Would Be King

by Kim Karr

  Tonight, we are previewing Yves Saint Laurent, Chloé, and Hermès. Tomorrow night is Chanel and Louis Vuitton. Then finally Balmain, Givenchy, and Dior.

  Max was able to get Bombshell into all the elite shows, so the next three days will be packed full of look-sees for our little magazine.

  Julia was beyond thrilled.

  Unlike the New York shows, where the shows are centralized in a few big venues, Fashion Week in Paris happens everywhere.

  Anywhere.

  With hopes of keeping the paparazzi to a minimum, the show locations are not publicized and only provided to the attendees at the last minute.

  Bright white lights flash before my eyes, blinding me for a few long seconds.

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  They still seem to find out, though, don’t they?

  They are like fireworks at close range, and I force myself to keep my gaze straight ahead.

  SMILE!

  Yes, I smile.

  A thunderous cheer erupts around us as we walk side by side down the red carpet, which seems miles long, but not touching.

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  “Prince Maximus!”

  “Prince Maximus, are you finally getting married?”

  “Prince Maximus, where have you been?”

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  He’s under siege from all directions.

  Paparazzi take dozens of pictures, their faces hidden behind the long, prying lenses of their black state-of-the-art cameras.

  Catcalls. Whispers. Shouts.

  I hate this for him. That the public always has to know everything about him.

  The metal crowd-control railings don’t seem to work so well. However, when someone gets too close to us, Gabriel rushes to Max’s side to hold the person at bay.

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  “Hey, Prince Maximus!”

  “Look this way!”

  “Tell us who you’re with!”

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  The flashes don’t subside until we reach the entrance, and I swear I’ll be seeing stars all night.

  Looking back, I catch the newest up-and-coming designer, Nico Preen, stepping out of his limousine and the crowd descending on their next victim. He’s wearing gold pants with a ruffled shirt, topped with a red mink jacket.

  “I need to meet him tonight,” I whisper, in awe over his over-the-top style and willingness to flaunt it.

  Leaning down, Max breathes hot in my ear, “Should I be jealous?”

  Without thinking, I slide my hand up to squeeze his shoulder. “Well, you could use a mink or two in your wardrobe,” I say with a wink, and then without thinking again, get on my toes to kiss his cheek.

  His hand snakes around to my ass and splays across it.

  Flash.

  Snap.

  Flash.

  Snap.

  “Give us a real kiss!”

  Caught on camera. I really do need to watch myself. At least this one isn’t so dirty. It’s almost clean.

  Or clean-ish, anyway.

  FOUL DEEDS WILL RISE

  The Casanovia Conquest

  Breaking News

  Caught on Camera—Again

  By Ian Wesley

  This just in.

  Prince Maximus is attending the Hermès show in Paris as I speak. He’s representing his newest business venture—Bombshell. A little fashion magazine said to rival Vogue.

  Word is the woman he’s been photographed with recently is none other than his employee! And he’s with her tonight. Shut up.

  Check out this picture. Her hand. His hand. Her lips.

  It’s like this—would you make out with your boyfriend at your work holiday party? Chances are you would not because it isn’t professional. Right? So even if two co-workers are together, they aren’t going to come right out and tell everyone.

  It’s the same thing with royals, which is why this photo of our bad boy prince grabbing his employee on the butt is so shocking. I hope there’s not a royal lawsuit on the horizon for sexual harassment.

  There’s also royal etiquette and all that good stuff to worry about.

  Our prince can’t seem to stay out of hot water.

  Can he?

  More to come.

  HERMÈS IN A TWIST

  Turns out being with royalty outranks even Vogue. After the most incredible look-see, the attending staff of our small startup magazine is escorted to our seats before everyone else.

  While Julia and Max are immediately asked backstage to meet with the designers, Ava and Hunter excuse themselves to go ‘get drinks’ and that leaves me.

  Alone.

  Sitting in the front row, waiting for everyone to return. THE FRONT ROW. Me. Along with Vogue editors and movie stars and the most famous designers.

  God, I love fashion.

  When a thunderous cheer erupts, I turn around to see who has entered the room.

  “Princess Beatrice! Turn around! Can I have one more picture before you go into the show?”

  “Princess Beatrice, this way.”

  “Princess Beatrice, who are you wearing?”

  Whoever this Princess Beatrice is, she’s being hounded from the reporters on the red carpet even as she enters the room, which is off-limits to the press.

  Yet, she seems to be teetering between the on and off-limits threshold willingly.

  Through the entrance, I spot flashes going off and watch as this woman takes her time, moving elegantly this way and that, adjusting and tweaking her pose ever so slightly with every step.

  Stopping to pose for the cameras, even while in here, it’s as if she’s about to walk the catwalk.

  Like everyone else, I find myself mesmerized by her and watch as she lifts her right hip, crosses her left foot over her right. Walks. Smiles. Bats her lashes.

  “Make love to the camera, Princess Beatrice,” comes a shout from out in the press area.

