by Laura Burton
It was the most surreal experience.
Now I’m a little more awake, sitting at the dressing table with a team of stylists fussing over my hair and makeup. I feel like a movie star getting ready to go out on the red carpet. Not like a princess about to have breakfast with her parents.
“Is this to your liking, princess?” they ask, too many times to count. I become a nodding dog, humming and agreeing to anything and everything. I imagine Primrose isn’t the sort of high maintenance princess who makes demands. So, I do my best to keep my posture upright and try not to wince as the comb snags against the knots in my hair.
I’m going to meet my biological parents. The fact hasn’t even begun to sink in, but a flurry of nerves rises from the pit of my stomach to the back of my throat.
It’s an odd scenario. One that I never dreamed up.
Whenever I thought about my biological parents, I thought they were split up, or that one of them would be dead. I mean, who puts up a baby for adoption?
Not once did I think that my parents were royals and that they had kept my twin and discarded me.
The thought sends a prickling sensation into my eyes like thousands of tiny daggers jabbing me. If these were more normal circumstances, I would be worrying about whether they would like me, or accept me.
But in this situation, I’m in disguise. With any luck, they won’t even know it’s me. So, I guess that gives me an advantage. I can get a good look at them and get to know them, without the fear of facing rejection.
I’m not sure my heart can cope with being rejected twice by them.
“The King and Queen are waiting for you in the breakfast hall, Princess,” a maid says, snapping me out of my morbid thoughts.
I wear a smile of exaggerated delight and rise from the chair. My hair falls in light waves to my waist and my feet move a little in the sandals––I guess Prim’s feet are a bit bigger than mine.
“Thank you, I’m ready...” I begin, trying to recall the woman’s name from the file. My brain scans the photos in my memory, trying to find one of a woman with black hair and thick dark brows that frame a pair of hazel eyes. “... Brandy,” I say softly. The young woman’s plump lips stretch wide and her eyes sparkle at me.
I long to sigh with relief and rub the sweat from my brow. But that might be an obvious giveaway. So, I remain composed as we walk quietly out of the room, Teddy walking alongside me.
The long halls are lined with paintings that must be hundreds of years old. Many of the nobles in the portraits have an air of familiarity about them. Are these my ancestors? I wonder.
The hall opens out to a light and breezy room with a large dome ceiling. Soft white light shines through stained glass windows and a rainbow of colors dance about the gleaming furniture.
“Princess Primrose, your Majesties,” Brandy says with a curtsey. Her eyes shift to me and her smile falls. It takes me a microsecond to realize I should be curtseying too.
Seriously, the one time I don’t curtsey, it’s in front of the King and Queen.
I bend my knee and bow my head, but I dip even lower than Brandy and it’s a pantomime to get back up. No one remarks on it.
I blink into the dazzling light to see two figures standing at either end of a large banquet table.
Brandy leads me to a chair with a table setting right in the middle.
I take my place and we all sit.
Then… Silence.
I look to my left and catch my first glimpse of my mother. The Queen. She sits prim and proper, her gaze lowered and on her plate. Her appearance is impeccable. There’s hardly a line on her face nor a strand of gray in her hair. But there’s something about her demeanor that is unsettling. Unlike Primrose, she does not seem to shine with happiness. Her form is perfect, but the way her brows are knit together ever so slightly, and the fact that she has not lifted her gaze once, makes me wonder, is she just a deep thinker?
Or is she miserable?
A group of staff file in, carrying food to the table on silverware, until I am surrounded by tropical fruits and sliced meats. I wait for one of the servers to pour me a glass of orange juice, then quietly thank them. The young man’s cheeks grow pink and I wonder if it’s not customary to thank them. My parents raised me to always say thank you.
I take a sip of my drink, and resist the urge to wince at the tartness. Little bits float in my mouth and stick to my tongue. I hate freshly-squeezed orange juice. But I do my best poker face and put the glass down, looking to my right at the King.
