The King's Secret Bride_A Royal Wedding Novella

by Alexis Angel

  Shit, there’s when it began. When she stopped giving me ground rules. I thought it was just because I was being so good…all the time.

  I’m a fucking idiot.

  Come out tonight! It’s been a fucking minute, man. All these pussies are drying up without you here. Scott’s text vibrates my phone, and I look down at it, and then look back at her. She side-eyes me and forces a tight smirk.

  She looks pissed, but I can see her for what she really is: hurt.

  I can’t let this go any further. And I should stop it before it’s too late.

  It’s better to do it now than, say, the day before our wedding, when all this bullshit is waiting for us. That’ll be way too big of a scandal, one that I’m not sure I’ll be able to ease my way out of.

  At least, if I fuck it up now, there’ll be smaller repercussions.

  I text Scott back. I’ll be there. I need a fucking drink.

  Chapter 18

  Vivienne

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The hot, brown water spills over my desk, soaking everything in its path. So much for having a relaxing cup of tea before bed.

  I pick up the ruined remnants, trying to recover what I can, and throw them on the floor.

  “Ughhh!” I yell out in frustration and fall back into my chair.

  Today has been hell, to say the least. Not only have I been running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off, but David’s been acting fucking strange. He basically recoiled at my touch earlier when he’s usually begging for it.

  He can’t keep his hands off me when we’re together, regardless of where we’re at. The luncheon, the interview…you name it, he finds a way to make me squirm.

  Chills run down my spine just thinking about it…hmmm.

  But today was different. He hardly even stood by me. And when he did, he was distant.

  The only thing he gave me today was a damn lecture. Yes, he was lecturing me, the one who’s supposed to be making the rules and determining what he does and doesn’t do.

  I might’ve let myself run a little wild with the wedding plans, but do you blame me? Who wouldn’t go crazy planning a royal wedding? It’s stressful, seeing as I’m making it up as I go, but I’m also trying to have fun.

  Again, why not? May as well make the best out of a fucked-up situation.

  I look at my watch. 12:30. Fuck, I should probably call it a night.

  I doubt I’ll be able to sleep, though; there’s too much to do and way too much to think about.

  So…I settle for work. Maybe this will exhaust me so that I’ll just pass out.

  What seems like minutes later—despite it being two hours—I feel my phone vibrate.

  Who is calling me at 2:30 in the morning?

  Instinctively, my stomach drops. Nothing good ever happens past two—well, really, midnight.

  It’s a Google alert with the headline—Where’s Vivienne? King David seems to be back to his ways, partying and shagging women. Is the wedding still on?

  Fuckkkk! What the fuck is happening?

  I feel bile creep up my throat, and I reach for the trash can with all intentions of throwing everything up.

  What is he doing?

  Why would he do this to me?

  I swipe the alert, and it directs me to the tabloid story with a few pictures included. And, like a sore thumb, I make him out immediately, with a fucking drink in one hand and a blonde with big tits in the other. There’s a crowd of people around him, but its dark wherever he’s at, so I can’t see who they all are.

  I’m fucking furious.

  I knew something was off with him today, but I didn’t think whatever it was would make him do this and sabotage our whole damn plan.

  And just like the headline asks, I wonder, too: where the fuck am I? I should’ve known what he was going to do and stop this from happening. Now, I look like a damn idiot.

  I slam my phone on the desk and stalk out of my office towards his bedroom. I need to make sure my eyes aren’t fucking with me, and he really isn’t here.

  The door creaks as I open it. “David?”

  Nothing.

  I slam it open and walk directly to his bed, throwing the covers aside.

  Fuck. It’s true. He’s there.

  Thud.

  I jerk towards the sound, somewhere downstairs, and I calm my breathing, trying to stay as still as possible so I can hear.

  “Fuck!” David yells, and then I hear a cabinet slam. Then another.

  Good thing I wasn’t sleeping.

  I head towards the kitchen, anger quickening my pace, and I prepare myself for a fucking battle royale.

