by Iris Morland
“Did you apply sunscreen?” I asked her.
“Why? Am I burning?” She looked at her shoulders and held out her arms. “I slathered myself this morning.”
“No, but be careful. The sun here can be brutal for people like you.”
She raised a dark eyebrow. “What, pale as ghost people? Don’t worry, I’m aware of how easily I burn. The sun has never been my friend.” She squinted up at the sun then back at me. “You don’t burn?”
“Sometimes, but I usually just get tan.”
“So lucky.” She sighed. “One time I went to summer camp as a kid, and I guess I didn’t apply sunscreen very well, because I ended up with handprints on my legs from where I’d missed spots. The rest of me was burned.”
“Handprints?” I laughed. “How in the world did you manage that?”
She shrugged, but she was smiling again. “I’m just that talented, I guess.”
Something shifted inside my chest. Although I’d been the one to issue Niamh an ultimatum regarding marriage, I’d been stupid enough to hope she’d still like me afterwards. Based on how she’d refused to let me touch her after our wedding night three days prior, we weren’t going to enjoy ourselves much on this faux honeymoon.
That reminded me of the photographer. “You shouldn’t bait the press,” I said quietly.
“I didn’t bait anyone.”
“You answered sarcastically. It only gives them more ammunition against you.”
“If they’re going to write bullshit regardless, then I don’t see why it matters.”
I ran my fingers through my hair. My head was starting to ache. “It matters, because your behavior reflects not only on yourself, but on the royal family. You aren’t just a regular citizen now. You represent the Salasian monarchy now. When you accepted this marriage, you accepted the role and the duty that goes along with it.”
I sounded like my father, and I hated it. But if Niamh had no sense of self-preservation, then guilting her was my next best method of getting her to behave. Mostly, I didn’t want her to inadvertently feed herself to the wolves.
She crossed her arms. “His question was rude,” she said.
“It was. But if you react to every ‘gotcha’ question, you’ll exhaust yourself and make an enemy of the press.”
“Aren’t they the enemy?” She gave me an incredulous look.
My smile was lopsided. “Yes, which means keeping them close. They need us, and we need them. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”
“It sounds more like an abusive relationship. Or maybe a parasitic one.”
“A parasitic relationship would imply that one party receives nothing in return. If we control the narrative of the press, then we benefit. It’s as simple as that.”
Niamh said nothing for a long moment. Her gaze seemed fixed on some far-off point. Finally, she said, “I’m never going to be the good, compliant princess. You know that. I’m not going to change myself completely.”
Frustration made me short. “This isn’t about changing yourself, Niamh. This is about putting forth an image, a front, where we are seen as happily in love and that this marriage is real. If you come off as antagonistic and rude, it will bring us all down. It will be a smear on the royal family. And it will make your life much, much harder.”
“What I’m hearing is that it’ll make your life harder.” She stood up. “I know that your crown is all you care about, dearest husband, but you could at least attempt to act like you give two shits about me.” Her voice was full of daggers before she stalked off.
I let out a frustrated breath. I had the sudden urge to get myself completely drunk, but it was only an hour past noon. The last thing I needed was the press managing to capture photos of me staggering around drunk.
During our travels across Europe, the press had left me alone for the most part. It was only here in Salasia that they followed my every move. So often I felt like a prisoner in my own country. I couldn’t leave my home without at least one photographer following me, if not an entire group. I couldn’t go to a restaurant and enjoy that sense of anonymity that regular citizens took for granted.
Now you’re wallowing, I told myself. You aren’t going to get Niamh to like you again by complaining.
I was considering what to do with my wife when Laurent came outside. We’d traveled to the villa with our own secretaries, who would organize our schedules. A local chef would provide our meals in-house, and a handful of servants would maintain the estate itself.
“Your Highness,” said Laurent with a brief bow. “I have received confirmation for your dinner at Les Papilles on Friday at seven p.m.”
I nodded, barely listening. When he remained near, I finally said, “Is there something else?”
“Yes. Well, not precisely.”
“That narrows things down.”
“I’m afraid I’m overstepping.”
I sat up straighter. I waved a hand. “Go ahead. You’ve whetted my curiosity now.”
Laurent smiled a little, his expression soon becoming more serious again. “If it would please Your Highness, I would be happy to speak with the princess. In regards to handling the press.”
“She’s already received training on that front.”
“Yes,” said Laurent, elongating the word, “but perhaps she could use some, ah, more training.”
I considered the proposal. It couldn’t hurt. At the very least, it would take some of the heat off of me. Perhaps hearing my suggestions from a neutral party like Laurent would be more effective.
“You’re welcome to ask her, but it’ll be her decision if she accepts,” I said.
Laurent bowed. “Excellent, sir.”
Dinner was an informal affair. Despite that, we were still seated at a long table, both at the heads of it, with at least five meters of table separating us.
“You can sit next to me,” I said after we’d been served our meal.
Niamh swirled her wine around in her glass. “You can sit next to me, Your Highness.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or flirtatious. Knowing Niamh, it was probably both. I picked up my plate, my silverware, and my wineglass and went to sit next to her. She raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, I’m capable of picking up my own plate,” I said.
