The Everest Brothers: An Alpha Billionaires Series

by S. L. Scott

  The driver responds, “I was told to drive you to the palace.”

  Ally. My heart starts beating hard in my chest. “Does the entire royal family live here?”

  “Oh no. Some of them live elsewhere—other palaces and some even in the villages, depending on the title. They are all granted property.”

  I release a heavy sigh of relief, relaxing back into the soft leather. He adds, “Only the queen and her husband, the prince, and their children who are not yet married can live here.”

  Staring at him in the rearview mirror, I feel my heart begin to race again as all relief is wiped from my body. I’m not sure if I’m panicking because I might see Ally again or find out she’s already married. I don’t think she is, but I ask just in case. “Are any of their children married?”

  “No, sir. Hutton,” he tacks on my name with a friendly grin.

  “Shit.” There goes the quick in and out without seeing her. “All of them?”

  “Prince Jakob stays in the Sutcliffe Village some nights, but Princess Marielle stays at the palace. And now that Princess Arabelle has returned from her studies abroad, she resides at the palace full time.”

  Princess Arabelle . . . Ally.

  Bennett taps my arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll close the deal, and then we’re out.”

  I nod and turn back to the blue, white, and gold palace looming in front of us when the SUV comes to a stop.

  In.

  Close the deal.

  Out.

  Simple.

  But it’s not simple at all. There’s no way I can come all this way and not see Ally. An armed guard in a blue and black suit opens the door. Right then, I realize I’m going to do everything in my power to see her again.

  When we reach the top of the palace steps, a man in a suit with tails says, “Welcome to Brudenbourg.”

  8

  Princess Arabelle Allyson Edwards Sutcliffe

  “You’re in such a mood, Belle. Why are you being so difficult?” My sister, dressed in a crinoline slip, flops with distaste onto my four-poster bed, messing up the pristinely neat covers and pillows.

  Sitting at my vanity, I push the stem of a diamond earring into the hole of my ear. “I’m not being difficult. I just don’t think we should have to humor a bunch of businessmen by sitting like dolls at a banquet where our opinions hold no weight. It’s not like anyone’s going to ask what we think. Let them make the decision as they usually do.”

  “Maybe they want our opinions now.”

  “If they did, we wouldn’t be wearing evening gowns and told to look pretty for dinner. We’d be wearing business attire and sitting in an office.”

  She sits up, her light brown curls losing some of the bounce they had when she walked into my room. I never liked the ringlet look anyway. Reminds me of the gilded paintings hanging in the great room of our ancestors—old and dusty. Archaic . . . like some of our traditions. My younger sister is beautiful, but she needs to get with the times and stop listening to our mother so much. I’d do anything to see her in a pair of jeans. Her riding breeches are the closest I’ll get her to casual unless I can get her out from under the watchful eye of our parents and the Brudenbourg press.

  The press tried to ruin my reputation with the help of an unscrupulous ex-boyfriend. But I served my time overseas to let things settle as a favor to my parents and for my own sanity. But now I’m back, and with all that I had to give up to be here, no one will come between me and my right to the throne.

  It’s all I’ve been raised to believe—my right to be queen. I may have stepped out of line a few times, but beneath my rebellious streak, I intend to fulfill my destiny. From the economy to our tourism, I will elevate Brudenbourg’s standing. I’ll help those in need and abolish stupid laws that hold little bearing on today’s society. Women won’t be held down by restrictions put in place in the sixteenth century. I have so many plans and changes I want to make.

  Hiding my struggles to be perfect as much as I can, I put on a smile, and say, “Yes, my grace,” in an effort to follow my dreams.

  I’ve watched the way my mother ruled, letting my father speak for her, but I won’t be like that. They aren’t equals in a partnership. She wears the crown, but he pulls the strings.

  When I’m queen, I will decide everything, and when my Prince Charming comes along, he’ll sit equal to me, and together, we will rule the queendom.

