The Marriage Pact

by Winter Renshaw

  I’m too tired to think about what any of this means, so I let sleep wash over me.

  I’ll make a decision in the morning.

  Chapter 56

  Julian

  The chirp of birds wakes me Tuesday morning, and as soon as I open my eyes, I find Emelie quietly changing into last night’s clothes.

  “Your driver is here,” she says when she sees that I’ve woken. “Hasn’t been here long. Maybe five minutes.”

  She zips the fly of her jeans and adjusts the hem of her t-shirt. Her hair is wild and mussed and her skin glows radiant in this warm, early morning light.

  Last night was everything.

  But now it’s time to face the music. I grab my clothes from the floor and get dressed, and she stares out the window, nibbling on her thumbnail like she’s lost in thought.

  “I’m sorry for going off on you last night,” she says, her back to me. “I’m not in a good place right now.”

  “Do you feel better?” I ask.

  She turns to face me as I button my final shirt button. “Yes.”

  “And have you made your decision?”

  “Yes.” Emelie swallows.

  “And?”

  “I don’t want to be a royal.” She worries the inner corner of her lip as she makes her way toward me. “The spotlight, the fame, it isn’t for me. I like my privacy. I like my freedom and my boring little life. And the Chamontians hate me.”

  “They don’t know you. They hardly had a chance to get to know you.”

  “Still,” she says.

  The realization of where this conversation is going is like a cannon ball through my chest, nearly knocking the wind from me despite the fact that I’m standing perfectly still. I never knew it was possible to feel this heavy and this empty at the same time.

  “But I like you, Julian,” she says. “No, more than that. I love you. And as hard as I try not to, that love never really goes away. It’s like the more I try to ignore it, the more intense it becomes.”

  I exhale, fixated on her every word, as I’m not exactly sure where she’s going with this.

  “You’re a flawed man. You can be selfish and impatient and irrational. But you can also be kind and loving and gentle when you’re stripped down to the real you. You have a heart of gold when it isn’t hidden behind a coat of armor and a royal title.” She offers a bittersweet smile.

  “So what are you saying?”

  She lifts one shoulder to her ear before letting it fall. “I don’t know. I want you. But I also want the simple life. I want summers at the lake. I want road trips without drivers and hikes without security guards. I want everything we had … minus all the extras. Stripped down. Just you and me. That’s when we’re at our best. That’s what I want.”

  Heading to the door, I have only one thing on my mind.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  But I’m already gone.

  I stop when I get to my driver’s window and he rolls it down. Glancing at the house, I spot her watching me from one of the windows.

  “You’re all free to go,” I say.

  “Go where?” my driver asks.

  “Home,” I say. “To Chamont.”

  Harrison steps out. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’m a bit confused. You said we’re all free to go. Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “No, Harrison,” I say, glancing toward the house again. “I’m going to be staying. Here. With her.”

  I head back to the house and find Emelie waiting for me by the back door, and I scoop her into my arms. “You want me? You have me. No driver. No security. No personal assistant. Just you and me.”

  “What?” Emelie’s eyes are wide as she throws her arms around my shoulders.

  “I don’t want to be king anymore anyway,” I say. “Not without you as my queen.”

  “But the monarchy means the world to you …”

  I crush her rosy lips with mine, stealing a slow and lingering kiss. “You mean more.”

  Epilogue

  Emelie

  Six Months Later …

  We’re cruising down a desert highway somewhere between Taos and Santa Fe, windows down and the sun shining down through the windshield. David Bowie croons through the speakers and Julian’s hair is blowing in every direction as he drives with one hand on the wheel and the other holding mine.

  He abdicated the throne for me.

  I still can’t believe it sometimes.

  I never asked him to and I certainly never expected it, but after I told him I wanted a life out of the spotlight, he didn’t think twice. And when I asked him a million times if he was sure about it, he always answered “yes” without an ounce of hesitation.

  The king and queen weren’t thrilled but they’re cooperating with Parliament to devise a protocol going forward, whether that be dissolving the royal family when the current reign is over or selecting a distant relative to assume the throne someday. There’s still time for Julian to change his mind, but he is adamant that he made his decision and his decision is final.

  We’ve been driving for hours today, and that’s all we do anymore. We just drive, taking things one day at a time—together. Six months ago, when we decided we’re better together than we are apart, he asked if I’d take a year off with him and show him how to live the quiet life, and that’s exactly what we’ve been doing.

  It hasn’t been easy for me, hitting the road without a plan or destination in mind, but I’ve been looking at it like an adventure, and it’s easier to embrace this little adventure with Julian by my side. I’m beginning to realize that not all surprises are bad and sometimes it’s okay not to know what the future holds.

  Julian sings at the top of his lungs as we fly down the highway and I join in, stealing side glances of him in his ripped jeans, white t-shirt, and aviators. He doesn’t look like a prince these days, which sometimes comes in handy when he’s not in the mood to be recognized, but I’m finding I much prefer him stripped down like this. Less formal. No mask. No title. No pretentiousness. Just Julian—the real Julian. The Julian he was always meant to be.

