by Romy Sommer
When the bulk of the wedding party finally head downstairs, Max’s assistant Jens is at the
door with a clipboard and a countdown timer, marshalling everyone into cars. Max’s mother, Anna travels in the first car with her parents, Max’s Californian grandparents. Then Fredrik, Christian and their wives leave in the next vehicle.
“Shouldn’t we go round to the cathedral’s back entrance in an unmarked car?” Fredrik asks, eyeing the luxury sedan parked ready to take them to the church.
“Nope.” Jens is all efficiency. “Max’s orders. You’re part of this procession whether you
like it or not.”
“Well, at least it’s not an open carriage, so I can’t get pelted with rotten tomatoes.”
“No one is going to pelt you with rotten tomatoes,” Teresa says. “Just because you were
disinherited, doesn’t mean the public don’t still love you. They watched you grow up, after all.
You’re still their prince, even if you’re not their Archduke.”
Next there are the page boys and flower girls, three of each, under the supervision of
Rebekah and their mothers, all of whom Teresa introduced me to at the party last night. One
Duchess and two Countesses, all on Max’s side of the family. The boys are in royal blue uniforms that match my own dress, the girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes, and hooped tulle overlays filled with blue petals. Their crowns match mine. The attention to detail at this wedding is
astonishing.
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When they’re all gone, piled into yet another luxury car, the vestibule echoes with the
sudden silence.
Jens turns to me. “You can tell Phoenix that her car will be at the door in two minutes and
thirty seconds.”
“Don’t we need to wait for Max and Adam to leave first? You know, so the groom doesn’t
see the bride on the wedding day, and all that.” Though they did have breakfast together in their apartment this morning, before all this commotion started.
Jens doesn’t look up from his clipboard. “They’ll be leaving from the garage in one minute
and fifteen seconds, so no need to worry.”
Which means I won’t get a chance to speak to Adam before the ceremony. Not that I have
any clue what I’m going to say. I keep veering between “I’m sorry I was a bitch last night” and
“you’re such a douche.” Maybe both. Either one is better than “I don’t want you to go.”
I head up the stairs and knock on the door to call Phoenix and Anton down. When the door
opens, I grin. Phoenix really is the most beautiful princess I’ve ever seen. Okay, so my experience of princesses is a little limited, but she certainly looks regal. She has her hair done up in soft curls, with a few bouncy strands loose around her face, and the tiara firmly in place.
“Your carriage awaits, Cinderella.”
The Rolls Royce Phantom is waiting at the front door when we get downstairs. I take a peek
inside and breathe in the scent of luxury.
It takes Anton, Jens and I to get Phoenix into the back of the car without crushing her dress, though I admit I’m not much help. The royal blue bridesmaid dress is such a snug fit that if I even breathe too hard, I’m going to pop a seam.
Anton arranges Phoenix’s veil, and then we’re off, waving to the crowds who’ve gathered to
line the route. For a weekday in such a small country, there are a lot of people who’ve come out to watch. There are blue and white flags everywhere, and quite a few Stars and Stripes too.
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The crowds roar as we pass, and then the car sweeps into the main avenue that leads to the
cathedral, and there are uniformed soldiers lining the street in a guard of honor.
“There are only 800 soldiers in the entire Westerwald army,” Phoenix tells me. “Every one
of them must be here.”
It’s so surreal, I can’t even be nervous. After all, this has got to be just a dream. If anyone pinches me, I’m going to wake up back in my bedroom in that trailer park in North Vegas.
The car pulls up in front of the cathedral, and a military officer steps forward to open the door for us. Anton hands us our bouquets, a small bunch of white roses for me, and for Phoenix, a simple arrangement of blue tulips mixed with myrtle for good luck. He climbs out, and turns to offer me his hand to help me out, then together we help Phoenix step out, straightening her skirts and her train.
Cameras flash and the crowd screams, but Phoenix looks as calm and confident as if she were
out for a stroll in the palace garden. Her serenity calms me too.
“Okay, let’s do this thing,” she says, looking up at the cathedral doors.
Ten steps up from the street to the doors, Adam said. I count them, and he’s right. We make
it up all ten without tripping on our heels or our hems. Phoenix pauses in the doorway to wave to the cameras, then we step inside. It takes a moment for our eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the darkness inside. We’re in the ante-chamber, the flower girls and page boys are all lined up, and the organ is playing.
“This is where I leave you,” Anton says, air kissing Phoenix’s cheek through her veil. “I’ll
be in the cheering section.” He slides into the back of the church, moments before the music
changes and the children start their procession two-by-two down the aisle.
In the vestibule, it’s just me and the bride and a half dozen ushers who are probably
protection officers in disguise. Though there are six hundred guests waiting inside that nave for us, Phoenix isn’t in any hurry.
