It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5)

by Clare Connelly

  “I’m so sorry,” Chloe murmured, and the hand she placed on his forearm was gentle.

  “It was a long time ago,” the words were gruff. “She moved to the southern provinces and lived her life quietly. Away from the palace, away from my father.”

  “Away from you,” Chloe said softly, her expression full of sympathy.

  Raffa hated it and somehow, on some level, needed it too. “I was too busy to notice.”

  “Liar.” She shifted her body, angling herself so she was in front of him completely, her back framed to the view of the dawn, her nearness intoxicating on every level. “She rejected you.”

  “She was sick,” he corrected warningly.

  “But you were a child. Five years old, you said. How could you have seen it as anything other than rejection?”

  Raffa stared at her without speaking.

  “And she died when you were fifteen.” Chloe swallowed, her eyes showing hesitation and despair.

  “Say it,” Raffa demanded. “Ask what you want to know.”

  Chloe bit down on her lip, her expression apologetic. But when she spoke, it was with confidence and conviction. “Was it an accident?”

  “That’s what the press says,” he muttered thickly.

  “But was it?”

  “My mother’s car crashed into a tree. She shouldn’t have been driving, she didn’t drive often. I believe it was an accident, Chloe, yes. I believe she got behind the wheel and lost control.”

  Chloe nodded. “I believe it too.” But anguish was obvious in her expression. She lifted up on tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was a small, simple gesture, but it was a first for them. Not the first time they’d kissed, but the first time it had been borne out of a need to comfort and reassure, rather than driven by passion and lust.

  “But he did kill her,” Raffa said after a moment, when Chloe was still close enough that his chest was brushing her soft, round breasts. “He gave her his love and then took it away. He replaced her, after she’d given him an heir, and she never moved on. She never recovered. She was miserable for the rest of her life.”

  Raffa’s eyes locked to Chloe’s, fierce determination marked in his features. “Loving my father killed her.”

  “And so you married the bride Malik chose for you – you married me, because ultimately it didn’t matter,” Chloe said. It was a strange statement, yet she delivered it with the same cool composure that she almost always brought to their conversations.

  “I married a bride who made sense,” he said, and his hand lifted of its own accord, cupping her cheek. “I married a woman I didn’t love, who didn’t love me, because it was a reasonable way to ensure no one else was hurt.”

  His words bounced around Chloe’s mind like tiny little darts. He’d married a woman he didn’t love. And that was true! Neither of them had known one another well, let alone claimed to feel anything remotely like love. So why was his assertion, his calmly delivered summation, lighting little fires beneath her skin?

  She stepped away from him on the pretense of filling a glass with water, and she sipped it to regain her composure and marshal her thoughts.

  He’d seen his parents’ marriage fall apart – he must have been too young to watch its demise, but the after-effects would have permeated every stage of his youth.

  “We were both estranged from one of our parents,” Chloe said, more to herself than anything. “Your mother, my father – two people we hardly knew.”

  “Yes.” She didn’t need to turn around to know he was right behind her, so close that the single word breathed across her neck.

  “Have you spoken to your father about this?”

  “It’s ancient history now,” Raffa said gruffly.

  She turned around, and he was right there, his body so close that only a paper’s width separated them. “Not for you. It’s still inside you, right here.” She pressed a finger to his chest. “You love him, but you’re angry with him too. Talk to him. Give him a chance to explain.”

  A muscle jerked in Raffa’s cheek. “Why? What good could come of it?”

  “It might change your outlook on life,” Chloe said haltingly. “It might change your outlook on everything. People, relationships, decisions.” Our marriage…

  “No, habibte. I’m grateful to my parents for showing me the futility of love. The futility of fantasy and romance and dreams. I was born to be King to my country – that is my duty, and it is my love. That is all I care about – what’s best for Ras el Kida.”

  Chloe’s eyes swept shut for a moment as more pieces slid into place. He wanted to do what was best for Ras el Kida, and that meant providing the country with an heir – and for that, she was instrumental.

  There was nothing more between them. She had to remember that, even when her foolish heart was galloping hard and fast inside of her.

  This wasn’t love; it was dynasty.

  9

  “YOUR HIGHNESS,” AYSHA BOWED low as she approached Chloe, drawing her attention away from the book she was reading (she was well-past the Beast now, and had moved onto the story of a bird, with wide wings that glistened silver underneath, that flew high over the desert, singing the song of a thousand children laughing).

  “What is it, Aysha?”

  “Mister Amit has asked to see you.” An infinitesimal frown showed a hint of disapproval, and Chloe was instantly intrigued. “I have told him you are working.”

  “I’m reading a book of fairy tales,” Chloe chided with a small smile.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t think he should have come here?”

  Aysha chose her words carefully. “I think he shouldn’t call on you.”

  Chloe arched a brow. “You know his relationship to my husband,” she said boldly, sounding unaffected by the fact her husband had a child with another woman. “He’s family, Aysha. As far as I’m concerned, he can call anytime he likes.”

  Aysha’s frown deepened. “But you are Sheikha…”

  “Amit is one of the only people I know here at the palace. Would you deprive me a friend?”