  Of course, I still have to restrain that pesky wild side, because sometimes that side is more persuasive. That side that wants the freedom being a Sutcliffe will never afford. I must not let that side win. If that means dressing like we lived during the Renaissance, then I’ll play my role. Look pretty. Be quiet. Wait my turn to rule. And then, I will make some changes.

  Angling to face her, I lower my voice. “What do you think about taking the train and skipping over to Luxum tomorrow to party?”

  “Sneak out?”

  I guess the bad girl in me isn’t gone yet. “Yes, but we can catch the last train back to Sutcliffe.”

  As she pushes off the mattress, her slip falls back into place, covering her knees. She tugs at a twisted bra strap, and says, “I thought when you came back, you’d be more, I don’t know, all grown-up. More adult-like. Acting your age.”

  “I’m not a grown-up because I want a night away from the palace, a night without the worries of who I’m supposed to be marrying, a night to be me instead of a princess who is supposed to reside in a tall tower waiting for her knight in shining armor to rescue her? Is that what you mean by adult? If it is,” I say, sighing, “I’ll never fit the mold of that expectation.”

  “It’s not your past that’s holding you back. It’s your future. Your decisions affect how you’re perceived, and more importantly, how you’re treated.”

  I spin back around but eye her in the reflection of the mirror. “For a twenty-three-year-old, you sure do act like a granny.” I swipe setting powder over my face and wait to hear the door close, wanting to be alone.

  But I also know her well enough to know that she may be prim and definitely overly proper, but she has a bite when pushed. “Screw you.”

  I laugh. “Vicious, sis.”

  Huffing, she sets her hands on her hips, digging her fingertips into the skin. “I can be young and fun.”

  With my lipstick in hand, I lift my gaze to meet the irritation clear in her eyes. “Prove it.” Giving my attention to my lips, I slowly glide the creamy red over my bottom lip, waiting to push her just hard enough to rebel.

  As I start on my top lip, she says, “I don’t have to prove anything to you. You’ve been bad news since the day you were born. You’re just trying to drag me down with you.” Bite. I still wait . . . knowing she’ll give in if for no other reason than to win. She hates that I’m the firstborn, ruining her chance to reign. But most of all, she hates losing. “What time?”

  I don’t bother looking back. There’s no point in making nice when the fish is hanging from your line. This is not a cut bait situation. This is a whale I’m reeling in, so I continue to play it cool. “I was thinking we’d catch the eight twenty.”

  Setting my lipstick in the tray, I reach for my perfume and spritz my neck, chest, and wrists. Not a day goes by that I don’t do this simple act and think of Hutton. But it’s not this act that makes me think of him. I wake up hoping to be in his arms. I close my eyes at night, missing the sound of his slumber. I touch myself, hoping to recapture the same high he gave me.

  I can’t.

  So my frustration grows. The wild nature I was supposed to get out of my system in America is budding deep inside. I feel it. The ache is scratching my insides, growing impatient and needy. A casual affair won’t satisfy it; the thought of being with anyone else the way I was only ever with him hurts my soul. I miss him.

  So much so that my throat tightens and I reach up, wrapping my hand around my neck. I suck in a harsh breath and then another before trying to soothe my yearning heart.

  “Why do you do
that?”

  My sister’s voice brings me back to the reality I’m stuck in the middle of, the nightmare that I’ll never love as I once did. “What?” I play it off like nothing is out of the ordinary. It’s not for me, but I see the concern from others when I let my sadness get the better of me. I brush the curls, not wanting them so big, but to fall softly like they used to in Texas.

  “You don’t have to talk to me, Belle, but if you ever want to, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

  That’s the sister I know, the bond strong. “I’m fine, but I’ll let you know if I ever do.”

  She nods, well aware I’m not going to share today. “I should get dressed. We have to be downstairs in less than an hour.”

  “I’ll see you down there.”

  “Pretty and quiet as a mouse,” she says, repeating what we were raised hearing every day of our lives.

  All wrong.

  All wrong for queens in training.

