hate myself for feeling this way.
“You don’t have to,” Roman says, his hazel eyes locking on mine. “Look, I know you don’t know me, but I’ve known the earl and countess since I was a kid. They trust me. I have my motorbike out back. With a helmet on, nobody will know it’s you. I can get you home, and those idiots will have no idea.”
Roman is giving me a safe escape.
“Yes,” I nod. “Please.”
Roman nods. “Let me put a few things away and wash up. I’ll be back.”
“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you,” I say.
“It’s okay, I’ll invoice you tomorrow,” he says, flashing me a brilliant smile.
I watch as he dashes back down the walk, toward the gardens. I sink down on the steps and look down at my phone. I see another message from Christian has dropped in, so I decide to start there:
Your voicemail is full. Please talk to me, Clem. I’m so sorry about all of this. Dishing Weekly will pay. Those bastards are not getting away with this. I will see to it.
Oh, no. Christian is already going to use his power to strike back, and I don’t want him to. The world will think I need him to save me. No, oh hell no, I can’t let this happen!
I type back, my hands trembling:
Do not do anything until I speak to you. The paparazzi are here. Roman, the gardener, has a motorcycle, and he’s going to sneak me out.
I hit send, and then my phone rings.
Before I can even say hello, Christian begins speaking.
“Darling, I’m sorry,” he says, his voice shaking. “This is my fault, all my fault, and I hate myself for doing this to you. I don’t know how you can forgive me.”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“If you weren’t sucked into my world, you would be living a normal life!” he yells, losing control. “If I would have stayed away, you’d have your privacy and a life and not be splashed across a freaking tabloid! I never dreamt they’d find out about the tumor. I’m such an idiot. I did this to you. Now it’s going to be worse. I never should have let you in. You deserve better than this, and as someone who loves you, I should give that to you, don’t you see that?”
My heart turns to ice. Oh, God. No. Is Christian going to shove me away to protect me?
“You are not doing this to me,” I say through my tears. “And you’re not going to keep talking crazy to me. I need you now. But I don’t need this talk of what I deserve. I know what I need and deserve, and you don’t make that decision for me. I do.”
“I’m sorry,” Christian says. “I need to see you. I won’t be okay until I see you. Can Roman bring you to Kensington Palace?”
“Yes. I’ll be there soon.”
“I love you,” Christian says.
I swallow hard. “I love you more.”
I hang up with him and dial Jillian, who immediately picks up.
“Hello?”
“I know what the tabloid has done,” I say through tears.
“They can stick their rag up their arse,” Jillian says bluntly.
“I wish I didn’t care.”
“That would require you to not to be a human being, Clementine, and your heart is allowed to hurt right now.”
I force down a sob. “I feel so vulnerable.”
“Of course you do!” Jillian says. “Your privacy was violated in the most degrading way. But you know what? You will move past this. I promise you life is full of things that weaken you, drop you to your knees, cause horrific pain, but we get up, we move on, and we heal. We find our joys and hold on to them. That is what you will do.”
/> As she finishes speaking, the sun overhead breaks through the clouds, shining down on me. The warmth of the English sun on my face tells me Jillian’s words are true. Right now, I’m in the storm, but the sun will come out again.
“I believe you.”
“You should. I’m old, and God knows that should be good for some tidbits of useful information here or there.”
I manage a small smile, but she speaks again before I can respond.
“The paparazzi are hanging around the perimeter here,” Jillian says.
“I know. Listen, a gardener here has a motorcycle. He’s going to sneak me out the back and get me to Kensington Palace.”
“Brilliant,” Jillian says approvingly. “Text me as you are about to leave. I’ll hang out here longer to confuse them.”
“I owe you,” I say, crying.
“You owe me nothing. In fact, I’ve been more alive this past week than I have been in two years. You are a gift, even if you come with paparazzi. Besides, outsmarting them has become one of my newest pursuits. I am going to take an evasive driving class. It’s going to be fantastic.”
“What?”
“If we have to deal with the paparazzi, I’m going to do it effectively. I’m going to learn all kinds of evasive driving skills so we can outwit those little bastards.’
Oh, my God. Jillian—seventy-year-old Jillian—is going to learn to drive like a badass because of me?
“You don’t have to do that. It sounds extreme,” I say.
“Bollocks. It’s amazing!”
Roman comes up the sidewalk, and I rise.
“My ride is here,” I say. “Leave in about ten minutes.”
“All right. And Clementine?”
“Yes?”
“No matter what, you have love, and that will see you through.”
Then she hangs up the phone.
I stare down at the phone in my hand, her words echoing in my head.
I know Jillian is right.
We will get through this.
But that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy.
After checking in at the security gate, Roman guides his motorcycle through the private walls of Kensington Palace. When I first came here last week, it wasn’t what I expected. There are the big apartments, of course—the famous buildings you see on TV—but a lot of the younger royals are moving in here and making a new, urban community. Upon graduation from Cambridge, Christian was given Ivy Cottage, a small, three-bedroom cottage with a white picket fence. He could have lived at Buckingham Palace, but Christian wanted a small place of his own. Liz is renovating Wren Cottage, which is next door, and Xander has Nottingham Cottage around the corner.
I had no idea these little cottages existed, and I love the fact that the family community here not only includes the modern royals, as I think of Christian’s brothers and cousins, but Princess Helene in the large Apartment 1A. She’s the sister-in-law of the dowager queen, and apparently, she loves gossip and dirty jokes and fights all the time with her sister-in-law, which Christian told me often leads to some rather interesting family dinners at the holidays. Xander adores her, and she has often told him the dowager queen and current queen consort need to “get over it” and “get with it” about modernizing.
I’ve decided I like Princess Helene, even though I haven’t met her yet.