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“When my dad was in chemo, he used to tell me how much he wished he could walk me
down the aisle. Not to give me away but just to share the moment with me. He’d say, ‘Princess, you make sure the man waiting for you down the other end of that aisle is worthy of you.’ He’d have liked Max.”
I squeeze her hand. “Your father’s right here with us.”
This being Phoenix’s wedding, I didn’t expect the traditional Mendelssohn wedding march,
but now I realize that it’s not the church organ playing. It’s a cello, and I laugh as I recognize the song. It’s Bruno Mars’ Marry You, the same song that played when she walked down the aisle to Max in that little chapel in Vegas a year ago.
I’m sure I’m not supposed to be laughing as I make my way down the long nave, but I can’t
help it. The uneven floor is patterned with the rainbow light falling through the stained glass windows, but I’m no longer afraid of tripping over my own feet. Instead, I hear the lyrics in my head as I bounce to the jaunty tune.
When I near the front of the church, I see that Max is laughing too. He’s dressed in uniform,
like Prince Charming in Cinderella. Our eyes meet, and we share a smile, then his gaze moves past me, and the expression on his face is the one every woman wants to see on her husband’s face when he looks at her.
Yeah, her dad would like Max.
I finally let myself look at the best man. He’s dressed in a morning suit, pinstripe pants,
black cutaway jacket, blue-grey waistcoat, and a silver-grey ascot tie. He’s all cleaned up for the day too, clean-shaven, his thick dark hair groomed back and catching a stray ray of light from one of the high windows. I’ve never believed a man in a formal suit could look so sexy, but he does.
His gaze meets mine, and holds me captive. His eyes look very green today. Maybe it’s a
trick of the light falling through the stained glass. I move to stand to the left of the altar, take Phoenix’s bouquet when she hands it to me so that Max can lift her veil, then I move to sit in the pew on the left. Since Phoenix has no family, her stalls are filled with important dignitaries, but I
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barely register who they are. I sit when required to sit, stand when everyone else does, but the ceremony is a blur.
I should be paying attention, making note of every detail, but I figure I’ll have to watch the replay on YouTube sometime, because it all feels like a dream. One of those enchanting, golden dreams you never want to wake from. I’m hyper-aware of Adam in the stalls across from me, aware of every move he makes, of his gaze, which keeps coming back to mine. It’s like there’s an
invisible magnet pulling us toward one another. Every nerve ending in my body hums with the
awareness.
How can he not feel it too? How can he believe we can simply be friends? This hasn’t been
simple from the very beginning, from the first time I laid eyes on him in that private dining room in the hotel in Vegas. I’ve discovered that chemistry, while it may be unreliable, and a very, very bad basis for a relationship, cannot be denied.
One more sleep.
I don’t need a relationship with this man. But what I do need is to give in to this dark throb of desire between us. I need it so much that I don’t care if I’ll be just another notch on his bedpost.
He won’t be just another notch on mine.
One more sleep.
I don’t care that he’s leaving tomorrow. Okay, that’s a lie. I care, but it’s not something I
can change. He was always going to leave, because that’s what men do.
Adam was never going to stick around until morning anyway.
But that doesn’t mean we can’t have tonight. And if he isn’t going to take what he wants,
I’m not going to let that stop me. I am not going to leave Westerwald with any regrets.
The cathedral reverberates with sound as the Archbishop declares Max and Phoenix man
and wife. Though the service was conducted in the local dialect, even I understand that much. The noise of the cheering crowd outside the cathedral is so loud we can hear it in here, over the applause of the assembled guests.
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Max and Phoenix kiss, a far less demure kiss than they shared on the city hall steps
yesterday, then hand-in-hand they face the cathedral nave. I move to Phoenix, buss her radiant cheek with a congratulatory kiss, and pass her the bouquet, then take my place behind her.
Adam holds out his arm to me, and I loop mine through his, enjoying the rush of heat
between us. He looks down at me, his bright gaze searching, as if he can sense my decision, the change in me.
I don’t walk down that aisle, I float.
The smiling faces on either side of us merge into one long shifting pattern of color. Then
we’re in the ante-chamber, and the ushers rush to open the heavy bronze doors which are green with age. Max and Phoenix step out into the sunlight, Cinderella on the arm of Prince Charming, and the crowd outside goes wild.
Adam and I hang back, allowing the crowds and the photographers to have their moment.
Max kisses Phoenix, sweeping her into a graceful, choreographed backbend. She’s laughing when
they break their kiss.
The soldiers lining the stairs raise their bayonets, or whatever they are, and suddenly there’s a bang, and gold glitter rains down over the royal couple. Phoenix does a double-take, the crowd explodes, but Max is laughing. I can’t help it. I start giggling too.
This wasn’t on the official schedule, but it’s the perfect touch. Glitter guns, just like we had in that Vegas chapel, except then it was Calvin and me firing glitter all over the newlyweds.
