by Iris Morland
When I opened the door to the library, it took me a moment to find Olivier. He was sitting in a chair in front of one of the bay windows, simply staring into the distance. He looked up when he heard me approach, but he didn’t rise. He just steepled his fingers.
Where did anyone begin? I opened my mouth, but Olivier beat me to it.
“I’m assuming, based on your expression, that your father told you everything,” he said quietly.
I watched as a gull soared across the wide ocean. I suddenly wished I were out there, away from the stress of this tête-à-tête. I could practically feel the tension vibrating off of Olivier.
“If you’re referring to the letters,” I said slowly, “then yes. He showed them to me. That being said, they don’t necessarily prove anything.”
Olivier’s knuckles turned white. “I appreciate your optimism, but they’re exactly what they seem. They prove that, more than likely, I’m a bastard.”
I flinched. Olivier, though, was pure stone. His face was blank. I could only tell he was feeling anything by the way he flexed his fingers in a distinct rhythm.
I sat across from him. “Those letters could be forgeries. They could be from other people. You don’t know for sure—”
“You’re sweet, Niamh.” His tone was almost condescending. “But it puts all the pieces together, pieces I’ve always wondered about. Why I look nothing like my father, and very little like my mother, either. Why my parents are so distant with each other. And why my mother was desperate for me to find this clock. It wasn’t about the clock at all: it was about what was hidden inside.”
Olivier’s gaze caught mine. He smiled, but there was no joy in it. “It makes sense, when I think of so many parts of my childhood that were strange. In a way, I’m relieved to have confirmation.”
“I don’t believe you. You can’t be this calm about this. Your entire life, everything you’ve been raised to believe, it’s over. Or potentially over.”
“I’m calm because any other emotion is a waste of time.”
I wanted to shake him. I wanted him to yell, scream, cry. I wanted him to act like a human being. Instead, he retained that princely distance, the same icy arrogance that had made me dislike him when we’d first met.
“Emotion isn’t a waste of time. Jesus Christ. I’m devastated for you.” I took his hands, and I tried to warm up his fingers. “My heart breaks for you, and for your father, your mother. Did your father know? Or is he still in the dark? And what about your mom? Was she in love with this other man but she had to marry your father?”
With every word, I watched a flush crawl up Olivier’s face. He pulled his hand away from mine and slowly got up. Leaning over the window ledge, he gripped the dark wood, his head bowed.
“My mother—if one can even call her that—has kept my true parentage a secret my entire life.” His voice was strained. “I have been living a lie for twenty-five years, because of her.” He turned to face me. The scorn in his expression made me rear backward. “I don’t feel any pity for her. She made her own bed when she slept with another man and tried to pass off the child as my father’s.”
I got up, not wanting Olivier to loom over me like some terrifying specter. “You’re angry now, but once you speak with her—”
“I never want to see her again,” he snarled, so harshly that it felt almost like a physical blow.
“Olivier…” I tried to touch him. I tried to hug him, but he rebuffed me.
“Stop. Please, for the love of God. I don’t want your pity. That look on your face? ‘Poor little prince. What will he do now?’”
“I’m not pitying you. I’m trying to be supportive.”
“I don’t want your support. You, your father—you’ve done enough. I don’t need any of this, and I don’t need you to hold my hand and tell me it’ll all be just fine, when you and I both know it won’t be. It’s over. It’s all fucking over.”
I felt angry tears press behind my lids. I could read between the lines: we were over, too.
“You have to know that I had no idea about any of this,” I said. “My da was behind this. He’s the one trying to extort money out of your family, not me.”
“I’m aware. But at the end of day, you’re still the daughter of the man who could ruin my life, and my father’s, within a moment’s notice. You have more to gain from this than anyone, besides your father.”
“How dare you.” I stepped closer to him, barely restraining myself from shaking him. “How dare you accuse me of trying to gain from all of this. I never wanted this to happen. I wanted to find my da, not have this royal family baby daddy drama fuck everything up! I never wanted a cent from my da, and I definitely don’t want a cent from your family, either.”
Olivier’s expression was so cold, so distant, that it was like a knife to my heart. “Then I suppose this is goodbye. I’ve already booked a flight back to Salasia.”
Now the tears couldn’t be held back. My bottom lip trembled. I wiped the tears away and raised my chin. “Goodbye, then.”
Olivier held out his hand. After a long moment, I took it. He raised it to his lips and kissed the back of it.
By that evening, he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
I spent the next two weeks at the estate. I spent a lot of time in bed and the rest of the time either in the library or wandering along the beach.
One day I went to the spot where I’d first met Olivier when he’d been playing gardener, but the plants in question had been moved elsewhere. It was just as well. I didn’t need any more reminders that he existed.
“He sounds like a bloody idiot,” Liam had said to me multiple times now. “Not worth your time. He can go rot.”
Mari, Liam’s wife, had taken a more measured approach. “It sounds like he cares for you, and he was clearly in shock. Plus, if what your dad said is true…” She’d given Liam That Look, and he’d just grunted.