He looks deep in thought as well. Unlike his wife’s smooth face, his face is lined with crow’s feet around his eyes and a deep groove between his brows.
And just like that, my illusion of the royal family is shattered. I have no idea what these people have to do on a day-to-day basis, but seeing them like this; sitting so far apart, I’m sure they’d have to shout at each other to be heard. It’s a far cry from my own family breakfasts.
I glance at the empty place setting across from me and wonder who else is coming to join us. I look from right to left, then glance behind me to see the line of servants standing pretty in a line. It feels like everyone is waiting and all of this delicious food is calling my name.
What is everyone waiting for? Do we say grace? Is someone late?
“Good morning, Mother and Father,” I say, trying to sound proper. “What is on the agenda today?”
For the first time, my biological parents look at me and for a moment, my eyes lock with my mother’s. Hers widen a little and I worry that maybe I have acted out of character for Prim. Does she not talk at the breakfast table?
But then someone clears their throat behind me and my parents rise to their feet. I follow suit and swivel to look at the shuffling sound behind me.
“Announcing Prince Cristiano Velanto, of Rossini.”
It takes every ounce of my resolve not to let my jaw drop to the floor. My gaze settles on a tall masculine man with dark hair and piercing eyes. He is standing in a dashing suit and shiny cufflinks, looking directly at me.
I give a feeble wave as he bows, and his eyes lift to meet mine again. A broad smile takes over his face and a beautiful dimple appears on his left cheek.
He walks––no, strides––over and takes his place at the table across from me.
For a moment, no one moves, and it’s like a game of chicken. Whoever sits down first loses. I stare, unblinking, at Cristiano, taking in this man who looks like he walked out of a Jane Austen novel.
His gaze locks on me, and the intensity of his stare makes my knees wobble.
Prim never said anything about a Prince.
We sit in unison, and suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.
The silence is deafening as everyone selects their food. Now I can see why Prim is so tight-lipped. Nobody talks in this family.
Which is weird because I am a big talker.
I watch Prince Cristiano––wow, that name rolls off the tongue nicely––pour a glass and part of me wants to warn him that the orange juice has bits in it. But then I imagine the look on everyone’s faces when they hear that, and the concern I’ll hear in someone’s voice when they graciously correct me with the word “pulp.”
Whatever. They can call it what they like, but it doesn’t take away the fact that it feels like millions of bits in my mouth.
“Cristiano, we are delighted to meet at last,” the Queen says softly as she picks up her fork. Cristiano’s gaze leaves me and I exhale. I hadn’t even realized that I was holding my breath.
“It is an honor, Your Majesty.”
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I almost slam my fists on the table but manage to drag them to rest on my knees instead. The sound of Prince Cristiano’s deep, gravelly voice grates on me in the most delightful way. It’s like I just swallowed too much soda and my whole body has begun to effervesce.
He picks up a grape, rolls it between his finger and thumb, pops it into his mouth, and gives me a wink.
It’
s too much. I’m not mentally prepared to be in this situation and all I want to do is run to my room and get Prim on the phone.
Apart from the iron gates surrounding the palace, and the King and Queen’s lack of communication, I see no reason why Prim would want to run away from this life?
She’s got it all. That luxurious bedroom. A whole team of staff responding to her every beck and call. And now there’s a ridiculously hot prince on the scene.
“I must confess, this meeting is coming as a great surprise,” I say. I manage to copy Prim’s accent to perfection, but my filter is gone. What I should do right now is keep quiet and be a good little princess.
But I’m dying to know what the heck is going on, and why Prim didn’t even mention Prince Hotness. I mean, what do we do now?
Thankfully, a cough draws my attention to the King. He dabs a corner of his mouth with a napkin and I’m reminded of Prim back in my kitchen. Then he picks up a crystal cut glass.
“My apologies, Primrose, dear. I know this is all happening a month earlier than you expected, but our schedules...”
