by Kali Anthony
She turned her back on him, needing to get out and get away. Wanting to run but carrying herself with all the dignity she deserved, because she wasn’t at fault, even though this whole place seemed intent on blaming her. Instead, she injected steel into her spine and walked to the door with her head held high. Walked away from him. As she reached out for the door handle, she hesitated. Not turning, because she didn’t want to see Alessio ever again. Seeing him might remind her of what she’d lost. What she never really had in the first place.
‘Thank you, Your Highness, for making our parting so much easier.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALESSIO STARED AT the broken-apart travelling crate. The wood was scattered about the floor of his office after he’d cracked it apart with the crowbar he’d asked his staff to deliver here. That infernal wooden case had taunted him from the moment it had been delivered a few days before. No note, no explanation. A return address for Ms Hannah Barrington the only suggestion of what it contained.
A portrait. One he didn’t want, but one he got anyway.
And this portrait. He stood back. This wasn’t a painting to be hung in a throne room. It was deeply, achingly personal and he had no idea what to do with it. Because as he looked at the picture, what he saw was not the man he stared at in the mirror every morning but another self. Real. A better version of him.
There was no elegant quality to the brushstrokes. They slashed across the canvas with a terrifying brutality. He was the sole focus of the artist’s gaze. Sitting side-on, with his head turned to the painter. White shirt slightly unkempt, open at the neck. Hair unruly as if he’d rolled out of bed and raked his hands through it, sat in a chair and looked at the person holding the brush. Hannah. His fingers were steepled, contemplating her. Eyes intense and focused, fixed on one woman, as if he would never look away. Corners of his lips tilted in the merest of smiles in a moment where it seemed some secret had been told, which only the painter and the subject knew.
This was a picture for a private space, for a bedroom, where the intimacies it spoke of could be understood only by the people who saw it each day.
From the packing had also fallen two small spiral sketchbooks, those she’d carried around with her. He flicked through them. There was the small landscape in watercolour pencil she’d done when she’d first arrived. The view from her window. The rest were sketches of him. His hands, his eyes. Lips. Rough outlines of him stalking the floor. Smiling. Naked in bed on Stefano’s yacht. His life, the man, in black, white and grey. In the beginning, he recognised the person in those pictures. Cold, aloof. Remote from everything around him. As they progressed, Hannah had seen him in ways he no longer saw himself, seen the tiny glimpses of happiness. And then those when they were together, alone. In them, he was unrecognisable.
A man changed.
He glanced at the desk, where a folder lay: his shortlist of princesses. They were everything he’d asked for. Bright, beautiful, intelligent women from royalty who understood the job they’d be asked to do. He’d been to dinner with a few and each time he had, every part of him rebelled. Spending even a second with a woman who was not Hannah felt like a betrayal.
Because no matter how he’d tried to forget her, he couldn’t. Work didn’t help. Riding Apollo didn’t help. Nothing did. Her touch, her laugh, the scent of her like autumn apples...all embedded in his memory. And now he had the portrait, which hinted at something he dared not name because of what he’d done to her.
He loathed how she’d looked at him on her last day here. As if he’d warped something perfect, to make it ugly. Taking his fears and frustrations out on her, when she was the victim. Because she wasn’t the perpetrator, of that he was sure. He had all the power. She was the one with everything to lose. A rumoured affair with his artist had risen as a moment of brief interest in a world of many such events and faded away. All the while she’d maintained a dignified silence. His father might have laughed at the evidence of his son’s human failings, though to Alessio those taunts were now meaningless. All he’d been obsessed by was its effect on her, trawling her name in the daily international press, but she was a secondary character in a story already forgotten by everyone except him.
The door of his palace office opened, and Stefano walked in. Hesitated beside the picture still half in its packing case. Nudged the crowbar discarded on the carpet beside it with the toe of his shoe.
‘I thought you’d send it back or put it away without looking at it.’
He’d wanted to. The sheer terror of what Hannah might have painted had stopped him breaking open the picture for days. But he’d needed to exorcise her, and he thought, by finally confronting the portrait, that he would. He hadn’t, and in fact it had made things worse.
‘It’s only a painting.’ The lie stuck in his throat. It was more than that. So much more. A mirror to possibilities he’d rejected in a way that couldn’t easily be repaired.
‘If you say so.’
His friend looked drawn and tired. As if he carried a burden too heavy for one man. No enthusiasm left in him. Stefano hadn’t been the same since Hannah had left the palace. Alessio thought it was managing the press fallout, the work since. He began to realise how much he missed, and how this might be something more.
‘What do you say?’ Alessio asked.
‘I say we’ve both made terrible mistakes, and now it’s time to face them.’
Something about the weight of those words carried a warning that things might never be the same again. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You’re not a stupid man, my friend. I don’t need to point out your grave error. As for mine...’ Stefano handed Alessio an envelope. ‘My resignation.’
A terrible cold settled over Alessio, even in the middle of Lasserno’s glorious summer. As if everything were changing and he would be the ultimate loser. Stefano stood back. Formal. Aloof. An employee and nothing more. Alessio wouldn’t accept it. Right now, things needed to stay the same.