  The press went insane after the wedding was called off last summer and they went even crazier after we were spotted together again. Julian told me to be patient, that they’d grow bored with us and move onto the next big thing eventually—and that’s exactly what happened.

  A few months back, Princess Dayanara gave birth to her baby girl with Liam by her side—and the very next week Liam was spotted getting frisky with a mystery blonde in a club in Ibiza before taking her back to his hotel room.

  I suppose he wanted to have a little fun and freedom before his trial and impending incarceration this year …

  We pull off at an exit and stop to top off the gas tank, and I climb out to stretch my legs before heading in to grab a few of our favorite snacks for this next leg of our journey. When I get back, I snap a Red Vine between my teeth and hand him the other half.

  As we wait for the pump to stop, he pulls me close, lifts me in his arms, and places me on the hood of the car before kissing me under a dreamy desert sunset, all mauves and oranges and purples.

  I live for these moments with him, the ordinary and beautiful ones.

  Early on, we made a new pact—we don’t talk about the past anymore and we don’t worry about the future. We find we’re happiest when we place ourselves completely in the present moment.

  The gas pump clicks to a stop and I slide off the car hood as he finishes paying. Meeting him back inside the car, he starts the engine, cranks the radio volume, and takes my hand.

  I don’t know what’s in store for tomorrow or the day after that. All I know for sure is that Julian is it for me. He’s my one, big love. My perfectly imperfect prince. The only person in this world for me.

  And life couldn’t be sweeter.

  Dream Cast

  Prince Julian - Scott Eastwood

  Emelie - Scarlett Johansson

  Araminta - Emma Watson

  Prince
ss Dayanara - Sara Sampaio

  Harrison - Rami Malek

  King Lionel – Pierce Brosnan

  Queen Marguerite – Julianna Margulies

  SAMPLE - For Lila, Forever

  Chapter 1

  Thayer

  She arrives at the island on the mail plane the Tuesday after Mother’s Day.

  “Do we know her name?” I ask Granddad as we watch Ed and Junie, the estate’s caretakers, make their way up the cliffside to greet her.

  “Lila, I believe it is,” he says. “Anyway.” His massive hand grips my shoulder and he turns away. “Good day for a sail, don’t you think?”

  “Shouldn’t we say hi?” I ask.

  Granddad huffs, his barrel chest inflating. “Welcome her? Thayer, the poor girl just lost her mother and got shipped three thousand miles from the only home she’s ever known. Give her a chance to get acclimated before you unleash your one-man welcome committee.”

  For as long as I can remember, the family’s poked fun at my penchant for never knowing a stranger. In preschool, my nickname was Mr. Personality. In high school, I was elected class president all four years.

  Granddad has never said it, but I think he views my inclusive nature and inherent friendliness as a weakness. That or he resents the fact that I’m not more closed off—like him.

  In his older years—and since losing the love of his life back in ‘93, the man has become an island himself. It used to be he would only summer at Rose Crossing Island. But now my grandfather spends the entirety of the year here, biding his time until his daughters and grandchildren join him for three months of sun, sand, and sailing.

  “Why hasn’t she been here before?” I ask, staying put as I try to get a closer look at the girl. From here, all I see is sun-kissed legs as she rises on her toes and California sun-bleached hair cascading down her back and shoulders as she wraps her arms around Junie’s shoulders. I find it odd that the Hilliards have worked for my grandparents’ since before I could walk, but not once has their one and only granddaughter ever paid them a visit.

  “Why would she want to hang out with her grandparents while they work?” he asks, hooking his arm over my shoulders and leading me back toward the main house. “Speaking of which, she’s going to be working for us this summer, mostly helping Junie in the kitchen and with the laundry and housekeeping.”

  “Okay ...”

  He leans in as we walk. “I’m telling you this for a reason, Thayer.”

  He stops. I stop.

  “I won’t have you distracting that young woman from her work,” he says. “Nor will I have you creating any … liabilities for me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re a charming young man, Thayer. And the two of you are only here for the summer,” he says. “I won’t have you creating any liabilities, do you understand? She’s staff. She’s not to be some summer fling.”

  I lift my palms. “All right.”

  “There’s no limit to what a woman will do—or say—once her heart has been broken,” he adds as he begins to climb the steps toward the front door of the massive cedar-shingled home he once shared with my grandmother. Stopping, he turns back to me. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes.” I lean against the porch railing, letting the spring wind rustle through my hair and the salty air fill my lungs.

  “I’m going to see if any of the others want to join us for our sail,” he says before disappearing inside.

  The screen door opens and slams, but a second later it swings wide.

  “Hey.” My cousin, Westley, steps out, adjusting his Red Sox cap, wavy tufts of auburn hair sticking out from beneath the blue canvas material. “You going on the boat with us?”

  Squinting back toward the cliffs, I watch Ed, Junie, and their granddaughter make their way down the stony, weather-beaten path that leads to their cottage.

  Westley tracks my gaze before hopping down the steps. “Ah, the mysterious granddaughter has arrived.”

  “Be prepared for Granddad to make it abundantly clear to you that she’s just the help and there’s to be no fraternizing.”

