I only hope I look half as natural as he does.
“Father favors people who know when to hold their tongue,” Christian whispers as we near what appears to be the dining room. It is the only room in the entire hallway with the doors thrown open and two guards standing patrol outside. “So, feel free to let me do most of the talking.”
“So, business as usual?” I quip before I remember we aren’t on friendly terms.
Christian chuckles. “That is the exact behavior you’ll want to rein in.”
Because I’m not good enough. Because I’m an unfit match for the Prince of Sigmaran. Because I’m a common American with poor manners.
The confidence I gathered in my room is fading quickly, and even though I want to be offended that Christian has essentially put a gag on me, I’m grateful for an excuse to sit and observe. If I want the next two weeks to be even slightly successful, I’ll need to pay close attention to everything. Every interaction and gesture, every greeting and departure. There are codes of conduct here I’ve never had to worry about, and I’m afraid the hours I spent watching videos online won’t be enough to save me.
Christian must be able to sense my nerves because just before we turn to walk into the room and face his family, he slides his hand up and into mine, tangling our fingers together. I’m distracted enough with the trembling in my knees that I don’t resist.
“Don’t lose it on me now, Jane-Ann. You look too good not to show off.”
The doubt inside of me eases ever so slightly. If all else fails, at least I look the part.
Christian’s family are sitting at the table when we arrive, and despite the lavishness of the room and their dress, I’m surprised by how ordinary they look. His youngest brother, Niles, is kicking his feet against the table, which probably costs more than my car, and his mother is pointing to her middle son, Jory, telling him to adjust the collar of his button down. He does so, but with a grimace.
Erikson is the first one to look up as we enter, but his eyes dart down to his plate as soon as our eyes meet. He looks so much like what I imagine Christian must have looked like at his age. Tousled hair, pouty scowl, the roundness of his face beginning to give way to what would become hard edges and lines. He will grow up to be a heartbreaker like his brother, there is no doubt.
“Family,” Christian says in a very casual greeting.
I was prepared to curtsy again and greet them all individually, but Christian leads me to my chair and pulls it out for me, letting me know that won’t be necessary.
“Sorry we are late,” I say in the accent I picked up from a lifetime of old Hollywood movies. “It was my fault.”
“Now, Lady Ann,” the King says, leaning forward on his elbows. “Has Christian already convinced you to begin lying for him?”
Panic grips my chest, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I know my mouth is gaping like I’m a suffocating fish, but I can’t stop it. What does he mean? What does he know? Is this my opportunity to confess?
Before I can completely unravel, the King continues. “I don’t believe Christian has ever been on time a day in his life. He was born two weeks late, and he has been late ever since.”
I sag with relief, and Christian reaches under the table and grips my knee.
“Perhaps that is why Ann and I make such a good pair,” Christian says. “We both like to be fashionably late.”
“You’ll have to educate me on this new fashion,” his father says with a smile that reminds me of a cat showing an enemy its teeth. “I came from an era where it was more important to be polite and punctual.”
The tone is light, but the delivery is pointed. Christian had mentioned on a few occasions that his relationship with his family is strained, but I’d assumed it was in the same way that my relationship with my family is strained. Like how, politically, I lean left of center while my parents lean right. It creates a bit of tension on holidays when the topic comes up, but otherwise we are fine. The tension between Christian and his father seems to go beyond political ideology.
“What Christian lacks in timeliness, he makes up for in charm,” I say quickly, smiling up at Christian fondly.
He raises one eyebrow, and I can tell he is remarking on my acting ability. I vow to never tell him I didn’t have to act at all.
“You’re right there,” his mother says, clearly relieved to have avoided the potential land mine. “Christian has always had the ability to work a room. From an early age, people simply flocked to him. It is what will make him a good leader.”
“Leadership is more than likability,” the King says. “You have to be able to make the tough decisions. To make enemies from time to time. You can’t run away any time things get serious.”
The Queen furrows her brow at her husband in warning, and he shrugs as if to ask what he did wrong. As if he doesn’t already know.
“Things are serious between us, aren’t they, dear?” I ask, leaning into Christian, my lips pushed out in an exaggerated pout. “Are you going to run away?”
He leans forward and presses his nose to mine. It is a move that would elicit a groan from me if I’d seen it happen in a movie, but in real life, with his lips so close and his eyes boring into mine, it takes every bit of strength not to close the gap between us.
“Never, darling,” he says with an intensity I didn’t expect. “I’m afraid you are stuck with me.”
“You two are adorable,” the Queen says, resting her chin on her folded hands. “How did you meet again?”
Christian takes the lead here, diving into the intricate story he concocted of how we met one another through friends of friends during a summer I spent abroad. We became quick friends and decided to keep in touch. We emailed and wrote each other letters over the years until I was his confidante and he was mine. The story is so romantic I almost wish it could be true.
Just as I’m beginning to fall for the fiction, Christian weaves in the truth.