‘No. Whatever the problem is, I’ll fix it. Do you need a holiday? A pay rise?’
Stefano laughed. There was no humour in the tone. It sounded like a mockery of all things happy. ‘Ever the Prince. There are some things you can’t repair with money or power.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
Stefano didn’t answer. He turned, walked towards Hannah’s painting. Alessio wanted to hide it. Keep it to himself. Such a deeply private piece left him vulnerable, as though everything about him was set to be exposed, his darkest hopes and dreams, which only Hannah knew.
‘She’s in love with you,’ Stefano said.
‘What?’ A bright burst of something perfect, like hope, tore through him. A cruel sensation when he had nothing to hope for after what he’d done.
‘As I said, you’re not a stupid man. Look at the picture.’ Stefano pointed at it, his finger stabbing the air. ‘What you need in your life, Alessio, is someone to see you like that. The man behind the mask of the prince. You also need someone in your life you can look at as you looked at Hannah in that very moment.’
Inside he knew. This was a picture painted by someone who saw the soul of another person. That didn’t come simply by fine observation. It was more. Hannah had quietly given him her heart somewhere in the two weeks they’d been together. He’d selfishly taken it, and cruelly rejected it when she’d asked for nothing in return but his respect.
The problem was, he’d given her his heart as well, which was why everything seemed broken. Because she’d taken it back to England when she’d gone, and now he was left only half a man.
‘Is this why you’re resigning?’
Stefano slowly shook his head, as if the movement was too wearying to bear.
‘I’m resigning because, whilst you might be able to repair your great error, I can’t repair mine. You want to know who leaked to the press? I did.’
Aless
io dropped into the chair behind his desk. He had no power to move, like a child’s toy whose batteries had gone dead.
‘You threw Hannah and me to those leeches?’ A wicked fire lit inside, the burn threatening to overwhelm him. He clenched his fists. If he hadn’t known Stefano his whole life he might have thrown punches in this moment. But there was so much he’d missed with Hannah, what hadn’t he seen with his oldest friend?
Stefano shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Dropped his head. ‘Only about your visit to the hospital. What I failed to recognise is that small piece of information would start press interest about what else you might be doing in secret. That’s what led to them discovering about you and Hannah. And I’ll never forgive myself for it.’
It was as if the floor fell out beneath him. Alessio gripped the arms of his chair to hold himself stable when nothing in his life was any more.
‘Dio! Stefano. Why?’
‘You hide all of yourself. What you present to the world is a version of who you think everyone should see. Yet that image didn’t comfort the people of Lasserno. It made them fear they were getting someone who didn’t care for them at all, and that opinion was bleeding into the press. I thought a small glimpse of the private man would help show people who you truly are. And that it would allow you to see past the constraints you impose upon yourself, to the possibilities. Instead I caused greater harm.’
Alessio nodded. What more could he do? He’d lost everything. Hannah. His best friend. He couldn’t fathom Stefano’s betrayal. He couldn’t forgive himself for what he’d done to Hannah, driven by fear of finding something real.
‘You need a person you can trust in this position. I’ve arranged for someone temporary to take my place. There were a few good candidates in the palace.’
‘That’s...acceptable.’ Alessio didn’t know what more to say. His world crumbled around him with Stefano the last brick to fall.
His friend walked towards the door of the office for the last time. Just as Hannah had walked away only months before.
‘My family has served yours for centuries. But you must believe this has never been work for me. It’s been my pleasure as your friend.’
He then stopped...hesitated with his hand still resting on the doorknob.
‘I have some advice. From Machiavelli. “Any man who tries to be good all the time is bound to come to ruin among the great number who are not good.” Allow yourself some imperfections. You have a chance to make things right. I’ve run out of mine.’
Stefano gave a final bow and shut the door. And for the first time in his life Alessio felt completely alone.
* * *
Hannah stood in her studio, the window opening wide onto the sunny garden beyond. This place had once been her oasis of peace, where she could lose herself. Now it seemed more like a prison. She flopped into the threadbare sofa in a dusty corner, cup of tea in hand, body sluggish with a tiredness that hadn’t seemed to have left her since she’d returned home. Self-inflicted to be sure, but it was as though she’d never feel awake again, this pressing lassitude which had stolen over her.
From the moment she’d walked into this space on returning from Lasserno she’d begun to work, grabbing a canvas and painting with a ferocity which shut everything out. She’d worked all day and through the nights. Barely sleeping or eating till she’d finished Alessio’s portrait. Pouring all her heart and most of her soul into the picture to get one man out of her life. The tears and the pain worked through her fingers onto the canvas, then she’d let it go.
Or that was what was supposed to have happened. In the past, each time she’d finished a portrait had been like a great cleansing. She’d send the picture on its way and leave its subject behind as a fond memory whilst she started afresh.