  I’ll never tell my daughter to be anything less than extraordinary. She’ll voice her opinions loudly to make sure everyone hears her loud and clear, and I’ll teach her that looks may be an asset for some she encounters, but intelligence is valued by all.

  Standing up, I run my hands over the curves of my waist. I work out hard to look good, but I won’t be silenced when it comes to standing on equal ground in business or my personal life.

  In the closet, I know what I’m supposed to wear. The black dress is long, just past my ankles when on, and fitted with dainty straps of diamonds. I inspect it closer, wondering if they’re real. My mother never wears fake anything, and she did give me the dress. Even though it’s pretty, I just don’t feel like wearing black tonight.

  I pull a red dress from the formal dress section of my closet. I’ve only worn it once, and I loved how it made me feel—powerful—with all eyes on me. Although I didn’t crave the attention, it was a great introduction to the world at twenty-one when everyone else was wearing white.

  Of course, this dress is part of the reason I got bad press. It was too scandalous for high society, especially of the royal kind, when tradition dictates the future queen is to wear white when she reaches the age of reign. In Brudenbourg, that age is twenty-one. If anything happens to my mother, God forbid, my reign will begin.

  I’m about to slip on the red dress, but I stop. This is a business dinner. I want to be taken seriously and don’t need the scandal of pissing off my parents tonight or the lecture later. I return the red dress to the closet and put on the black dress, step into sparkling heels that match the straps, and check my appearance from head to toe one last time before heading downstairs.

  Taking the back stairs, I wind through the hall on the second floor and then slip through a door to one more hidden staircase used by the staff that leads directly to the kitchen prep area. Everyone stops, but I quickly wave them off. It’s only me. I don’t want to interrupt. Pushing through the swinging door, the kitchen is warm, so I can’t stay long, but I want to say hello to Birgit and Gerhart.

  I find them busy in front of the stove. Flames flicker as curse words in German pepper the air. They weren’t born in Brudenbourg, but the couple accepted chef positions here after attending Cordon Bleu in France and working their way through Michelin-starred restaurants. I’m not sure who the Chef de Cuisine and the Sous Chef is between them, but they are true partners, even if they do annoy each other some nights. This kitchen gets heated from their arguments as often as it does from the food.

  It’s an amazing place to spend time, and I have wiled away many hours learning how to cook as well as how to love. I blame them for my wilder ways. They are the best and the worst of influences.

  Keeping the prep table between us, I never get in their way when they’re creating their delicious masterpieces. “Good evening.”

  Birgit turns to spy me over her shoulder. With red rosy cheeks from the heat and a bright smile, she asks, “Arabelle, you’re looking so lovely. How are you doing?”

  “I’m good. Tame tonight,” I reply with our inside joke. It never mattered what they heard about me, they only saw the good. Knowing I had their support gave me the strength to be true to myself.

  Gerhart chuckles. “That’s a shame.”

  “Eh, I’m plotting good times ahead. I just have to survive tonight. What are you creating?” They trained me young to see food as an experiment for the taste buds. So they don’t make, they create.

  “Prime rib was requested by your father. The rest is up to us. We have a few surprises—fresh apples from the orchard for the most divinely tasting dressing with the tail end of the summer crisp lettuces from the village. Marinated cherries in brandy over molten chocolate cake. Oh, and your mother has requested a fish option.”

  “That does sound amazing.” Rubbing my hand over my grumbling stomach, I remember I only had fruit for lunch. “I’m starving.”

  “You should join the others. It’s too hot in here for your pretty hair to withstand, and your cheeks are turning pink. Hurry along. The sooner everyone arrives, we can serve the meal.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  Birgit smiles with pride at me as if I’m one of her own brood. They have one son, Gregor. When I was younger, he was so friendly and treated Marielle and me with care not generally shown of boys his age.

  We took the horses out once and got caught in a rainstorm. He tied his own horse to a tree and rode as fast as he could to return Marielle to the palace safely.

  Now he runs the stables. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks since I’ve been buried beneath expectations and acclimating back into our society.

