by Holly Rayner
And then there’s the money. I need to think about all the things I can do with what Max is paying me.
Except I can’t. Other than helping Laura and Oscar with whatever they need, I’m drawing a blank. Traveling around free and unburdened has been my wish for years, but now I’m having trouble thinking about where I’ll head next.
Because I thought I was going to be plane-hopping and backpacking with Max.
Silly me.
At least it’s a lesson learned. I can’t make adjustments to my life for him or anyone else. People will let me down, but I’m always here for myself.
I’m so lost in thought, I don’t realize we’re approaching the palace until we’re right in front of it. I start to reach for the door handle, eager to get the heck out of this enclosed space that’s keeping me so close to Max, but I hesitate at the last second. It’s probably against protocol for me to open my own car door at the palace, and despite my personal feelings, I have a job to do.
I don’t have to wait long. Henrik comes around and gets the door for me, and then I’m a bat out of hell, out of the car and walking for the palace’s front steps.
A servant gets the door for us, and then the man who I’m pretty sure by now must be the butler approaches and bows.
“Prince Maximillian and Miss Moran,” he purrs. “Welcome. The king has requested that you wait in the morning room for him.”
I glance at Max so fast I nearly get whiplash. Wait in the morning room? Not the dining room? I thought we were here for brunch.
Also, a morning room is a thing?
Max blinks so fast his eyelashes are like a hummingbird’s wings.
“Yes,” he says, barely moving his lips. “Then we shall.”
The butler goes ahead of us, taking us down a hallway on the first floor I haven’t seen yet. It has windows all along one side, letting in light from the front of the palace, and he opens a set of double doors.
“May I fetch you anything, Your Highness?” the butler asks.
“No,” Max murmurs. “Thank you.”
“Miss Moran?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I answer, though a sedative might help.
Something’s not right. There’s the whole upset with Max that has my stomach roiling, but there’s also something wrong here, in the palace. I swear I can nearly feel it in the air.
The butler leaves, and I inspect the room he’s deposited us in. It’s a corner one, with a window seat piled with cushions nearby. There’s are a couple couches plus several comfy chairs, and a large, stuffed bookshelf.
It’s super cozy-looking, but right now there’s no way I can relax. Max is pacing back and forth, and I want to scream.
“Something’s not right,” he says.
“Yeah. You’re telling me.”
He abruptly stops pacing and turns to look me in the eye. “Is there something you know? Did you see anything on your way in?”
My breath hitches. “No,” I choke out.
He resumes pacing. At this rate, he’s going to wear a path in the floor before anyone opens the door again.
“You’re pale,” he says.
“I’m always pale,” I answer reflexively. “A redhead who thrives in the winter, remember?”
“No.” He slows the pacing and shakes his head. “Paler than usual.”
My tongue is swollen and heavy. Should we talk about our personal relationship now? It really doesn’t seem to be the right time or place.
Also: what personal relationship?
Last night was a blip for him. Or a scratch for his itch.
“Are you not well?” Max asks.
He comes over to me and puts his hand on my forehead. “Your skin is clammy.”
I bet. My stomach is also in knots, my heart is aching, and my brain is racing, trying to figure out just how soon I can get my butt to Jersey.
“Er…”
“Don’t be nervous,” he says, dropping his head.
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You’re pacing, Max.”
His feet come to a stop. “I didn’t notice.”
We eye each other, his shoulders inching up to his ears. With a heavy exhale, he lets them drop.
“You think Otto is upset about something?” I ask.
His lips purse.
I’m afraid to ask the exact question, which is: do you think Otto knows this is a sham marriage?
The door is closed, but for all I know, Otto could have a spy on the other side of it. Or there could be cameras or a mic hidden somewhere in here.
“He was in such a good mood when we departed the palace last night,” Max answers. “I find it hard to think of what might have occurred to change that.”
I’m chewing on my lip. That awful habit is back. Except I don’t really care anymore. If I don’t let my anxiety out somehow, I might explode.
First I realize Max doesn’t really want me after all, and now our charade might be in danger of exposure?
It’s the loss of everything I have in Europe in one morning. Either that would be a cruel roll of the dice or fate.
And I don’t believe in fate.
I think.
Though, honestly, Max had me thinking for a minute there that some things are meant to be.
“What could have happened?” Max asks, but he’s talking more to the air than to me. “Did he read something in the paper or online?”
I wouldn’t be able to answer if I wanted to. The doors are opening.
We both whirl around.
In comes Greta. She’s a lot more dressed down than she was last night, but she still looks classy in bright red Capri pants, a flowy blouse, and her hair in a loose braid.
She stops about a yard from us. Hands clasped together in front of her, her eyes flick from Max to me. She’s probably only been in the room for a few seconds, but those few seconds have been spent in silence, and that makes time drag out.
“Max. Poppy. Good morning.”
“G-good morning,” I stutter.
She smiles, but her lips are still tight, and when she looks at me, there’s a sadness there that makes me want to cry.
