Royal Marriage Market (30 page)

christian

Three days after Isabelle’s phone call, I am summoned to the Grand Duchess’ office. And once there, it takes all of my self-control not to laugh in her overly Botoxed face. Because the moment I see it, all tight and strained as her fury tries to take root yet remains scarily bland, I know
she
knows.

I owe Isabelle a drink. A whole case of them, even.

She waves her personal secretary out and waits until the door clicks behind him before speaking. “I received a phone call from Prince Gustav this morning that was most . . .” She folds her bony hands in front of her; the knuckles are white in displeasure. “Disappointing.”

Mild curiosity is such a difficult emotion to produce when all you want to do is gleefully shout, “Suck it, She-Wolf!” whilst holding up a middle finger to one’s mother and sovereign.

This is a bloody fantastic moment.

She chews on lemons as she tells me what I already know. Fumes when she laments the loss of assured connections to Vattenguldia. Seethes when she paints Isabelle as a weak, pathetic excuse for a royal. When she’s done frothing at the mouth, I don’t give her what she wants, or hell, even expects, from me. I don’t exhibit any outrage, nor do I share with her the joy that comes from hearing her plans have gone to hell in a hand basket. I merely nod to acknowledge I’ve heard her words, and then I wait to be dismissed.

She no longer has anything to blackmail me over. My father, my brother . . . even Parker are currently safe for now. I just need to ensure it stays that way.

Right when I’m to leave the room, she says, “Christian, actions such as Isabelle’s will not be tolerated in this household.”

I turn back toward her, ensuring my face is blank.

“If you or Lukas ever dare to disobey me, or sully our line by marrying outside of whom I approve, you will regret the day you were born into this illustrious family.”

I’m in too good of a mood to be so ungenerous. I’ll give her a little parting gift. The door swings open wide. Her personal secretary is at his desk, and there are a few other aides milling about. “Too late, Your Highness. I already regret being in this so-called illustrious family. I think anyone would, when they have a mother like you. No crown is worth this nightmare.”

I finally break into the smile that’s been chasing me as her indignant howling shadows my departure. It’s music to my ears.

chapter 46

Elsa

“Now that your sister has ruined her life,” my mother is saying, “we expect you to uphold the Vasa family traditions and do our family proud.”

She is overseeing my packing for Paris. Normally this is something Charlotte does, but after Isabelle’s departure and my voiced arguments, it appears Her Serene Highness does not trust me to properly pack for the trip. Worse yet, Charlotte is not even to come with. My mother’s personal assistant, a meek yet humorless woman named Greta, will have that honor. I suppose it could be worse—my mother could be coming—but there are several local commitments she cannot abandon.

I am officially in medieval, locked-in-a-tower, princess hell.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask from the armchair I’ve been relegated to. Greta, freshly exiting the closet with an armful of dresses and coats, flinches at my vitriol. “No, really. Are you fucking kidding me?”

My name is a warning from Her Serene Highness’ blood red lips.

I am beyond angry, and her disapproval does nothing to stem the foul language she abhors from shooting out of my mouth. For days now, all I have heard from my parents and sovereigns is:
Get to Paris; ensure the press believes the love story is real and magical.
In response, I once more informed Mat that I did not want us to marry. I flat-out asked if he was being blackmailed into this union of ours. All I got was telling silence. Well, silence and a sigh that filled my ear with an alarming amount of distressed resignation.

Anxiety crawls over my skin.
I cannot believe this is happening. This is really happening.

“Why do you desire me to marry this man so much?” Greta scurries back into the closet as I shout at the woman who gave birth to me. “What kind of mother does this to her own flesh and blood?”

I want answers from someone.
Anyone
.

The woman whose looks I favor stands up, smoothing her slacks. “A desperate one.”

It is enough to knock my self-righteousness off balance. Desperate? Desperate for what? The updated technological systems for our shipping fleets? Most of Vattenguldia’s commerce comes from corporations based in other lands flying under our flags for a fee usually much less than their home countries. Our personal shipping fleets are miniscule.

Why are they so keen on updating a few dozen ships?

“Why desperate?” I crowd her personal space. Warning bells blare in my ears. “Talk to me, Mother. Perhaps together, we can figure out a solution to whatever problem you’re worried about if we simply—”

She turns and exits my apartments before I finish my question, but not before she issues a sharp order for Greta to ensure I receive a proper night’s rest before I depart for Paris in the morning.

I march over to my desk and extract a sheet of paper. Then I write a letter to Charlotte, demanding she quiz Josef about shipping technology . . . and to share what dirt she’s dug up on Mat’s family and situation.

I will get my answers one way or another. I must.

chapter 47

Christian

“Are you sure about this?”