  Pushing her right shoulder back, she pops her chest out, but not too far, and I’m betting she’s still smiling even after the comment. It’s in her body language that she likes the attention. I stare at her as her left arm goes to her left hip bone, her right arm hanging behind to create the slenderest profile.

  If I hadn’t heard her title, I would swear she’s a model or a movie star. In fact, she looks like a younger Scarlett Johansson, only taller, and thinner, and even more gorgeous.

  Her head is held high because she obviously knows this elongates her neck. She’s been trained.

  So enchanted by her beauty, I watch as she turns her face slightly to the right, raises her chin, shows the room who she is—a woman full of grace and confidence. A powerhouse to be seen.

  Since my head is already twisted, I ask the man behind me, “Where is she from?”

  He turns back to see whom I speaking of, as if he is completely oblivious to her grand entrance. “Oh, that’s Princess Beatrice Hill from the Vespa Isles,” he tells me, and his tone is one of absolute disgust, as if I should already know this, and since I don’t, I might as well just leave.

  Princess Beatrice Hill is impossible to stop looking at. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.

  She has to be at least five feet nine inches tall, and with hair the shiniest reddish gold, she’s an absolute knockout. And her dress, it looks like a million little diamonds have been glued to her incredible shape. It has to be custom-made Valentino. Gorgeous.

  With all eyes still on her, she finally makes her way inside, sashaying toward the front. I nearly die when she enters my row. She’s more than gorgeous. She’s perfect. Huge green eyes, flawless porcelain skin, full heart-shaped lips, and a small dainty nose.

  Ticket in hand, she looks down at me, at her ticket, and then at me again. I feel a cold sweat coat my skin. “I’m so sorry, darling,” she says, her voice thick with a foreign accent, “but I think you might be in my seat.”

  Popping to my feet in total mortification, I rummage through my clutch to find my ticket. Looking at it and
then at the number on the chair, I’m at a loss of what to do. “Are you sure your ticket number states 16A?”

  Getting the same seat assignment as someone else has happened to me on airplanes many times, and who’s to say it can’t happen at Fashion Week?

  Not me.

  Her gaze rakes those big beautifully lashed eyes down my body and back up to my face, and then as if recognizing me, she frowns. In a teary voice she says, “Don’t tell me he brought you with him?”

  A crest of unease washes through me. “Who?”

  “Why Maximus, of course.”

  “Well…” I fumble for words. “Yes, he did. We work together.”

  Her chin lifts. “You do know he’s doing this to embarrass me,” she says, her voice carrying behind us into the second row. “He wants to make sure I understand my place.”

  A shiver of nerves rocks through me, but I force them down. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  There’s a small smirk on her perfect red lips that makes me even more uneasy. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

  I lower my voice. “Tell me what?”

  “That he and I have been betrothed.”

  “Betrothed?” I choke out the word.

  “Yes. Promised to each other,” she explains as if a commoner like me has no idea what that word means. “The King has bequeathed it, so it must be,” she adds, as if sealing that fact with a royal stamp makes it even more important.

  And it does.

  Max is betrothed to someone?

  Bewilderment stirs through my mind. They are to be married? No. I blink at her. Blink again. Max and she are promised to each other? Is that what he needed to speak to his father about?

  Not me but her.

  Not.

  Me.

  Teary-eyed, she takes a seat, in my chair. “It seems Maximus is sowing his oats before the wedding. I thought he’d gotten all of that out of his system over the summer with all those women he was photographed with. But then, this week, he hadn’t come home, and well…the pictures…and now, seeing you here, it’s more than obvious he’s using you—that you’re just another distraction for him.”

  Home?

  He lives with her?

  Slowly, I look down at her.

  At her demeanor.

  Her tears.

  I don’t want to believe her. “Max wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “Oh, no? You can’t possibly think you and him might end up together, do you? I mean, you’re a commoner and he’s second in line to the throne.”

  My heart freezes, and my mind flashes through a barrage of memories. The things Max has eluded to. The things he’s said. The way he’s acted. Often distant. Fucking sessions. No strings.

  My dare.

  I dared him not to fall in love with me…and he did. But love wasn’t his to give. Damn me. The warnings were there. I just didn’t want to see them.

  “I…I should—”

  “There you are darling,” the voice is aristocratic, refined. “Who’s this?” She points to me like I’m the trash someone forgot to take out.

  I twist to my left to see a barrage of security beside this woman. “Queen Genevieve, it appears there’s an issue with the seating arrangements,” Princess Beatrice cries.

  I gulp.

  Queen.

  This is Max’s step-mother or step-monster as he so un-fondly refers to her. The petite woman is covered in jewels with diamond studs in her ears, a sapphire necklace around her throat, and a combination of both twisted around her wrist. She screams royalty in her blue satin gown, even without a crown.

  “What seems to be the problem?” she asks Princess Beatrice.

  “This…this…” Beatrice points to me, stuttering around clogged tears, all of a sudden seeming to have lost her voice.

  Despite the chilly stare, I cross my back leg and curtsey the way Ava showed me. “Your Royal Highness. I’m Gigi. I work for your stepson at Bombshell.”