Not this time. The ache of loss remained like a wound unhealed, as if the bleeding out would never stop. Hannah realised what it was now. All that time she’d spent shielding herself from the pain of love and her heart had gone and fallen in love anyway. At least she’d learned something. Suffering this kind of pain wouldn’t break her. Even though the colours of the world didn’t seem right, as if everything were sepia-toned, she was still standing. One day she might even be able to look back to a time when for a few fantasy moments she was made to believe she could be a princess.
She hadn’t been treated like a princess in the end, though. That Alessio believed she might betray what they’d shared had shredded what remained of her heart. It told Hannah that, whilst what had happened was of great moment to her, to Alessio it meant nothing. It can’t have, or he would never have thought she’d talk to the press.
Sure, they’d sniffed around when she returned to the UK, offering large sums for an exclusive. It would have solved all her financial woes, just as he’d accused. But the idea of betraying those precious moments with Alessio made her sick to the stomach.
And yet, some money had arrived in her account. Whilst she’d refused it back in Lasserno, Sue had been more circumspect when contacted by the palace. Now there were funds enough to keep the sharks at bay. It might not refill the coffers her uncle had raided, but it would do. Her uncle’s assets were being sold to help pay his debts, and that would help too. She could rebuild. She had her art. Things would be fine. Truly fine.
If only she could plug the Alessio-sized hole in her heart.
She stared at the blank canvas on her easel, one she had no inspiration for. At least, not for the intended subject. Another consumed all her interest. A man with black hair and umber eyes and a glance which could set her aflame. If she picked up a pencil now she’d be able to perfectly reproduce the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the sensual curve of his lips when he looked at her. It was as if she would always be able to draw him. He was embedded inside her. Yet a prince had no part in her life. She went to the window. Breathed the warm air. Tried reminding herself that these simple things were what made her happy. One day her heart would believe her head, but not today.
The tinkle of the doorbell woke Hannah from her inertia. She’d had a few visitors since she’d returned here. Kind people in the village bringing jams, biscuits and sympathy. Probably seeking gossip, but she gave them none and the small tokens had helped.
She made her way to the front door. Pulled a band from the pocket of her jeans and raked her hair into an untidy knot on her head. Steeled herself for a visitor she didn’t really want. She’d had a spyhole installed at the suggestion of the local constable when some of the press had become more insistent. Out of caution she peeked through.
Alessio.
She grabbed on to the door jamb to hold herself upright, her heart rate spiking at the thrill of seeing him again, even through the dim fisheye glass. She’d tried telling herself over and over he didn’t matter but her heart now called her out as a liar. Hannah froze. Open the door? Ignore it? Tell him to go away? She stood back, trying to steady her rapid breathing, and jumped when the bell gave another short, sharp burst. In that moment she acted on impulse, turning the key and wrenching at the door.
He came into view in a dizzying rush, like the swoop of a roller coaster. More beautiful than she remembered, but then Alessio had always seemed hyper-real to her. He wore an immaculate blue suit, pristine white shirt, bold viridian tie. Nothing at all conciliatory about him, clothed in his armour of choice, as if ready for battle. The only thing about him that wasn’t perfect was the stubble on his jaw of a day or two unshaven. The contrast between that casual aberration and the rest of him made her treacherous little heart flutter like the butterflies around the hollyhocks in her garden.
‘Hannah.’
The way he said her name... It tumbled from his lips as if the syllables hurt to speak them. As if it had so much meaning. She wanted to mean something to him, but it was a fool’s game she had no time to play. She knew her place, and needed to remind herself of it, so she dropped herself
into a deep curtsey. ‘Your Highness.’
He winced. ‘There’s no need. Not after—’
‘Of course there’s a need. What did your dossier say? “The first time you meet His Royal Highness in the day, you shall curtsey.”’
‘We’re not in the palace.’
‘No, we’re definitely not.’ She gripped the door, focused on the cut of the wood into her palm. Better that than focusing on the pain in what remained of her heart. ‘Did you come looking for more horses? Because there are none here.’
‘I’m looking for something, but not horses.’
‘And no private secretary to act as a shield between you and me. What a risk-taker you are. How people might talk.’
He dropped his head, looking at the doorstep. To the worn doormat, the faded ‘Welcome’ she’d meant to replace but never seemed to find the time.
‘Any risk to me here is deserved. May I come inside?’
She didn’t want him here and craved him all the same, the emotions confused and jumbled in a way she couldn’t sort out. Curdling in her stomach like an ill-chosen meal.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I need to...talk.’
‘I’m not sure I need to listen.’
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers. ‘I deserve that. But I’d still like you to hear what I have to say. Please.’
She studied him now, in a way she hadn’t allowed herself only moments before. Part curiosity, part need. Those lines around his eyes that creased when he smiled appeared more pronounced, though the look wasn’t a happy one. There were dark smudges underneath his eyes as if she’d run her charcoal-covered fingers there. That thought was a reminder of a blissful afternoon on Stefano’s yacht when everything had seemed so perfect. But she shouldn’t reminisce about those few days—they were long gone. Still, listening didn’t cost her much and might give them both some closure, far enough away from their tortured last day. She stepped back and allowed him in. He crowded out the small entry foyer.