  Westley rolls his eyes. “Come on. He can’t expect us to ignore her all summer. It’d be cruel not to ask her to hang out.”

  “Who’s to say she’d even want to hang out?” I watch Ed struggle to lift her giant suitcase, and I get the urge to jog over there to help, but before I have a chance, they’re already heading inside. “Her mom died, I guess.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

  “I doubt she wants to be here,” I say. Rose Crossing isn’t for everyone. In fact, that’s exactly how my grandfather wanted it to be when he originally purchased this private island. It was meant to be a summer getaway for his wife and two daughters. A place where they could escape a sticky hot Manhattan for three months and unwind and recharge before life started over again in September. But over the years, it became so much more than that. A haven. A heaven. Another world entirely.

  Granddad Bertram had the main house built first: a massive, eight-bedroom cedar-and-white monstrosity with a million-dollar view, gourmet kitchen, and antique-filled library. Next was the Ainsworth house, built for my mother after she married my father in the nineties. When her sister married Ari Caldecott around the same time, Granddad gifted them with a house as well.

  Now we refer to the homes by their family names: The Bertram, The Ainsworth, and The Caldecott. The Hilliard Cottage looks like a shack next to the other houses, but Junie insists it’s the nicest house she’s ever lived in and the way Ed prunes the hedges around the front makes the place worthy of a magazine cover in the right light.

  One big happy family.

  The screen door swings open again, and my mother steps out, her sandy hair wrapped in a Pucci scarf and oversized sunglasses covering her face.

  We’ve all been here a handful of days so far and this is already the fourth sailing trip Granddad has insisted upon.

  As a child, sailing enthralled me.

  As an extroverted nineteen-year-old who just finished his first year of pre-law, all I can think about are all the things I’m missing out on back home.

  Granddad steps out of the house, grinning wide, his favorite white visor over his salt-and-pepper head of hair, and he slaps his hands together. He gets like this every time we’re about to hit the water, all Christmas-morning smiles and childlike wonder in his eyes.

  Aunt Lorelai steps out next, an oversized Breton-striped bag hoisted on her shoulder, followed by Uncle Ari and Westley’s twin sister, Whitley. If my father wasn’t on a business trip in Shanghai until next week, the whole gang would be here.

  One by one, we file down the wide steps, to the stone path that leads to the boathouse.

  We’re halfway there when I catch the Hilliards coming out of their cottage maybe twenty yards away. Lila stops on the front stoop, gathering her hair in her hands and securing it at the top of her head. Almost as if she can feel me watching her, her eyes flick to mine.

  It’s the craziest thing, but in an instant, I can’t breathe, like the wind is sucked from my lungs. And while our eyes hold for maybe a second or two, it feels like an eternity.

  “Thayer.” My grandfather’s voice booms in my ear, and I jerk my attention away from the beautiful girl in the distance. “Did you hear what I said?”

  He knows damn well I didn’t.

  “Strong winds out of the north,” he says as we walk. “Might have to be a short excursion today.”

  I don’t tell him I’m fine with that.

  Just like I don’t tell him I’m going to invite Lila to the bonfire Westley and Whitley planned for Friday night.

  Chapter 2

  Lila

  It’s the strangest thing: my grandparents have called this island home for as long as I can remember, but it takes the untimely passing of my mother for them to let me actually visit.

  My entire life, they always came to us. Mom would pick them up at LAX and we’d drive up t
he Pacific Coast Highway with the top down on her vintage BMW, showing off the agreeable weather and abundance of sunshine. I always thought it was Mom’s way of trying to convince them to move west because she hated the East Coast—and that says a lot because Mom didn’t have a hateful bone in her body.

  I stand in the middle of a bedroom in the house my grandma simply refers to as The Ainsworth. It’s the last cleaning stop of the day. The weekends are mostly for cooking and food prep, but come Monday, we’ll have the joy of scrubbing the entirety of The Caldecott from floor to ceiling. The Bertram, I’m told, is a three-day job.

  If you look up “pretentious” in the dictionary, I’m sure you’ll find a picture of Howard Bertram surrounded by his spawn—all of them in canvas boat shoes.

  I giggle at the thought as I dust the nightstand beside a freshly-made bed. I’m not good at this cleaning business yet. As a child, I had chores. Sure. But out here, there’s a certain way things need to be done. The corners of the bed linens have to be tucked a certain way. The pillows fluffed and arranged in the right order. The floors are always last—I made that mistake the first day and I won’t make it again.

  These people take themselves way too seriously. Their wallpapered and wainscoted halls are lined in black-and-white family photos spanning generations. They keep antiques in every corner of every room. They wear boat shoes like they’re the only shoes in existence. And their dinners could give places like The Ivy and Spago a run for their money. But at the end of the day, it’s almost kind of nice living on this alien planet with these strange people and their unfamiliar ways. It’s a distraction. And I’m not constantly reminded of Mom.

  I lift a framed photo off a desk and wipe the non-existent dust beneath. Before I place it back, I examine the picture. It’s two boys—Howard’s grandsons I think. The one with the auburn hair and goofy grin has his arm around the one with the bronze tan and sandy blond hair and an attention-demanding Yale sweatshirt.