“What’s happening, exactly?” I ask, picking up the glass of water next to my abandoned orange juice.
“Primrose, darling. There’s no need to be facetious,” the Queen says. I look from King to Queen as if I’m following a tennis match. Then my gaze lands on Prince Cristiano again and I notice his forehead has turned a light shade of red.
I swallow uncomfortably, my mouth impossibly dry, and take a greedy gulp of water. Of course, I pick the worst timing, because the King suddenly chooses that very moment to speak.
“Your wedding to Prince Cristiano, of course.”
The statement hits me in the chest, and as a reflex, I spray water all over the table like a fountain. My nose burns and I slide my chair back in a panic, coughing into my napkin.
“Primrose, are you unwell?” the Queen asks, though I can’t detect any trace of concern in her voice. There is mild horror though. Probably at the image that has now been burned into her memory; her sweet princess, blasting her prince with H20.
“Yes. I mean no,” I manage to say, as a rush of servants ambush the table with cloths and apologies. It’s as if one of them turned into a baby elephant and destroyed the lovely breakfast.
I can’t even bring myself to look at the Prince. I imagine him dripping head to toe, blinking at me with shock and disgust.
With a scrape of the chair legs against the marble floor, I stumble to my feet. “I need to get some fresh air.”
And before anyone can utter a syllable, I hot-tail it out of that room like my life depends on it.
Chapter 6
The sun is blinding as I exit the palace and march into the grounds. A walled garden draws my attention and I make a beeline for it, ignoring the line of royal guards as I pass them.
My heart is hammering against my ribcage so hard; I can hear it. And my hands tremble as I stumble over the gravel path, my feet sliding in my sandals.
I’ve blown my cover already.
Prim would never spit out her drink in shock. I mean, I can’t know for sure on that, because I’ve only spent a day with her. But every moment she was with me, she acted, well… prim and proper.
The memory of the disastrous breakfast plays out on a loop in my mind and I pace the garden, wondering how I’m going to recover from this.
“Princess Primrose.”
I stop in my tracks and turn to the deep voice calling me. This time, I do nothing to stop my jaw from hanging as I lay eyes on Prince Cristiano again. Thankfully, he’s not dripping wet. The corners of his eyes are creased though, and he has a look of concern written all over his beautiful face.
He followed me? After what I did?
If I was him, I’d run back to my kingdom, promising never to come back here again.
“I’m sorry, Prince…”
“Please, call me Cristiano,” he interjects. He leaps forward as he speaks, then stops suddenly, less than a foot away, as if he changed his mind mid-stride.
“Right. Cristiano,” I say, trying to ignore the fact that my heart is fluttering now I’m back in his presence. “You should leave. Forget Angola even exists,” I say, turning away. But then I realize what I’ve just said and that I said it in my American/Italian accent. I whip back around with my hand over my mouth and catch Cristiano studying me with a tilted head, his bushy brows are furrowed.
“Angola?” he repeats.
Prim’s irritated voice enters my mind.
It’s Andonna.
Dang. Why can’t I ever remember the name of this country?
Cristiano’s dark eyes bore into mine as I stand there, blinking silently. My mind is scrambling to gather its thoughts.
Do I tell him I have memory loss? Maybe I can come up with a story that I make impersonations when I’m nervous. Like earlier at breakfast, I was impersonating an elephant at the watering hole in the African jungle.
My stomach knots and my tongue feels like it’s grown three sizes larger.
“You’re having second thoughts about our union?” Cristiano asks in a silky voice and the sexiest accent I’ve ever heard. My insides turn to goo, but I suck in a deep breath to steady myself.
I cannot allow myself to be attracted to this man. Prince... Whatever.
Before I can argue––or agree––Cristiano pulls off his jacket. I don’t blame him; the unforgiving sun is beating down on us like a fiery inferno. I can already feel beads of sweat starting to gather on my temples.