“You’ll only blow my mind if you tell me you know how to wash dishes.”
I leaned forward. “I can even turn on the dishwasher.”
Niamh fanned herself. “Good sir, I am all aflutter.”
I chuckled. I sipped my wine, enjoying the warmth in my belly and the warmth in my wife’s eyes. I was tempted to kiss her or at least touch her hand. But she was a skittish creature, like an animal that was still afraid of human touch. Or, at least, my touch.
“What other peasant activities do you do?” She bit into a flaky croissant. “Can you do laundry?”
I grimaced. “I’ve never had to do my own laundry,” I admitted. When Niamh was about to give a scathing reply, I added, “But I do know how. I swear.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Okay, go on.”
“I know how to cook eggs. I can make coffee.” I didn’t add that I had no idea how to make a good cup of coffee. “I’ve even used a vacuum once.”
Niamh’s lips twitched. “Wow, used a vacuum once. You sound just like every guy I’ve dated. What is it with men and their aversion to vacuums?”
I swallowed a bite of my salad. “How very sexist of you.”
“Hey, I’m just saying, guys do not like to clean. Once, I was so grossed out by my boyfriend’s apartment that I legit vacuumed it myself.” She wrinkled her nose. “He was so underwhelmed that when I got home, I sent him an invoice for the work I’d done.”
I almost choked on my wine. “You didn’t.”
She just shrugged, smiling. Then she asked, “Can you drive?”
“Yes, although I do it rarely. I usually have a driver here in Salasia, and I prefer taking taxis if necessary.” I thought back. “I haven’t
driven a car in…five years?”
“I love driving.” Niamh put her chin in her hand, her gaze now far away. “They’re like horses, but with engines. I always found them fascinating. When I was just ten, I made my uncle teach me how to change out a flat tire after me and my aunt were stranded for three hours with a flat in the middle of nowhere, Washington. When I got older, I started tinkering with my uncle’s car, but he finally was so annoyed with all of my messing around that he bought me a junker to play on instead.”
Her expression closed. “But I stopped after that. I haven’t worked on a car since high school.”
“Why not? If you enjoyed it so much?”
She looked uncomfortable. “I started taking automotive classes at the local career center. You could take them for high school credit. But I was always the only girl, and the boys…” She scowled. “They were assholes. They’d say gross shit to me. When I did better than them, they’d fuck around with my tools, even breaking some. They’d sabotage a car I was working on, making it so I’d spend hours upon hours just to undo their damage.”
White hot rage made my fists clench. “Did you tell anyone? They should’ve been disciplined.”
“Oh, I agree. And I did tell: my teacher, who said it was just boys having fun. I went to the principal of the career center, and although she agreed it was wrong, without proof of who had exactly done it, she couldn’t help me. It was bullshit. So one day I was so fed up that I just quit. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
Silence fell. I wished I could find those boys and deck them. Or at the very least deck their parents. The thought of young Niamh, who loved this hobby, giving it up because she’d been harassed? It was difficult to fathom, mostly because Niamh was so stubborn and strong.
“Do you regret quitting?” I asked finally.
She sighed. “Sometimes. But I was only seventeen. It got to the point that going to that class was so stressful that I couldn’t sleep. My aunt and uncle did everything they could with contacting the school. A few boys did get detention, but it only made things worse. I felt like I didn’t have a choice but to give in.”
I took her hand, squeezing it. “I’m sorry. I hate that you had to give up something you enjoyed.”
“So do I. I’ve thought about starting up again, but I just haven’t had time. Life, you know. Plus, college tends to take up a lot of brain space.”
When she returned my hand squeeze, my rage at these unknown teenagers faded. Instead, I felt as though I’d glimpsed a sliver of the sun in Niamh’s eyes.
I lifted her hand to my mouth and kissed the back of it. She shivered.
After that, we both concentrated on just finishing our already cold entrees.
Chapter Three
Two months ago
I tossed the tabloid into the nearest trash bin. “This is already a fucking disaster,” I muttered, rubbing my face.
Laurent didn’t react to my swearing, except to say, “Anything else I can do for you, Your Highness?”
“No, nothing. You’ve done everything you could.”
Laurent bowed and left me to stew in my office. Once Niamh had agreed to our engagement, after a lot of arguing, swearing, and threats of castrating me, the news of our engagement became the most important topic in the palace. My parents had taken the news with a surprising level of equanimity. I’d expected them to rail against it or to demand that I find someone more suitable.
But neither of them had said those things. My mother, ever the polished royal, had merely said, “Then we have a lot of work to do, don’t we?”
I’d been naive to think releasing the news of our impromptu engagement would be simple. We’d simply write a press release, do a few interviews, take a few photos, and voila. Done.
Not so. Once the announcement had been made, Niamh and I had found ourselves in a whirlwind of press, interviews, photo engagements, and so much speculation from the tabloids that I couldn’t keep up with their nonsense. One moment, Niamh was pregnant with my child (thus the fast engagement and marriage), the next, she wasn’t pregnant but was blackmailing me to marry her so she could be rich.