  “Good morning, asshole.”

  He turns around to meet me and stumbles back on his heels.

  Fuck, he’s drunk. This is going to make it so much worse.

  “Asshole? What’d I do?” He slurs his words and places his hands on the kitchen island in front of him, steadying himself.

  “What didn’t you do? That’d be a more fitting question.” I shoot back.

  He smirks at me, and he eyes me up and down. Any other time, and that look would have me reeling, panting in anticipation for his touch.

  But my fury is dulling any sensitivity I have towards him. I’m on fire, but it’s not in his favor.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Or did you not think at all?”

  “No, I thought. I thought about drinking, partying…you know, the shit you don’t allow me to do.” He glares at me, and his large body sways back and forth.

  “And why don’t I allow you to do that?” I scoff.

  “Because you’re in love with me and want me all to yourself?”

  Um…what? I wasn’t expecting that. I almost lose my balance, having not shielded myself properly for that sort of attack.

  “In love with you? Is that what you think?” I ask, not hiding my shock.

  “Oh, just admit it. You want this. For as long as we both shall live. Love.” He’s mocking me, and I can’t make out if it’s him being playful or spiteful.

  “I can’t even begin to explain how ridiculous you sound right now. But you really fucked up this time.”

  “Me? I fucked up? Hah!” He closes the distance between us, and the smell of whiskey and cigarettes stings my nostrils. It’s so overwhelming that I can almost taste it.

  The frustrating part is my pussy begins to throb as I watch his muscles twitch while he looks at me with those drunken sex eyes.

  Damn it. Why can’t I ever get a grip on my body when I’m around him?

  He continues, “This is all pretend, love. It’s bullshit. You concocted this whole thing, and then you fucking fell for it. You care too damn much about this…this engagement!”

  I stare at him, thinking over what he just said to me. He’s wrong. I didn’t believe in this…in us.

  Did I?

  I replay every moment we’ve had together in my head, looking for the nuanced feelings I might not have noticed before.

  Shit, is he right?

  “If anything, I’m saving you from an even bigger mistake…and I’ll be waiting for my reward.” He winks at me.

  If I had the strength in me to punch him, I would. I want to punch him right in that fucking chiseled jaw of his and make him pay for what he’s doing to me.

  But as I contemplate his words, the reality of it all hits me, and I feel weak. I did care too much. I’ve been trying to play it off as making sure my job gets done, making this—our fake engagement—look believable because it’s what a damn good PR consultant would do.

  And, with that distraction, I couldn’t stop myself from believing. With every touch, kiss, fuck we’ve shared, I fell deeper into this twisted fairytale that’s of my own making.

  I thought my defenses were stronger than that—no, I thought I was smarter than that.

  “I guess you’re right. I did care too much,” I say to him, defeated and humiliated. Then I turn my back towards him and head to my room, leaving him behind me.

  So, yes,
maybe he did save me from making one of the biggest mistakes of my life—falling in love with a King, the King David Lockridge.

  Chapter 19

  David

  Bzzz. Bzzz.

  “Ughh, fuck.” I hit my phone, throwing it to the ground. A pulsing ache strikes between my eyes, and I can smell the stale liquor wafting in the air.

  “Oh, hell no.” I grab the covers and pull them over my head. I don’t want to deal with this right now.

  I haven’t been this hungover in a while—or hungover at all actually, seeing as I haven’t been partying. Thanks to Vivienne.

  I forgot how fucking wretched these things are. I do not miss this feeling…at all.

  I hear the buzzing continue on the floor, and my annoyance gets the better of me.

  “Leave me alone!” I scream at…my phone.

  Wow, I’m pathetic.

  I slowly drag myself up, pulling the covers off me, and retrieve my phone from the other side of the room.

  I have twenty fucking notifications. From the last five minutes. That’s ridiculous, even for me.

  I glance at the few text messages—an unknown but very naked woman, a few from Scott, and the rest from Charles. There’s even an email from Charles with URGENT as the subject line.