Phoenix shoves Max with her shoulder, and she’s laughing too, and I can’t imagine what
photographs are going to make the front pages of tomorrow’s newspapers, with the bride and groom both in stitches. The flower girls and page boys flock around to see what the excitement is all about, while the ushers try ineffectively to marshal them back into line.
I struggle to get my giggles back under control, and Adam looks at me, bewildered.
“Inside joke,” I say as we step out the doors and follow the bridal couple down the stairs.
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Max leads his bride down to the waiting carriage, the same open Landau he and Adam
arrived in. They drive off, waving to the crowds, and the Rolls Royce Phantom pulls up in its place.
Adam holds my hand as we walk down the stairs to where an officer is holding the car door
open for us. He doesn’t let go as he did yesterday when we emerged from the city hall. He doesn’t let go until we’re seated, and the door is closed, and I pull my hand out of his so I can strip off my heels.
“Ah, that’s better!” I stretch my cramped toes, and Adam smiles. My insides turn to jello.
We wave to the crowds as the car slowly makes its way down the long avenue of flag-
waving spectators, and no one outside the car would know that inside our fingers are again
entwined.
Surely any moment now I’ll wake up.
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Chapter Twenty-One
Adam
Khara no longer seems to be mad at me. I have no idea what changed, but the temptation she
offers is irresistible. I’m like a runaway train, storming down the tracks, knowing that the light up ahead isn’t the end of the tunnel but an imminent train wreck. I don’t think I can stop it. I don’t want to stop it.
But I can’t manage to get a moment alone with her, either.
The bridal party, including Max’s brothers and their wives, his grandparents, and a whole
bunch of extended family, gather on the balcony outside the yellow drawing room, the same
balcony where Khara and I had our fight last night. Our first fight and we haven’t even had sex together - yet. That’s something of a novelty for me.
While we wave to the crowds that have gathered in the palace forecourt, I have to be on my
best behaviour. I can’t touch her, can’t even hold her hand, though the temptation to put my hands all over her is overwhelming. Especially when I catch a glimpse of the trainers peeking out beneath the hem of her bridesmaid dress. Who’d have thought a pair of ordinary trainers could get my heart thumping like a jackhammer?
The balcony appearance seems to go on forever, though in truth it’s probably not much more
than twenty minutes. All this posing and pageantry is new to me. Erdély’s way more relaxed. In all my years as the grandson of the Fürst, or hanging out with Nick, I’ve never once witnessed this
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kind of rabid attention. Admittedly, maybe that’s because I’ve never stepped foot in the country.
Will I be greeted there with flag-waving fans, with angry protestors, or with indifference? I’ll find out tomorrow.
After the balcony appearance, we gather in the private drawing room for official photographs,
with the same photographer who took Khara’s portrait pictures. There are hair and make-up artists on hand to ensure we look our best for the pictures. The attention to detail is mind-blowing; Claus deserves a knighthood for putting this wedding together.
Then just when I think I can get a moment alone with Khara, she’s whisked off on bridesmaid
duties, she and Phoenix disappearing up to the private apartments to change outfits.
The pre-reception drinks for today’s event are on The Orangery Terrace. The Orangery is a
long conservatory at the rear of the palace which opens onto the formal garden. With its skylights and wall of French doors, the room is flooded with late afternoon sunlight. I stride between the round tables set ready for the informal dinner that will take place before the ball, and head to the terrace where champagne is being served.
Years of training kick in. Armed with a glass of champagne, I circulate among the three
hund
red plus guests who’ve been invited to the reception, greeting old schoolfriends, polo friends, diplomats, business moguls, celebrities, aristocrats and royals. And yes, I know and have met
almost all of them at similar events over the years. I smile as I think of the game Khara and I played in Chantilly, when she tested my knowledge of the guests. Given the chance to attend a few more of these functions, she’d probably get to know most of them too.
Most of my extended family are here, even Mátyás, though I go out of my way to avoid him. I
don’t think that’s cowardly; it’s strategic. It’s while I’m avoiding him that I bump into Jemmy.
“Hey, bro!” She greets me with a hug and a kiss. “I hear you’ve been keeping busy?”
“Am I the only one in this family who doesn’t have access to some top secret intelligence
network?”
She laughs, linking her arm through mine. “Mom told me you’ve been working with Max.
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Does that mean you’re seriously considering becoming Crown Prince?”
“I promised her I’d consider it. I’m travelling to Erdély tomorrow to check the place out.”
“How does the bridesmaid feel about that?”
I stop walking to look at her. “Did Mom tell you that too?”
Jemmy grins. “Nope, the morning papers did.”
“What? ”
“This morning’s cover photo in the local papers was of Max and Phoenix on the steps of the
city hall. And there, in the background, probably only recognisable to those of us who know you, you and the bridesmaid are holding hands.”
“Her name is Khara.”
She looks at me strangely. “You usually don’t bother with their names. It’s their bra sizes that interest you.”
I drop her arm and glare at her. “I am not that shallow.”
She arches an eyebrow.