Lukas slides a beer my way, his dark eyes uncharacteristically hard to read, but that’s okay. I know what my little brother is asking, what the true questions behind the five simple yet weighted words are. More so, I know exactly how he feels about it, even if he won’t outright say it.

It’s just the two of us right now. Parker is already downstairs, waiting for me, but I needed to ensure I spoke with my brother before I got on the plane.

The beer is stout and foamy, just like I prefer. I let the bitterness twist down my throat before I answer him.

“Yeah, I am.”

He nods slowly.

I set the glass down. “Were there any problems?”

My brother’s stout remains untouched. “None that I can tell. But, we can trust Gunnar. He’s . . . unconventional, but he gets the job done.”

It’s my turn to nod. “Keep me updated. I want everything in place, just in case . . .”

Just in case the She-Wolf gets wind of familial treachery.

Luk blows out a hard breath. Then he proffers his fist. Mine knocks his, and then I stand up to leave.

chapter 48

Elsa

Greta napped the entire way to Roissy Airport, which was fine by me. It was probably good for her, too, considering the extreme toxicity of my mood. Their Serene Highnesses actually accompanied me to the airport to personally ensure I boarded our private jet. There were a few tense moments in which I feared they would climb the airstairs alongside me. Instead, my father said quietly, “I know you are displeased with the situation—”

“I am more than displeased.” It was the frostiest voice I had ever used with him before. At that moment, it did not feel as if I were speaking with my father. In a lot of ways, it did not feel as if I was speaking to my sovereign.

I was communicating with a jailer.

“There are moments in every sovereign’s life that are less for the betterment of ourselves and more for the common good, Elsa.”

“Your Highness, I say this with all the respect afforded a crown heir to her lord father, but unless you are here to inform me you value my life and choices as an individual and your daughter rather than a piece of chattel you can use to further your personal agenda, I would really rather get on the jet so I might go whore myself to the rich man you have selected for me.”

That infuriated him, which was entirely acceptable. I was pretty pissed off myself.

For years, I looked up to my father. He is not perfect, not by a long shot. But he is a mostly good and popular Prince who loves Vattenguldia immensely. I strove to be like him, to also be a beacon of hope and service to our constitutional monarchy. And now . . . now I no longer know what to think, let alone feel toward him or my mother.

The Chambérys
reserved me rooms at one of the most luxurious of hotels in all of Paris. My suite is gorgeous and opulent, to be sure, but beauty means nothing if it comes at the expense of a loss of personal freedom.

Thankfully, Greta is to stay in a different room on an entirely different floor. I think the both of us are relieved at such a set-up. She is a nice woman, but she’s no nanny. And she shouldn’t be, for goodness’ sake. She’s the personal secretary to the Queen of Vattenguldia. There is no good reason she ought to be hovering over her Hereditary Princess as if, once she looks away, I might drown myself in drugs or dance naked upon bar tops.

“Is there anything else I might get for you tonight, my lady? Perhaps room service?”

My eyes remain on the stunning view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance when I let Greta know I am tired and wish only for sleep.

“Do not hesitate to ring if you change your mind,” she tells me. “Oh, and there are some lovely gifts for you on one of the tables in the sitting room.”

I wait for the click of the door to signal her departure before I wander over to see what she is referring to.

A huge bouquet of flowers from Mat await me—or rather, from the
Chambérys
.
Welcome to France
, the card reads.
We look forward to getting to know you
.

It’s enough to make me want to shred every single one of the lovely blooms.

Next to the flowers is a welcome basket from the hotel, filled with fruits, chocolates, wine, and various other treats that they foolishly believe will tempt me into believing I have just stepped into heaven.

The bitterness inside me triples.

I am about to head off to take a shower when I spy another item on the table. Unobtrusively tucked between the flowers and the basket is a small box with a blue ribbon around it, no note attached.

I carefully unwrap the ribbon and peek within the box. Inside is a smartphone, with a yellow sticky note on top that instructs me to turn it on.

I am intrigued enough to do so.

The phone is unassuming. There are no apps other than what comes on the base model, nothing to indicate one way or another what it is all about. I turn the slim rectangle over in my hand, but it’s unmarked.

I tap open the contacts list—aha. There is a number programmed in, belonging to a C with a number I know all too well. And just seeing it here makes me want to cry and laugh all at once.

Oxygen floods my blood when a shaky finger touches the call button. Then . . . Ringing. Only, the chime in my ear is also somewhere nearby.

And it emanates from just beyond my hotel door.

I lose the ground beneath my kitten-heeled feet, all the air in my lungs dissipating until I am weightless and freefalling toward the door. So it makes sense when his achingly familiar voice, filtering through the plastic and metal in my hand to deep within my ear and soul, leaves me questioning wakefulness.