  I roll my eyes, getting more annoyed.

  Nope, don’t roll your eyes. That fucking hurts. I clutch my pounding head and run to the bathroom in search of all the aspirin in the kingdom.

  Swallowing the pills, I slightly lament over the bullshit I know these messages will bring me.

  I take a deep breath.

  All right, let’s figure out why Charles is all riled up.

  Did you see this? he writes, and I scroll further down to see a headline in one of the tabloids:

  Debaucherous David back at it again, but this time with a soon-to-be Mrs. at home.

  Oh, shit, this isn’t good.

  Scenes from the night play in my head. But it’s like a game of charades—I see people moving yet I don’t understand what’s happening.

  Oh…that blonde was there. Shit, I remember buying her a drink. Did I…fuck her? I look back at my bed for confirmation.

  No, I didn’t! Thank fucking God.

  Did I kiss her? No…I don’t think so. There was a lot of hugging, though. She really did have nice tits.

  I shake my head. That’s not what’s important right now.

  I run down to my office and start gathering more clues. The scenes become more vivid as I look over random photographs the tabloids have already printed.

  Damn, it still amazes me how fast they are. They waste no fucking time when it comes to slandering me and my reputation.

  Looking over them, I see one of Scott and me taking a shot, one of me pouring myself some whiskey, and—

  Fuck.

  There’s that girl. In my arms. Staring up at me like some damn teenager drooling over someone from One Direction.

  Shit, I hope she’s not a teenager.

  Ah, fuck, did Vivienne see this? Well, she must have; she’s my fucking employee who’s supposed to clean this mess up. But why hasn’t she already?

  “Charles!” I scream. “Oww…fuck.” I punch the desk. The piercing pain has not eased up in the slightest.

  “Yeah, David. What can I do for you?” he asks. “Oh, shit. You reek, man.” He waves his hands in front of his nose.

  “Yeah…ugh. Whatever. Have you seen Vivienne around at all?”

  “So, you did go out last night? And no, I haven’t. But she isn’t in her bedroom; the maids have already cleaned that.”

  “And in her office? That’s where she is most of the time.” I point out the obvious.

  “No, well, not since an hour ago when I walked past it.” He sighs. “What did you do last night, David?” he scolds me, folding his arms across his chest. “Why’d you fuck this up?”

  He knows me too well.

  “I’ll tell you later. I just need to talk to Vivienne about it first.”

  “Well, it sounded like something went down last night. You two weren’t quiet.” He turns around, heading to the hallway, but then he stops and swivels his head back to me. “I’ll let you know as soon as I see her, though. But I’m afraid you might’ve really fucked up this time, David.” And then he leaves.

  I sigh and run my hands over my face and through my hair. The pressure feels good.

  I talked to her last night?

  I lean back, twirling my phone in my hands, and I jolt forward when a memory pops in my head.

  Did I accuse her…of loving me? I fucking said that to her?

  No, no, no, no…I ended it. Last night, I fucking ended this…whatever this fucking thing is.

  I spring up and pace towards her bedroom and then her office, hoping I’d find her so we can talk about last night. Maybe I can fix this? This is my one and only mishap, so it’ll be like a first free pass or some shit like that, right?

  She’ll have to forgive me. She can’t be that ruthless.

  She’s not in her bedroom, which looks eerily empty. Shit.

  I knock on her office door and hear silence.

  “Vivienne!” I scream, pounding on her door.

  I take my phone out of my pocket and dial her number—no answer. I lean my back against her door and slide down to the floor.

  This is bullshit. I’m her client—and I’m the fucking King. She should be answering my call.

  Yeah…that’s right. She should be answering me, calling me, I repeat, trying to reassure myself. And fuck, isn’t a guy allowed one mistake?

  Sure, this looks pretty shitty. And I probably ruined our arrangement, but…I’m sure it’s nothing she can’t fix. She’s the best in the business, right?