Liam hadn’t been overly thrilled with the news of our sharing DNA with the Salasian royal family. He’d at first said that Da had just been spinning tales to mess with everyone. But when I did some more research here at the estate, I discovered that Da hadn’t been pulling our legs at all.
Da was the cousin of the current reigning prince, Olivier’s father. Well, his adoptive father. As far as Olivier’s parentage, that was apparently still murky.
Liam, being the ever so helpful big brother, had ribbed me hard for kissing my almost-cousin. “Never took you for a girl like that,” he’d said as he’d laughed at me.
“We’re not cousins! I keep telling you that!”
“Doesn’t make it any less hilarious, baby sister.”
“Besides, even if we were related, we’re second cousins. It’s not that bad.”
Okay, it would’ve been pretty awkward. This wasn’t the nineteenth century where marrying your cousin—or having a serious make-out with some cunnilingus with one—was kosher.
Most of all, Liam had urged me to come back home. “There’s nothing there for you now. Da isn’t going to change. Your prince is gone. Come back to Seattle and we’ll figure things out.”
I was tempted. I wanted to go home; I wanted to use ugly American dollars and to go to a grocery store that had one entire aisle dedicated to cereals. I wanted to accidentally make eye contact with a fellow Seattleite and then awkwardly look away, acting like it’d never happened. I even wanted to go to Pike Place Market during the summer and get mowed down by tourists as they almost got hit in the face with a giant, flying fish.
But I had unfinished business. Namely, I’d never told Olivier about Da being the heir to the throne. I’d called Olivier and had texted him too many times to count. I’d left him cajoling voicemails. I’d sent him frustrated texts. The seemingly millionth time I’d tried contacting him, the number had come back as disconnected.
He’d fucking blocked me. I couldn’t believe it. After everything that had happened, he had the audacity to ignore me.
I didn’t stop
to think that flying to Salasia would be a bad idea. I’d bought the ticket before I’d let myself have second thoughts. On the flight, I pondered how I’d even get Olivier to speak with me. Did I just storm into the castle—did they live in a castle? or a palace?—and demand that he talk to me?
Instead, I stalked social media. I figured out where Olivier’s favorite cafes, restaurants, and bars were. It didn’t take long before I discovered that he would buy a cappuccino every morning from a cafe that overlooked the Mediterranean Ocean. Sometimes another person got it for him. But on Sundays, he bought it himself.
The locals were used to him, for the most part. Sitting outside of the cafe, the smell of the sea and of fresh coffee in the air, I waited for him to exit. He wore a ball cap this time, so I guessed he didn’t want to be recognized. But I’d recognize him anywhere.
As he walked to his car—he’d driven himself—I headed straight for him. “Olivier!” I yelled. I took off my sunglasses so he could get a good look at my angry face.
He swiveled toward the sound of my voice. His eyes widened, but then he just sipped his cappuccino as he looked down his nose at me.
“You found me,” he said, too pleasantly.
“Shouldn’t you have a bodyguard? I could kill you right now.”
He sipped his coffee. “Well? Are you here to assassinate me?”
I scowled. “No. I just wanted to talk.” I crossed my arms. “You wouldn’t answer my calls.”
Sighing, he went to open the passenger door. “Get in. We’ll talk at home.”
Home, of course, meant Salasia Palace. I had to keep my jaw from dropping as Olivier took me to his office within the palace’s walls. The walls were draped with gilding and artwork, the halls alone so huge that you could’ve fit a thousand people in them.
A few servants gave us strange looks, but for the most part, they were too well-trained to wonder why some girl wearing dirty Converse was following the prince to his office.
Olivier gestured at me to sit before sitting behind his desk. The room itself was almost cozy compared to the rest of the palace. The window behind Olivier had a view of the capital, the sky a beautiful, bright blue. The room itself smelled like leather and expensive things. I perched on the edge of my chair, afraid to touch anything.
“I have something to tell you,” I said. I swallowed. “I meant to tell you that day you left, and that’s why I’ve been annoying about talking to you.”
Olivier leaned back in his chair. “Would this have anything to do with your father’s claim to the throne?”
“You know? How? When?” My voice rose with each word. “Why the hell would you block my number with something this important to talk about!”
“I blocked your number because you wouldn’t take no for an answer. I was going to speak with you—on my own time. But I should’ve known you’d come to Salasia and spring yourself upon me. That’s more your style.”
“I mean, I prefer a quick phone call than spending money on a plane ticket.”
His lips twitched slightly. That sparkle in his eyes that had so captivated me returned, but just for a quick second. Then it was gone again.
“Your father, when I went to collect the clock, told me the great news. He showed me the family tree. I’d heard of my great aunt Mary, of course, but all I’d ever known was that she’d run off with someone unsuitable and that there was no reason to speak of her. Then she’d died fairly young. Apparently, she’d kept a low enough profile that the family hadn’t known she’d had a son.” He folded his hands. “Or perhaps she didn’t want them to know.”
“Okay, so you know. And if you’re really a bastard…”
He let the question hang in the air. Then, all he said was, “Yes, it’s true.”
“So, what happens? I mean, I know your secret, and so does my da. But my da is dying, and I know Liam won’t want anything to do with this life. So as long as no one knows, you can keep being the prince.”