Greta nods once, as if she’s confirming something, but nothing’s been said, really.
I look to Max, his flashing eyes catching with mine.
The doors open again, and this time it’s Otto and Sacha entering. Almost instinctively, I curtsy.
Otto stops next to Greta, but Sacha hangs back, occupied with the tablet in his hand.
“Father,” Max says. “Good morning.”
Otto’s face is red. He glares at Max.
Suddenly, I’m shaking.
“Is it?” Otto snaps. He looks from Max to me, then back to Max.
Max arches a brow. “Excuse me? Is something the matter? Poppy and I were enjoying a quiet morning at home, and then you called and demanded we join you here for brunch. Here we are.”
He moves closer to me and takes my hand, as if that will help our case.
Otto grunts. “Your brother has something to show you.”
Sacha comes forward, still tapping at something on his tablet. Once he’s finished whatever it is he’s doing, he lowers it and eyes Max and me.
“Because of my private conversation with Poppy last night—”
“What conversation?” Max interrupts. His hand is still around mine, but his grip is too tight. He’s on the verge of hurting me.
“In the west hall,” Sacha says casually. “She didn’t tell you?”
“I tried to,” I tell Max, not sure what I’m supposed to be saying here. It could be talking is making things worse, and I should keep my mouth shut.
Max’s brow furrows. “Sacha, get on with it. What is this about?”
“I’m sorry to do this, Max,” Sacha says, “but you have to understand that if I didn’t, someone else would have at some point, and that would have made everything so much worse for the family.”
“Your brother is looking out for you,�
�� Otto says. “He has the family’s best interest in mind. Stromhaer’s best interest in mind. Unlike some people.”
The bite in his voice can’t be ignored.
Max’s hand slips from mine as he takes a step to his brother. “What is this about?” he growls at Sacha.
The two men stare each other down, chests puffed and hackles raised.
Sacha’s nostrils flare. “Last night, Poppy was just as flighty and evasive as you. I’m sure you thought you were putting on a good show, Max, but unfortunately, you never were much of an actor.”
Nausea rolls through me, and I press my hand against my belly and pray I don’t throw up all over this nice rug.
“I hired a private investigator to look into your relationship with Poppy,” Sacha says. “As it turns out, the marriage certificate checks out. As you said, you were married in Copenhagen last week.”
“You got that info that quick?” I blurt out.
“Yes.” Sacha spares me only the briefest glance, and I’m reminded that, duh, they’re royalty. They can make the most difficult things happen with a snap of their fingers. He probably hired a PI for a crazy amount of money, and the guy worked overnight to bring Sacha information.
“Exactly,” Max says, folding his arms and glaring at each member of his family in turn. “We were married last week. So what exactly is the problem?”
“Everything else,” Sacha says in a clipped tone. “Specifically, the video footage. Here you two are going into the all-night chapel…”
He taps on his tablet, then turns it around for us to see. Black-and-white video footage shows Max and me entering a small chapel hand in hand.
The only thing I recognize is the couch. The red one that’s a dark gray in the footage. Other than that, I don’t remember a thing.
Not me and Max stopping right inside the doorway to kiss. Not his sweeping me into his arms and carrying me to the desk to check in. We’re clearly drunk, stumbling all over the place and dissolving into a fit of laughter for no apparent reason.
How ironic that, even days later, that couch is still the only thing I can remember. I might laugh over it if this weren’t all also incredibly sad.
“So?” Max barks. “We got married in an all-night chapel. It’s a legitimate marriage.”
“It is,” Sacha replies coolly. “A legitimate marriage to a stranger.”
He taps a few more times and some new footage appears, this new feed of the bar Max and I met at.
Sacha fast-forwards through the part of me sitting alone talking to the bartender. When Max appears in the corner of the frame, he slows it down.
“Still,” Max starts.
“The private investigator spoke to the bartender there,” Otto cuts in. “According to him, Poppy claimed, before you entered the bar, that she was alone in Copenhagen. That she had not a friend there.”
Max scoffs. “That is true. Her seasonal job in Sweden had ended. I arrived that night to visit her. Right?” He looks to me.
“Exactly,” I nod, stepping up and putting my hand on his arm.
Sacha’s eyes narrow into slits. “Everyone can read the body language in this footage, Max. You linger by yourself for a bit before going up to her. If she was your girlfriend, you would have gone right up to her. Yet you did not, because the two of you were strangers. You met that night and got married in order to shake off the engagement Father had already arranged for you.”
The room goes dead quiet.
Sacha hit the nail on the head. Max and I could deny his claim up and down, over and over again, but there’s no use.
We’re busted.
Chapter 20
Poppy
Time slows down, and I don’t know what to do. What to think. What to say.
How are Max and I going to get out of this?
As soon as I ask myself the question, the answer is there. We won’t be getting out of this. There’s no more lying. We shouldn’t even try; doing so would only make things worse.
“You will annul the marriage,” Otto barks.