As the motorcycle zooms closer, I see Liz is standing outside her cottage, talking on her phone, animatedly waving her hands about. She turns when she sees the motorcycle and watches as Roman pulls to a stop in front of Christian’s cottage.
Roman cuts the engine, and I take off my helmet and hand it to Roman, who has taken his off as well. Christian opens the door, and I see the agony on his face, the worry, the guilt over what has happened to me. He hurries down the path to the gate, pushing it open, and before I can take a step, he’s enveloped me in his strong arms. I swallow back tears as I hear his heart pounding rapidly against my ear. One hand spans across my back, the other cradles the back of my head, and I breathe him in, finding comfort in his clean scent, the feel of his skin, and the strength of his arms.
He steps back, putting his hands tightly on my shoulders.
“Are you okay?” he whispers.
“I am now.”
Christian nods. Then he turns to Roman, who has been waiting next to his bike, as Liz hurries down the walk toward us.
“I’m Christian,” he says, extending his hand to Roman. “I can’t thank you enough for getting Clementine away from those bastards.”
Roman bows to Christian. “It was my pleasure, Your Royal Highness.” Then he extends his hand. “Roman Lawler. I work at Cheltham House.”
“No, Christian. Please.”
“All right, Christian,” Roman concedes.
“Oh, my God,” Liz says, hurrying forward and hugging me. “Are you okay? Those bloody vultures! We are all furious, Clem. They’ve gone too far. And we will answer.”
I step back from her, knowing that is a conversation I need to have with Christian.
“Thank you,” I say, nodding at her. “I appreciate you being here for me.”
“These aren’t the old days,” Liz says, her light blue eyes flashing angrily. “I refuse to sit back and keep my mouth shut when someone’s medical history is plundered for entertainment. That is your business and yours alone. I will be making a statement tomorrow, joined with Isabella and Victoria, that we stand with you and are appalled by the lack of human decency shown by Dishing Weekly.”
Oh, no. No, no, no!
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“Oh, it is,” Liz says, her voice growing angrier. “I have a voice. I’m going to be a working royal now that I’ve graduated, and I will not sit in my princess pose and keep a ‘stiff upper lip’ on this one. I’m a modern woman, who is appalled by this invasion of privacy, and I will express my thoughts and be heard.”
I see the fire in her eyes.
I think it might be harder to get Liz to back off than Christian.
“Your Royal Highness, I think you’re right,” Roman says quietly.
Liz turns to Roman. “I’m sorry?”
Roman shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken.”
“No, no, I want to hear what you have to say,” Liz says. “I’m Liz.”
Roman bows again. “Roman, Your Royal Highness.”
She extends her hand to him, and he shakes it. I notice Roman is the one to let go first.
She quickly clears her throat. “Thank you. I know a lot of people want me to appear at luncheons and make speeches and wear ball gowns. They don’t want to hear from angry Liz.”
Roman moves back over to his bike and straddles it. He pauses for a moment, holding his helmet in his hands, his hazel eyes locked on hers as a lock of his thick, mahogany brown hair is blown across his forehead from a sudden summer breeze.
“With all due respect, ma’am, I think angry Liz is the one who can make a difference,” Roman says, reaching up and raking a hand through his hair to push it back in place.
Liz’s eyes widen. Roman straps on his helmet, turns on the engine, and zooms off, ready to go back to his own world outside of these protective gates.
Christian puts his arm around my shoulders as Liz watches Roman ride off.
“Let’s go inside,” Christian says to me.
Liz turns back around, and I notice her ivory cheeks are flushed.
“I’m going to be home tonight. Please call me later so we can coordinate our messages with your father’s,” Liz says.
King Arthur is involved? Good lord, getting this situation under control is going to be much harder than I thought.
But I have to do it, before statements are released and this blows up and, oh crap, becomes a worldwide circus about me needing an entire royal family to defend me.
No, I think, fear consuming me as I see my freedom beginning to slip away. I can’t have that happen.
I have to put a stop to it.
&nb
sp; Right now.
Chapter 30
All Couples Fight
As soon as we’re inside the cottage, I drop my bag on the floor. Christian cups my face in his large hands.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice choking up. “I should have predicted this. I keep letting you down. First I threw you into the spotlight on your first visit here, now this. I wish to God they were writing about me instead of you. I wish I could take this back. Please forgive me for dragging you into this world. I promise you this ends now. I’ve drafted a release to go out to the press, and I want your thoughts on it–”
“No!” I cry, removing his hands from my face. “That’s the last thing I want! Don’t do that!”
An incredulous expression passes over his face. “What? Why? What they did was over the line, Clementine.”
“I don’t care!” I yell back, beginning to pace in the living room as a trapped feeling consumes me. “This is my life. Mine. I won’t have you or King Arthur or Liz go around issuing statements like I’m fragile and need the royal family to shield me from a few bad articles like a child. I don’t want to be protected. I won’t allow it.”
“What? You think I’m treating you like a child?” Christian asks, his deep voice reverberating with shock.
“I don’t need you or your family to fight my battles for me,” I say, my voice growing sharp. There’s a hysteria rising within me, one I know isn’t fair to Christian, but as the waves build, I feel incapable of getting to the shore while I’m adrift in this emotional storm.
“We,” Christian says slowly, “have dealt with this our entire lives. You haven’t. What the press did today is unacceptable, and I’m in a position to try to stop it. Why are you opposed to this?”
“I don’t want to be seen as the poor girl who needs the Golden Prince to ride in and rescue her, that’s why,” I say, my voice shaking with anger.
Christian’s eyes flash. I know that comment has hurt him, and I wish I could take it back, but I can’t.
“I’m sorry that me being in a position to help you is such a terrible thing. Along with being a prince, that is.”