  “Fuck!” I yell out in frustration.

  No, you know what? If she doesn’t want to fix this, then fuck her. Annoyance and worry quickly boil over into anger, and my breathing becomes erratic.

  Whatever. It’s better this way.

  I get up and walk away from her office—from her.

  This is what I needed to do. She was getting too involved, and things were getting too real. I mean, we were picking out fucking roses yesterday.

  Who does that when it’s just a fake engagement? A fake wedding ceremony?

  No one, that’s who. I shouldn’t have even let that happen.

  And fuck it, what’s done is done. I fucked it up, and I did it well enough that she left…

  At least she finally got to know the real me—a heartless, partying bad boy, who’ll never be a lovey-dovey motherfucker. Damn her for even thinking I could be changed into something different.

  I pass Charles when I make my way back to my room, and he looks at me suspiciously.

  “Hey, get this place ready,” I yell at him.

  “For what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “For a soirée. I’m fucking celebrating. I’m a free man now. No Vivienne to hold me back.”

  He nods, hesitantly.

  That’s right, loves, Debaucherous David is back.

  Chapter 20

  Vivienne

  I’m pissed. And not necessarily at him. It’s more me that I’m pissed at.

  I’m sure it looks like I’m running away from my problems, and maybe I am. You can think whatever you want, really, I don’t care. But I know that this whole situation is too fucked up beyond repair.

  I’m the professional here, after all, so I should know. At least, I was before I let myself get wrapped up in this pretend, mind-fucking world. But it’s not like I haven’t tried to fix it. It is my job, and I do know how to spin anything; like I said before, I’ve had some sleazy-ass clients.

  I looked over those pictures—all those fucking pictures—again and again. I scrutinized the hell out of them, and there’s just no way I can re-frame them into something positive and that’ll work with our arrangement.

  He looks like the bad guy. Fucking around on his fiancée and drinking himself to oblivion. There’s no way aro
und it.

  It’s the opposite of the doting fiancé image I tried to create. Once a bad boy, always a bad boy. Oh, great—that fucking saying again. It keeps chiming in my ear and now, it’s biting me in the ass.

  Spreading all the documents—stories and pictures of David—across the hotel room floor, I sit back and try to rearrange the pieces of the puzzle for the umpteenth time.

  Christ, this is so fucking aggravating. I know I can do this, but I can’t get over why I let him get under my skin.

  Why him?

  Uhh. I know why. He’s the only man that knows how to make my toes curl, make me feel like a goddess, and treat me as if I’m the only person in the room all at the same time. It’s a dangerous and addicting combination that I couldn’t say no to, as much as I tried.

  Yeah, I know…I didn’t try that hard.

  And I was very aware of this when I took the job.

  That’s what’s so damn frustrating. I knew this about him; I did my research and came in with all my armor—more than I thought I needed—but I still got mixed up in his games. I thought I’d be able to distance my heart from my head…and well, my cunt, too.

  But, apparently, they’re all connected. Who the fuck would’ve thought?

  And of course, I’m just finding that out now. Though, I suppose, it’s a lesson I have to learn on my own.

  I get up, kicking some of the more provocative pictures of him and that fucking blonde, and grab my bottle of wine.

  I don’t even pour it into a glass; I drink it straight out of the bottle. Eco-friendly, right?

  I stare down at the mess and then make my way to the balcony, bottle in hand.

  How sad. I haven’t even had time to roam this city—other than when I tried on that wedding dress. Fucking idiot.

  And I barely got to know the country my client ruled. I read about it, of course, but I didn’t get to experience it firsthand.

  Too bad; it looks like I won’t be getting to know it, after all.

  I know I’ve already fled to a hotel, but I need to put more distance between me and the hot mess that he is.

  He pulled me under once. I won’t let him do it again. The farther away I am from him, the safer I’ll be. I mean, my defenses pretty much suck, but I know that now, so why voluntary stay in the battle zone when I’ll lose?