I felt silly then, coming all this way to tell Olivier something he already knew. I should’ve just found his Facebook and messaged him. (Did royals have their own Facebook? Probably not.)
“I would agree with you,” said Olivier, “but your beloved father isn’t inclined to play so nicely. You see, his threats to reveal this information to the press are increasing, because my family isn’t interested in paying him the exorbitant amount of money he’s demanding. So, I suppose we’re at a bit of a stalemate.”
“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry. But you said my da gave you the clock?”
“Yes, but he made copies of the letters, so it hardly mattered who possesses it.”
I picked at a stray thread on my jeans. Then Olivier rose from his chair and stood over me. He leaned against his desk.
“There is another solution to this problem,” he said.
With the sun shining behind him, he looked like some golden god. I felt my body heat, remembering our one night together. One side of his delicious mouth lifted, like he knew what I was thinking about.
“The only solution I can think of is breaking my da’s kneecaps,” I joked.
“Nothing that violent. No, you see, you can be the one to make this right.”
I blinked. “Me? How?”
“Although your brother, being the eldest, would be the heir, as you said, the last thing he’d want to do is uproot his family’s life to become the Sovereign Prince of Salasia one day. And I most certainly do not want to give this crown to someone who would despise it.”
“I’m still not following, sorry.”
He shook his head. Then, caging me in with his arms, his face uncomfortably close, he said, “You would be next in line to the throne if your brother were to abdicate. Which he most certainly would.”
His breath was hot against my face. I felt like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a cobra.
“So in exchange for making this right, for not completely upending your beloved brother’s life, here is the solution to both of our problems: become a princess of Salasia in both name and by blood.”
“How?” My voice was barely a whisper.
He paused then went for the kill. “By marrying me.”
The End…for now
Thank you for reading The Prince I Love to Hate! I hope you loved the first part of Niamh and Olivier’s story.
You definitely don’t want to miss the conclusion to this royal couple’s epic love story in The Princess I Hate to Love.
Our marriage is not some fairy tale.
And my new wife?
She’s not exactly a fan of the crown jewels.
And be sure to turn the page for an exclusive excerpt from The Princess I Hate to Love…
Enjoy this exclusive excerpt
From The Princess I Hate to Love
When I imagined my wedding night, I never expected that I'd be standing outside my beloved wife's bedroom door, pounding on it to let me inside.
"You can't avoid me forever!" I pounded my fist one last time against the expensive wood.
"Of course I can. Have you seen this place? It's fucking huge!"
I heard what sounded like rustling. I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the door. I'd imagined helping Niamh out of her wedding dress, but here I was, a dog barking at the door to be let in.
"Niamh," I said, forcing calm into my voice. "We need to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about. I'm tired. Go away."
I growled. I jiggled the knob, but it stayed firmly locked.
Someone cleared their throat behind me, and I turned to see my secretary Laurent, who was studiously avoiding looking at the locked door.
"Would you like me to procure the key from Madam LeRoux, Your Highness?" he asked in French. While I spoke English solely with my American bride, I rarely spoke it to anyone inside the Palace.
"And have the entire Palace know my wife had locked me out on our wedding night? No, thank you."
I noticed the dark circles under Laurent's eyes. Ever the professional, he'd n
ever complained when I'd dropped the bombshell of my sudden engagement, subsequent marriage, and the creation of a new princess of Salasia into his lap. But if I hadn't slept, he hadn't, either.
"Go to bed, Laurent. I'll take care of this," I said.
Laurent leaned back on his heels. "There is a way inside."
Right then, I was glad Niamh couldn't understand our conversation. I smiled for the first time in hours. "Is there?"
"Yes. The door that adjoins your chambers—the lock, it is, shall we say..." Laurent stared at the ceiling. "Very old."
Since I'd lived in my own apartments in another part of the palace until I'd moved into the east wing last week, I didn't know the ins and outs of its layout. Laurent, having worked at the palace for over twenty years? Well, he knew everything.
I clapped him on the shoulder. "You're my favorite servant, you know that?"
"So you've said, despite my lack of holiday for over a decade."
Laurent never wanted to go on holiday, anyway. I gave him a droll look, shooing him off to sleep.
Before he left, though, he said quietly, "Be gentle with her, sir. She's young, and in a strange place."
My frustration with Niamh melted. I sighed. "I won't say that you're correct."
"Of course not, sir. That would be out of character." Laurent bowed, and I dismissed him for the night.
I entered my own chambers. Opulent and limned with gold, the curtains blood red and velvet, embroidered with the royal carnation, it looked like something out of eighteenth-century Versailles.
Which was precisely the point: when it was built, my long-dead ancestors had attempted to copy the court of Louis XIV, although luckily for them, they'd avoided the later years involving guillotines and rolling heads. Apparently they hadn't been creative enough to come up with their own interior designs, or fashions, or music. Anything interesting, really.
Although there had been updates to the bedding, draperies, and carpets since then, they'd always kept a similar style. I had to admit, I'd never liked the opulence. I understood that a palace should look like a palace and not some university flat with broken-down furniture from IKEA, but there had to be a happy medium between the two.