  Queen Genevieve’s lips pinch together in displeasure as she glares at me. “Work,” she laughs. “You’re the whore from the photos.”

  I step back and almost fall right onto the catwalk. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. This has to be a show of some kind.

  Then the Princess wipes the corners of her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. A monogram that reads, MNM. Maximus Napoleon Montgomery, my stomach somersaults.

  As soon as I see those letters, my knees go weak, and it feels like the entire world drops out from beneath me.

  It’s his.

  He wiped water from my face with it the first day we met, and she’s holding it in her hand.

  Oh, God—she is what he has to take care of.

  And he’s a royal who has been promised to another royal and that means there’s no room for me.

  Unless his plan all along has been for me to be his dirty little secret.

  Just like I have been.

  I stare at them both for a moment before I move to pass by. “You can have the seat. It isn’t a problem.”

  Although I maintain my composure, humiliation showers me like the heat from the lights above, especially when she says, “That’s a very good idea. You probably shouldn’t be seen in the front row near my stepson wearing that dime-store get up.”

  The queen smiles at me with triumph in her cold stare, but I keep my head high and my chin up, ignoring her jab. “Enjoy the show.”

  Passing the security team, I hold my breath to keep my tears at bay. I’m halfway across the room, which seems to have morphed in size, before the first drop falls.

  I wipe it away.

  It’s all I can do.

  SOVEREIGNTY OF REASON

  I can barely see through the crowd.

  People are everywhere and a gaggle of security seems to have ascended from out of nowhere.

  Fucking great.

  Julia stops to talk to someone, but I keep walking. Eager to get back to Gigi, I gaze over toward the front row. Curious, I have to wonder why the majority of the black suits have congregated there.

  Gabriel is in front of me, but luckily, I have an inch or two on him. Still, I see nothing but black suits.

  The lights dim, and it’s the cue to take your seat. Close now, Gabriel steps aside. I stand at the end of the row staring at the woman who shouldn’t be here, the one sitting in the spot I left Gigi.

  Beatrice.

  What the hell?

  And then I glance sideways toward the wicked witch in the seat beside her. The evil Queen Genevieve. The woman, twenty years my father’s junior, who claimed pregnancy to my father to get him to marry her and then lost the child during an attempted assassination of the King while standing at his side.

  “Darling,” the Queen calls to me, waving her hand. “Come quickly, the show is about to start.”

  The blood in my veins boils. Stomping over to them both and stopping between them, I glare down. “Jesus Christ, what are you two doing here?”

  “Don’t cause a scene, Maximus,” Genevieve says through gritted teeth.

  I narrow my gaze. “Where’s Gigi?”

  Getting to her feet, she leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. “She left.”

  I stiffen. “What did you say to her?”

  She steps closer, glances around the room, smiling. Everyone is completely unaware of the tension between us except Gabriel, who is right beside me. “You’re being rude. Sit down before people notice.”

  “I’m being rude?” I hiss.

  “Yes, you should be attending this event with Princess Beatrice, you’re betrothed. Instead you’re chasing a girl like a horny schoolboy.”

  “She’s not a girl. She works for me.” I throw my shoulders back, eyeing her with defiance.

  Her upper lip curls in delight. “Then fire her.”

  Through the haze of my mind, I try to keep level-headed, but I just can’t. Hatred and duty. They spin through me like a goddamned cyclone that blisters my thoughts.

  “She’s embarr
assed our family enough.”

  Family.

  Something snaps inside of me. “I am not your family,” I tell her. Then I point to Beatrice, who is staring up at me all teary-eyed, which I know to be an act. The woman wouldn’t shed a tear for her dying dog. “And I am not marrying her.”

  With that, I whirl around and calmly walk toward the aisle. The music starts to play, loud and booming, and that’s when I spot Gigi. She’s a beautiful swan. With her honey hair, porcelain skin, wide smile, and dewy eyes, she bewitches everyone in her path.

  Focused on her, I practically mow Julia over.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I can’t stay. I have something to take care of.”

  Her brow raises. “Something or someone?” she smiles.

  I try to spot Gigi, but I’ve lost her. “Someone.”

  “Go get the girl you love, Max,” Julia encourages.

  Fuck, she knows.

  Everyone must know.

  It’s me who hasn’t allowed the truth to be seen…for duty’s sake…but I’m about to take care of that.

  Right now.

  CONFESS YOURSELF

  Out on the red carpet, I weave through the bank of waiting press and TV crews. In an attempt to stay out of the limelight, I shuffle back against the railings into the shadows cast by the hazy setting sun.

  Microphones are being thrust in famous people’s faces, a barrage of questions thrown at them from all sides.

  I’m almost invisible here.

  Almost.

  “Watch out, you’re standing on the cables!” an angry French man shouts to my left.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry.” I try to inch out of the way, but in my heels, it isn’t easy.

  Somehow, I stumble and one of the paparazzo behind the rails catches me. “Smile,” he says, snapping my picture.