Max doesn’t answer right away, and his father glowers at him. I thought I got a taste of Angry King Otto last night, but that was nothing compared to what’s going on now. The king looks like he’s about to explode and take the whole palace down with him. The cords in his neck stand out, and one of his eyes keeps twitching.
“Did you hear me?” Otto says. “You will annul the marriage. If you do not, I will pass you over when it comes to the succession, and Sacha will take the throne instead.”
Greta gasps, and Sacha’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks surprised, but not in a happy way. He actually looks flustered—like this wasn’t the outcome he expected.
“In addition,” Otto continues, “I will disown you.”
Next to me, Max shakes. I can feel the fury rising off of him.
“Do not look at me that way,” Otto says. “You have given me no choice in the matter. You did this to yourself. How conceited you must be to think it appropriate to deceive your own family.”
Max’s throat rolls with a slow swallow, but he’s not looking at his dad. His fiery gaze is on Sacha.
“You think you know the whole picture, don’t you?” he asks. His tone is flat, but there’s the slightest shake to it. He’s doing his best to keep his anger in check.
Sacha stiffens. “What more is there to know?”
“Plenty.”
I have to work to calm my breathing. O-kay. So we are continuing with the ruse?
It’s crazy, and with a high chance of failure, but if that’s what Max wants to do…
“The picture,” Sacha says, “is pretty clear.” He raises the tablet. “Or, video, to be more precise.”
“Video feeds cannot see into the soul,” Max says. “If they did, they would see that I know without a doubt that I have met a woman like no other, and I do not intend to give her up under any circumstances.”
My breath catches. Did Max not hear his father? Otto will deny him the crown! Disown him!
Or is he playing a game of chicken? Staying on the rails even as danger comes barreling his way, betting that his dad will be the first one to back down?
“Enough!” Otto’s yell rings through the room, and everyone stills.
After a quiet moment, he speaks again. “Imagine this getting to the press,” he says to Max. “We would be ruined.”
“I fail to see how that’s possible,” Max says. “Parliament cannot take your crown because your son chose his own wife.”
“Think of the people,” Otto hisses. “How disappointed they would be. They look to us to set a moral example in all things. You are the opposite of a person with scruples!”
Greta clears her throat and touches Otto’s arm, but if the king notices he doesn’t show it.
“How do you know what the people will want?” Max counters. “It is a new age, Father. For all we know, they will swoon over our modern love story.”
“Love story?” Otto laughs viciously and takes a step toward Max.
Max follows up with two steps in the direction of his father. My heart is a war drum. Are there palace guards around to stop a royal brawl? Or do they consider those “family matters” and not interfere in them?
I don’t know, but I can’t stand around and watch while Max and Otto duke it out.
“Max.” I tug on his hand. “A word.” Swallowing my fear, I address Otto. “My King, may I please talk to Max for a second?”
Otto opens his mouth, looking like he might respond by biting my head off, but then he only nods.
“Thank you,” I say.
I don’t know why Max’s family hasn’t come at me with a full attack yet, calling me an opportunist or worse. Maybe it’s coming, and I’m next.
I yank on Max’s arm and practically pull him to the other side of the room.
“Are you crazy?” I hiss.
His dark eyes are wild. “Sacha cannot take the crown,” he hisses right back. “It is rightfully mine.”
“Oh, yeah? Are you sure about that?”
“I…” He falters.
“That’s what I thought,” I sigh. “Look, I really think we should—”
But he’s not listening. He’s striding back to his family.
“Poppy is the woman I love,” he declares. “And it does not matter if we have known each other for a week or a year.”
“It’s been a week,” Sacha points out.
Oh, brother.
Closing my eyes, I shake my head. This whole thing is getting worse by the second.
I admire Max’s ability to work with this new twist and pretend that, despite the circumstances, it’s still a match made in paradise, but geez. Does he really think he’ll get away with it?
“Impossible,” Otto roars. “This is your last chance, Maximillian! If you do not—”
“Enough!” Greta, normally so soft-spoken, yells. She cuts her hands through the air. “Let’s all calm down and sit to discuss this. I will ring for tea.”
“Thank you, Greta,” Max says, “but please do not bother. I will not be subjecting my wife to any more of these interrogations.”
He looks to me. “Are you ready to leave, Poppy?”
I open my mouth, but my jaw only hangs, slack. Dumbly, I nod.
“Good.”
Max takes my hand, and we walk from the room.
I can hear Otto behind us, cursing and shouting about the shame that will come to their lineage, but Max slams the door shut, cutting him off.
Max is a live wire as we walk through the palace. He grips my hand, and I have to hustle to keep up with his long, fast strides.
“Max.”
It seems he doesn’t hear.
“Max.”
We’re at the front. Two footmen with blank faces open the doors for us.
“Max!”
On the front steps, he stops and looks at me. It’s like he’s been shaken from a daze as he blinks and looks my face over.
“Do you understand what you just did?” I ask.
His nod starts slow, then picks up speed. “Yes.”
“You lost. Otto won.”