“And then I flew to America last year,” he says, turning to me, though he is having a hard time looking me in the eyes. “We met up, and as soon as I saw her, I knew my feelings had changed into something new. Something I’d never felt before.”
Niles scrunches up his nose and sticks out his tongue, and Christian throws a napkin at him.
“But there were so many obstacles in the way,” he continues. “She lived in America, and I was bound to Sigmaran. She had a life she loved that I couldn’t pull her away from, so I ignored my feelings for as long as I could. I pushed them down to try and do what was right for her, what was fair. But then…”
Tyler. He can’t say it, but I see our son in his eyes.
“You almost married Lady Freyja?” Jory offers.
The table tenses at the mention of Christian’s ex-girlfriend, but Christian just nods.
“Yes. I realized I needed more in my life. I realized I deserved happiness, so I flew back to win her heart, and now, here we are.”
Emotion tightens my throat, so I do the only thing I can do. The thing that, thankfully, seems the most realistic. I smile up at Christian just as a tear rolls down my cheek.
His eyebrows raise in concern before he reaches out and brushes the tear away. His fingers hold vigil against my skin for a moment, whispering across my skin. I feel the urge to lean into his hand, to let him hold me up, but this has gone on too long already. I pull away from him and sniffle, turning back to the table with an embarrassed smile.
“And clearly,” I begin, “it didn’t take much for Christian to win me over. I’m a softy.”
The table laughs and then dinner is served.
The food is incredible, and I’m distracted enough by the tender meat, salty gravies, and freshly baked bread, that I don’t overly concern myself with my table manners. Christian seems relaxed through the entire meal, so I assume I must not be committing any sins too atrocious.
The longer we spend at the table, the more Erikson begins to open up. He still won’t look at me for more than a glance, b
ut he gets into a passionate debate with Christian about the merits of his favorite football team over his older brother’s.
I don’t follow the conversation at all, and Christian only takes a break from making the point that his favorite team doesn’t need to overpay for celebrity players because “they have raw talent that, when developed, will rival any team of celebrity all-stars” to tell me that the football they are talking about is actually soccer.
“No, it’s actually football. What even is ‘soccer’?” Jory asks. “What kind of word is that?”
“Don’t be rude,” the Queen says, breaking a rather long silence.
“He won’t offend me,” I assure her with a smile. “I don’t know a thing about soccer. Or football. My family preferred going to the race track.”
“Oh, horses?” Niles asks excitedly.
“No, cars. My father raced Formula One before I was born, so it’s in my blood. I practically lived at the race track as a kid. I even got to help out on a pit crew once. I just held a wrench, wore a greasy jumpsuit, and tried not to get in the way, but it was fun.”
Everyone at the table collectively furrows their brows in a moment of confusion, and Christian looks over at me, his expression uncommonly clenched.
Suddenly, I remember where I am. Who I am. Lady Ann Callister wouldn’t spend her time in greasy jumpsuits with racers. She would have devoted her time to more noble pursuits. To hobbies worthy of a character from a Jane Austen novel.
“That certainly seems like an…interesting family outing,” the Queen says, clearly confused by my admission.
I don’t know how much she knows about American culture, but I hope it isn’t much. If she’s ever seen a race on television—or the rowdy beer commercials in between—I may have just tarnished her opinion of me beyond repair.
Christian lays a hand on my shoulder and leans forward as if telling me a secret, though he is talking loud enough for the table to hear. “Mother was afraid to let me go to any sporting events. She was afraid the passion and enthusiasm of the crowd would turn me wild.”
“You were very susceptible back then,” she says seriously, though there is fondness in her smile. “I couldn’t allow you to be one of those men who take off their shirt and paint their chest.”
“Yes, I know, Mother,” Christian teases. “You were only keeping me out of trouble. I’m sure you are right, and I would have made a clear fool out of myself.”
“If only she could have kept you away from the bars,” the King interjects. Once again, his tone is jovial, but the words are targeted, and they find their mark.
The Queen’s smile fades, and I see the three younger princes lower their heads, as though ducking to protect themselves from an imminent explosion.
Christian adjusts in his seat, and I can tell he’s itching to respond. To defend himself. But he won’t. As he told me in the hallway, his father prefers people who know how to stay quiet, and now I understand why. It is so he can walk all over them without being challenged. The people of Sigmaran may allow such behavior, but I’m an American, and he isn’t my king.
“If only the people were led to understand that even a prince deserves a well-lived life,” I say as innocently as I can.
Christian turns to me, a warning in his eyes. He wants me to stand down, but I won’t.
“Well-lived?” the King asks.
I swallow back my nerves and nod. “An animal kept in captivity will always yearn for what is beyond the bars of its cage, though it will not have the means to survive in the wild. Isn’t it better for a royal, whose insulation from the world is a certain kind of captivity, to know what it means to walk among the people? To know what it means to be a normal young man without the pressures of the crown on his head? Then, he can choose to rule from the safety of his cage, and rule all the better because of his knowledge of the world.”
The table is quiet enough that I’m certain every member of Christian’s family can hear the thrum of my heart in my chest. Still, I lift my chin and look at the King.