  Birgit says, “Stop by around two o’clock on Sunday if you want to learn about bread. It’s been a few years, but if I recall correctly, that’s where we left off before you left for the States.”

  “I will. Have a great night.” I grab a baby carrot and escape into the butler’s prep area before they have a chance to protest, but Gerhart still does. I can hear him all the way out here, which makes me laugh.

  I’d rather spend the evening in the hot kitchen with them than entertaining business guests. I sigh, ready for this night to be over.

  9

  Princess Arabelle

  “Boo!” My sister pops around the corner, startling me.

  I gasp, curses sucked in with the alarmed breath I take. “Good lord, Marielle. Are you trying to scare the bejesus out of me?”

  “Some things never change. Why do you always wait in here before parties?” Even in the dim light, I can see the sparkle of the tiara on her head.

  I hear the low murmur of conversation from the formal living room echoing into the dark and vacant staff space. The bustling kitchen and butler’s room on one side, then the dinner guests across the entry hall greeting each other with polite conversation. “I was visiting with Birgit and Gerhart.”

  Her head tilts just as her eyes roll. “Why do you still do that when you’ve been told not to?”

  I pull her around the corner so nobody spots us. I’m not ready to face the guests yet. “Why do you not? They’re amazing people if you’d give them a chance.”

  “I’m sure they are, but we’re not supposed to be in the kitchen. You know the rules.”

  “The rules can fuck themselves.”

  “Belle! You have not changed one bit. I actually think you’ve gotten worse.”

  “Well, get used to it because I’m not changing anytime soon. What are you doing here anyway?”

  She leans her shoulder against the dark wallpaper that’s been here at least a century, maybe more. It’s tattered in places, but I like the imperfections. I just wish it wasn’t so dark and dreary. “Mother’s looking for you.”

  “Why?” She taps her tiara, her eyebrow going up as if it’s obvious. I huff. “For real?”

  “I know you refuse to act like a princess, but heaven forbid you look like one.”

  My mother’s shadow reaches the room before she does. Her disappointment is clear, though it’s h
idden in her darkened silhouette. The chandelier hanging high above could light up the village, but its golden glow never reaches this room. “There you are, Arabelle.” She moves into the shadows with us and pats Marielle with her free hand. “Join the guests. They have all arrived.”

  Marielle goes quickly and in silence, demure as a mouse. Makes me want to scream if only to see my mother’s reaction. I don’t, though. My mother is an amazing queen when she wants to be. But I’ve never felt she would have applied for the job if she’d had the choice.

  When we’re alone, she holds up a tiara. “This was your grandmother’s. I thought with all these lovely baguettes surrounding the teardrop black diamond in the center, it would complement the dress.”

  I used to admire my mother’s crown the most. It’s delicate jeweling and pretty blue stones. I would sneak into the vault when her stylist would venture in to pick her jewelry. She would catch me and let me stay as long as she did. “It is. It’s very beautiful. I’ve never worn it before.”

  “I thought it was time we started treating you like the future queen you’ll be. I wore the same tiara at twenty-five. There are three others that I can show you as well as teach you the history of each and the meaning behind them.”

  “I’d like that. As for tonight, I thought this was just a business meeting? A meal to get to know the guests better so you could decide who will cover the coronation?”

  “There is not ‘just a business meeting’ when it comes to giving outsiders access to our private world. This will be an agreement that will span the coronation as well as coverage of your wedding and the first introduction of your children to the rest of the world. It’s an association we would like to build once and maintain for your lifetime. So you see, dear Arabelle, it’s not just a meeting, but a relationship forming.”

  I underestimated the pace of my ceremonial rise. Talk of weddings and children twists my gut while my mind only thinks of one man. My lips tingle with our last kisses, my body aching for his touch once more. That last night had been incredibly wonderful but stupid on my part. I’d felt selfish asking so much from him, especially when I understood that he truly wanted more with me. Yet how could I leave without saying goodbye? Without feeling his touch once more?