Even with Niamh taking lessons in deportment, French, the history of Salasia, and horseback riding, along with other things every royal should know, soon after the engagement announcement, she still seemed out of place in this world and struggled with the press. My only hope was that that would change as time passed.
My head started aching just thinking about it. Despite all of the expertise of the palace’s own press office, the strategy behind each interview and appearance, no one—not me, not Niamh—had been spared from the uglier side of being famous in a tiny country like Salasia.
I almost wished for some natural disaster to distract everyone. Where was an earthquake when a prince needed one?
I looked at my watch. I had two hours until our next appearance as an engaged couple. I just hoped that Niamh didn’t act like my touching her made her want to vomit.
That evening, Niamh and I stood in the Sun Garden of Salasia Palace. It was famous for its roses, which my great-grandmother had planted as a young woman. It smelled heavily of roses, the air pungent; there were red roses, pink, white, yellow. There were roses so big that they almost didn’t seem real. When Niamh and I had entered, she’d immediately found the biggest rose and had bent down to smell it, a large smile on her face.
Her smile had since transformed into an awkward grimace. We were walking along the garden paths with our interviewer Madame Raquel Bernard, a prominent journalist from one of Salasia’s longest-running papers.
“You have to admit, your engagement was quite a surprise to us all,” said Bernard. “Was that intentional?”
I glanced at Niamh. She’d barely responded to any of the questions so far, and I nudged her to answer this one. “Um, not intentional,” she stuttered. “It just happened that way, I guess.”
“But there were no reports of you two dating, besides a handful of social media posts of your trips to Paris and Berlin. More than one poster mentioned that you said you two were together.” Mme. Bernard cocked her head to the side. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to make a statement to the press to avoid any confusion?”
“Of course, but as we all know, hindsight is twenty-twenty.” I slid an arm around Niamh’s shoulders. “We fell in love so quickly that I have to say that we weren’t thinking about practicalities. We were rather distracted.”
Mme. Bernard chuckled. If she noticed how Niamh stiffened when I put my arm around her, she didn’t say anything.
“How romantic. It’s like something out of a fairy tale. Mademoiselle Gallagher, did you know His Highness was a prince when you met?”
“No, he kept that detail to himself.” Niamh slid me a droll look. “I had to pry it out of him.”
“I suppose Americans wouldn’t know about Salasian royals like ours, would they?” said Mme. Bernard.
“Oh, we don’t pay much attention to anyone outside of our country.”
Niamh seemed to be joking, but based on Raquel’s eyebrow raise, she hadn’t seen the humor in it.
The interview wrapped up quickly after that. Once one of the servants had led Mme. Bernard out of the garden, Niamh and I sat on one of the benches together. I wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t make statements like that, that it wasn’t helping her to be liked here in Salasia, but I was too tired right then.
I’d barely been sleeping ever since Niamh had agreed to marry me. When I did sleep, I kept having dreams where she’d disappear on our wedding day and that she’d subsequently leak the secret of my parentage as revenge.
“Everyone seems so offended that we supposedly dated without telling them,” said Niamh finally. “It’s so weird.”
“Why is that weird?”
“I mean, don’t you have a right to live at least some of your life in privacy? I can’t imagine anyone expects you to announce any time you’re sleeping with someone.”
I snorted. “Casually dating is one
thing. Dating with the intent of marriage is another beast entirely. Who I marry is important to the country itself.”
“I doubt everyone who lives here is that invested in your love life.”
“No, not everyone. There are people who would rather do away with the monarchy completely, of course.” I sat back, gazing up at the sky streaked with clouds. “But even if some citizens are against the institution, what I do, who I marry, what I say—it matters. We are figureheads for Salasia. We represent its best interests. Privacy, individualism…those are not aspects of life I’d ever expected to have.”
“You don’t exactly make a great argument for marrying you.”
I glanced at her. “You get to be a princess. Isn’t that every girl’s dream?”
Niamh rolled her eyes. “Sure, when you’re seven. But I’m not a little girl obsessed with Disney movies now, and I think we can both agree this engagement between us is hardly a fairy tale.”
I knew that. I’d forced her hand. I was more the villain of this tale than I was the charming prince. I hadn’t saved her from the evil witch: I’d given her the poisoned apple myself.
I clenched my jaw. I’d had no choice. This was the only way to keep my birthright, to sit on the throne I was raised to rule upon.
Because if I wasn’t a prince, then who was I? I was nothing and nobody. I’d be branded a bastard, and my entire family and I would be ruined by the scandal. Even if I was angry at both of my parents, I refused to let them be fed to the wolves, either.
Niamh had agreed to our engagement to protect her brother. I’d done it to protect my parents and my throne. In that, we could agree upon.
“Am I your evil stepsister, then?” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
“More like the evil stepmother.” Her lips quirked upward. “You do know what happened to those three, don’t you? In the Perrault’s version?”
I shook my head.
“The stepsisters ended up wearing enchanted shoes that caused them to dance to death.”
“What a lovely sentiment.”