  “He’s a twelve year old boy…”

  “And I enjoy his company.” Chloe stood, her expression showing determination. “Where is he?”

  “Waiting outside.”

  “You left him in the hallway?” She said, disbelief on her face. “Aysha,” she reprimanded gently. “He is family.” She said the word with reverence – odd, given that she hadn’t known enough of family to intrinsically rely on it so deeply.

  “Yes, your highness,” Aysha said with a sigh of disagreement. “I’ll let him in.”

  “Don’t bother,” Chloe softened her rejoinder with a smile. “I’ll go.”

  “Your highness!” Ayshas’ exasperation was evident. “It’s not appropriate --,”

  Chloe laughed. “I want to go for a walk, Aysha. I was just going to finish my chapter and then go out, anyway.”

  “As you wish.”

  Chloe knew Aysha well enough to know that her servant was showing utter frustration, and even though she didn’t agree with her, she appreciated her servant’s concern.

  Spontaneously, Chloe leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Aysha’s cheek. “You take good care of me.”

  Aysha’s eyes sparkled. “Will you return for dinner?”

  Chloe’s heart turned over. Raffa. He rarely joined her for dinner, but each night she wondered if he would appear earlier, to sit opposite her and talk with her, to smile at her, to eat with her before they went to bed.

  “Yes.” Heat simmered in her blood. “I won’t be long.”

  When she stepped into the wide hallway, with its golden wallpaper and huge arrangements of native flowers, she found Amit leaning against a wall. Twelve was a funny age. Not yet an adult, but no longer a child, there was an awkward in-between-ness about the boy that pulled at the fibers of her heart.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, smiling encouragingly.

  Amit’s lips flicked with a smile o
f his own. “I have something for you.”

  “You do?”

  “It’s in the library.”

  “Well, then, let’s go to the library.”

  “You grew up in America,” Amit asked after they’d turned the corner.

  Chloe nodded. “In Seattle.”

  “With the space needle?”

  She caught Raffa’s eye and smiled. “Yes.”

  “Do you miss it.”

  She thought about that for a moment. Her childhood had been miserable. Lonely. Bleak. The weather always rained. And yet, there was a tenderness in her heart, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with Seattle. She had told herself she would stay cold, remain unaffected by her husband, and yet she felt the pull of his appeal more strongly than ever before, and not just the way his body made hers sing. The pain in her heart had nothing to do with Seattle, she knew, and everything to do with the loveless marriage she found herself in.

  “Not really. I miss certain things,” she said after a moment. “But that’s what happens when you move, especially overseas.”

  “I’ve always lived here, in the palace.”

  “I would imagine so,” she said with a nod.

  They came to a set of marble stairs, bound on one side by a wide balustrade, white and gold, and on the other by huge portraits of the royal family. Chloe had seen many portraits, in the gallery every family member from the middle ages was featured. But these were different, because they were photographs. Still formal in nature, but somehow more illicit, as though she’d peeled back the corner of a private moment and seen something special and intimate.

  As they passed a full-size picture of Raffa with his father, Chloe was struck anew by the likeness Amit bore to his predecessors. She doubted Raffa had ever been awkward, not for a day in his life, but their eyes, their physiques – there was a clear family resemblance that had her pressing a hand to her flat stomach.

  Would their baby take after Raffa so strongly? Would their baby be a boy? Another son, this one acknowledged? And how would that make Amit feel?

  Pain that her most deeply-cherished hopes had the potential to inflict anything like hurt on this boy almost made her miss her footing, so that Amit place a hand under her elbow, his instincts razor sharp.

  “I’m okay,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I was just distracted.”

  Would Amit hate their child? Resent him? Resent the place the infant, the heir, had in Raffa’s life and heart? And could she blame him?

  They turned down another corridor, this one lined with the most glorious navy-blue wallpaper and works of ancient art. The library was at the end, two enormous stained-glass windows stood sentry to the collection of books that was as old as time. Before books, there were scrolls, and these were housed at the royal palace.

  Academics often came to study them.

  “What is it?” Chloe asked as they entered, taking in the beautiful visage of this space, the reassuring tenor it had, the sense of harmony generated by so many books.

  “This way.” He guided her deeper into the room, to a space near one of the many windows. They were tinted dark, so as to help preserve the books, but this one had been thrown open, so that a slice of afternoon sunshine perforated the room. And set to gain full advantage of it was an easel.

  “Have a look.” The heat that had started in Amit’s cheeks spread through his whole face now, and Chloe frowned, wondering what she’d see on his art stand.

  When she rounded the easel, she understood the reason for his embarrassment. He’d drawn Chloe. It was a very good likeness of her face, her eyes staring straight ahead, her lips slightly parted, as if she’d been caught in a moment of surprise. Her hair was down, falling loose over her shoulders, so she knew Amit had used his imagination to supply the detail, as she was sure she’d never had her hair loose around him.

  “It’s excellent,” she said truthfully. “It looks just like me.”