He is studying me, his finger running along the rim of his glass while he thinks. I imagine him ordering me to be thrown from the room or worse, sending everyone else away so he can talk to me alone. Finally, he brings his hand to the side of his face and leans into his palm, a smile spreading slowly across his face. He looks at Christian.
“You found yourself a politician, Christian.”
I do not know whether it is a compliment, and I look from the King to Christian and back again.
“She was able to turn your gallivanting into an asset better than I ever could.” The King turns to me, a bushy eyebrow raised. “I think Christian will rule all the better not because of his years of debauchery, but because he will have a woman like you by his side.”
I don’t know what to say, so I simply tip my head forward.
My intention in speaking had been to defend Christian, to force the King to see that his son is a kind man who had remained loyal to his country in everything—the current lie not counting against his track record—and would make a fine king someday. I certainly never imagined it would earn me the King’s favor. But based on the way Christian’s hand is patting my knee beneath the table and his lips are turned down at the corners, fighting a smile, I know he counts this as a win. So I will, too.
When we get back to his house, Christian offers me his arm as I’m getting out of the car, and I accept it, letting him lead me down the main hallway to my room.
“You were incredible tonight,” he says softly, though it still feels too loud in the cavernous hallway. Unlike the bustle of the main palace, servants and maids flitting from room to room like birds, Christian’s house is quiet. I know there are guards maintaining the perimeter, but otherwise, we are alone. I can’t decide whether I’d like there to be more witnesses or not.
“I didn’t hold my tongue,” I say, walking on my toes to keep my heels from tapping so aggressively against the marble floors.
“Thank God for that.” Christian pauses for a second and then laughs at the memory. “My father refused to concede that you made a good point, because doing so would mean conceding that he has been wrong about me for the last ten years. But he did compliment your ability to spin a narrative, which is not nothing.”
“I like your family.”
Christian snaps his head to look at me, an eyebrow raised. “Not even you can spin that narrative, Jane-Ann.”
“I’m serious.” I disentangle my arm from his and look over at him. The hallway is dark, so his face is half in shadow. I’m glad. It makes it harder to focus on the fine details of him. “Your brothers look so much like you. Your mother is kind. Your father is…”
“A tyrant?” he offers. “A sadist?”
“Intense,” I say, thinking carefully about how to phrase this. “But I see some of him in you.”
Christian jolts and places a hand to his chest. “If you seek to wound me, your words have found their mark.”
“It isn’t an insult.” I laugh despite myself.
Christian’s other hand moves to rest on top of mine. The gentle touch makes me silent and still.
“It’s good to hear you laugh,” he says, his walk slowing. He is trying to make the most of the little bit of hallway we have left before I reach my room. “I wasn’t sure I’d hear it again. Not when it was real, anyway.”
I don’t know what to say. I’d planned to maintain the silent treatment when we were alone once again. Not to punish Christian, but because it was easier than letting him in. Easier than remembering how easily we can talk and laugh. But one family dinner later, and I’ve lowered my guard again.
As much as my heart wants me to raise the bridge and draw inward, I don’t think I can. If I close Christian out, I’ll be completely alone in Sigmaran. The country and his family believe me to be Lady Ann Callister, and he is the only person who can remind me of who I really am. The only person who can make me feel a little less crazy for lying to everyone.
&nbs
p; “I can’t reasonably ask any more of you than I already have,” he says, grabbing my hand and moving until he is standing in front of me, blocking the path to my bedroom door. “But I’d like to request that you…talk to me. At least about Tyler. You are the only person I can talk to about him.”
I stiffen. I hadn’t even thought of that. Of how lonely it must be for Christian to not be able to tell anyone about his son. My mom has taken to showing Tyler’s picture to every cashier at every store she visits, yet Christian can’t tell his own family about his child. How lonely.
“He looks like you,” I say quietly, looking up at him from beneath my lashes.
Christian’s eyebrows raise, eagerness written all over his face.
I continue, “He has your mouth, and his eyes are still settling into their final color, but Blakely thinks they’ll be the color of yours.”
Christian seems to sag with relief, like a puppet held up by strings that someone has finally cut loose. “I miss him. So much. I want to see him all the time.”
“I should have sent more pictures,” I say, guilt rising inside of me like bile. “I was angry with you, but that shouldn’t affect how I let you be involved—”
Christian leans down so his face is directly in front of mine, chiseled and square and perfect. He shakes his head. “You did nothing wrong, Jane-Ann. I made this mess, and you were just trying to wade through it.”
His words do little to assuage my guilt, but I nod. “Are we going to fix it?”
“That’s why you’re here,” he says, head tilted to the side. “If I can get my family to ease back on marrying me off, I’ll find someone who will let me be there for Tyler. And for you.”
Someone else. Someone who isn’t me. I repeat these words to myself over and over again until they stick. Until my traitorous heart stops fluttering at the sight of him. He isn’t mine. He is never going to be mine.
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