But the motion of Cristiano rolling his shoulders back, and dragging the dark material from his biceps to reveal his strong, muscular physique, makes me hotter than the sun.
I’m looking at fire. Stringing this Prince along, pretending to be Prim, will be playing with fire. The only outcome will be me getting burnt.
Cristiano drapes his jacket over his arm and sits on a stone bench. He pats the space beside him, but I remain immobile, standing by a patch of pink pansies.
“Look. I too have my misgivings about the arrangement,” Cristiano says glumly, and the words are like an electric current straight to my chest. My ears prickle and I join him at the bench.
“Then why go through with it?” I ask, forgetting to put on my proper accent. I let my shoulders slump a little too as I lean forward and eye the troubled prince closely. Maybe this is why Prim wanted to switch places?
Maybe she knew I’d mess this up, and that I’d scare off the Prince, so she won’t have to marry him after all?
Cristiano looks out at the marble water fountain.
“I have a duty to my country, and my people,” he says solemnly.
“Well sure, that sounds romantic,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. He looks at me with surprise, then smirks at me. “You’re quite different from the Princess Primrose I had heard about.”
I gulp. This is a disaster. I’ve been here for one day. One. Day. And already someone sees right through me.
I play with my hair nervously and give him a grin. “Oh, and what have you heard?”
But before Cristiano can speak, a cough breaks into our conversation. “Prince Cristiano, is everything alright?”
A royal guard is standing by the opening and looking from me to the Prince with concern. Cristiano leaps to his feet and turns to me, offering his hand.
“Yes, Martin. The Princess just needed some air,” he says formally. I surreptitiously wipe my clammy hand on my dress before placing it in Cristiano's. He grips me, curls his fingers around mine, and squeezes, as if trying to offer me reassurance.
But holding his hand has my heart racing again.
The guard does not leave, and I get the stark impression that he’s supposed to be our chaperone.
This is the moment I realize that Prince Cristiano hasn’t jumped out of a Jane Austen novel, I’m the one who’s fallen into one.
I can only hope it’s a Jane Austen novel, and not a Greek tragedy.
I half-expect Cristiano to suggest we tak
e a turn about the garden together, but he releases my hand and bows his head to murmur in my ear instead.
“Perhaps you should have a lie-down and rest before the balcony appearance.”
I cock a brow at him. “The what-now?”
My question sparks amusement, and for a second he just looks at me, slightly incredulous. Then he glances at the guard again before returning his gaze to meet mine. “I believe it is customary to make our official appearance on the palace balcony in your country.”
“Right. Andonna. Because that’s where I live. Here. Not Angola or Andover. But Andonna,” I ramble.
Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.
I’m turning into full on Violet mode, when I should be poised and precious like Prim. Cristiano’s eyes twinkle at me as he nods.
“Your sense of humor is charming,” he says. And I’m not sure whether to be horrified or take a bow.
Did the Prince just pay me a compliment?
“Well, I aim to please,” I say with a wry smile. It’s clear that Cristiano hasn’t met Prim before, because if he had, he would know I’m not Prim.
But I know. Lying to my biological parents is one thing, but pulling the wool over this Prince’s gorgeous eyes is diabolical of me. I can’t keep up this charade. I have to tell him the truth about me. About what I really am.
An imposter.
He sticks his arm out for me to take, and I cling on to him as we walk back to the palace. “I do believe you’re right,” I say, slipping back into my Downton Abbey voice. “I think a lie-down is precisely what the doctor ordered.”
We walk in silence, accompanied by several guards, and I chew the inside of my cheek.
I need to tell Cristiano the truth.
And I will. Right after I get back to my room and call Prim.
Because she’s got a lot of explaining to do.
Chapter 7
Teddy joins me from the breakfast hall, licking the fluffy fur around his mouth, and wagging his tail as I part ways with Cristiano. I find my room, throw my back against the door, and shut it, glad to be alone.