  Amit’s smile was rich with the pleasure that such unqualified praise could give. “I intend to frame it and give it the Sheikh. I know it’s nothing compared to the formal portrait you’ll have done, but I thought…”

  “He’ll love it,” Chloe said, wishing with all her heart that was true. Though the artwork was excellent, the picture striking for its perfect likeness to her, she doubted Raffa would ever spare it more than a passing glance. And she wished, with all that she was, for that not to be the case.

  “I did others,” Amit said, and now, he was an artist, not an awkward twelve-year-old boy. He lifted the page and gently laid it on a side table, revealing another picture of Chloe. In this one, she was smiling, and her hair was up, though tendrils fell around her face.

  “These really are very good,” Chloe murmured, lifting the piece herself now, looking beneath it to find a page covered with dozens of small Chloes. Then just eyes and noses, lips, fingers.

  “Practice,” he said with an apologetic shrug.

  “Amazing.”

  She replaced the top piece of paper and then turned to him. “Thank you, Amit. I think you’re very talented.”

  “It’s nothing,” he demurred.

  “Not at all. I couldn’t draw to save my life. When did you learn?”

  “I don’t know if I ever learned, so to speak. It’s just something I worked out I could do one day.” He studied the picture of her with a critical eye, then lifted his attention to Chloe’s face. When he looked at her, it was as a craftsman might appraise a block of marble, searching it for crenulations and ridges, for the unique marks that made it distinguishable. “I must get it from my mother,” he said with a wry smile, moving away from her to pull the window closed, darkening the room once more. “My father hasn’t an artistic bone in his body.”

  Chloe nodded in agreement, but inside, something churned. Raffa mightn’t be an artist, but he was a work of art. All six and a half feet of him, broadly muscled, so wonderfully framed, his long hair, his intelligent eyes.

  Chloe and Amit spent several more hours together, wandering the palace, and Amit told her lots of facts she hadn’t known. The history of various wings, the hallway, the paintings that hung. On the subject of the native flowers he was particularly knowledgeable. He knew their botanical names as well as their ordinary, and from where each came. Each had been gathered from different parts of Ras El Kida, selected for their beauty but also for their significance.

  “Peace is still relatively new to our people, Your Highness,” he said, as they approached her suite of rooms. “My grandfather would remember a time when each corner of this kingdom was at war, brutally murdering, stealing, violence erupting over the smallest of matters. The tradition of this family is part of the symbolism of unification.”

  “Strange then that your grandfather would insist on me becoming Sheikha.”

  “Not really.” He shrugged. “I mean, not when you consider the alternatives.”

  “What were the alternatives?”

  “Two brides from powerful families that hated one another. Both had been … of interest… to the Sheikh. He could marry neither without causing extreme offence to the other, and thus risking a return to hostilities.” Amit’s smile showed he had no idea that Chloe hadn’t known this fact. “Lucky I will never have to think of such things, eh?”

  Chloe returned his smile but it felt heavy on her face. “Lucky indeed.”

  She was distracted over dinner. Raffa didn’t join her, and left to her own devices and thoughts, her mind shifted this new piece of information. It was something she wished she’d known earlier. It wouldn’t have changed how she felt. But it might have answered questions that had been weighing heavily inside of her. Both of their fathers had wanted this marriage; she had agreed because she’d wanted to honour her father, who had never even cared that she was alive. And she’d agreed because she’d loved Malik. She’d hoped he had loved her too. That at least one of the men who was instrumental in her instalment as Sheikha of this great kingdom had brought her into this marriage
because of love and affection.

  And maybe that was true.

  Maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t matter – because either way, Chloe’s marriage existed to stop a potential war. And their baby would cement that.

  What had she thought? That there was no one else in Raffa’s life? No other bridal contender? How foolish. Of course there had been. Of course there had been many!

  He had a child, for goodness sake.

  It wasn’t that which hurt her.

  It was the purely mercenary justification for their marriage. It was the certainty that he hadn’t married her for his father, for love of anyone; it had been love of his country, just as he’d said.

  And was that so bad?

  A week later, there was an official function at the palace, the kind of event Chloe had used to avoid like the plague, unless formally summoned by her husband. There had been no need for Raffa to summons her on this occasion.

  He’d sent word from his staff to hers that she’d be expected in the ballroom by nine o’clock, and an hour later, a dress had arrived along with a seamstress, who made` sure it fitted perfectly.

  It was the kind of attention to detail he’d never demonstrated before, but now that she was in the palace, Chloe supposed, such considerations were part of the package.

  She was a queen.

  It was only when the dress was zipped in place, and a crown of glorious, sparkling gems placed on top of blonde hair that had been styled in loose waves around her face, that Chloe accepted she’d been running from this fate the whole time.

  She’d married Raffa but she hadn’t really wanted to be his wife. She had married him without truly picking up the mantle of what that meant.

  Well, no longer.

  She straightened her spine, staring back at her reflection. The dress was sensational – a dark green that hugged her torso and then fell into a wide, full skirt, with beading at the very bottom of it, that swished when she walked. She looked every bit the Queen of Ras el Kida and tonight, she would show that to the world.