A Royal Shade of Blue (Modern Royals Series Book 1)

by Aven Ellis

  I let out a sob. “It’s not that.”

  “That’s exactly what it is. But you know what, Clementine? This isn’t about me and my family issuing statements setting boundaries for you as one of us, which you practically are now. This is about your fear of everyone seeing you as your parents do. You’re putting their vision on me, and I resent that. Not once have I seen you as a girl who had a brain tumor. Not once. Yet you stand here and rail against me like I have. It’s not fair, and I’m not going to take it.”

  Then, to my shock, Christian storms over to the front door, opens it, and slams it shut behind him, leaving me alone.

  The second he does, I know I was wrong. Yes, I’m having a horrible time with this, and while the idea of him issuing a statement on my behalf makes me uncomfortable, it’s something they do to protect their privacy. This is not unique to me. The House of Chadwick has to set limits and make sure the press is accountable. This is normal for them. It doesn’t mean I’m fragile.

  It doesn’t mean that the entire world will view me as if I am, either.

  I drop down on the sofa and burst into tears. Is my childhood bound to mess up what I have with Christian? Am I really going to shove the one person away who truly sees me as the woman I am?

  My phone begins ringing inside my bag. I slowly move over to it and see it’s my mom. I draw a breath of air and answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, my God, you finally answered!” Mom cries, her voice shaking. “I’ve been absolutely sick about you since I saw what those awful tabloids are writing. Why isn’t Christian handling this? Why don’t you have security? Your father and I are about to fly over there and—”

  “You will do no such thing,” I warn, my voice firm. “I don’t need you to come over here and play babysitter.”

  “Clementine! You were jostled. What if you fell? What if you hit your head?”

  “I don’t have a damn tumor! Would you stop acting like I do? Just stop it!”

  Mom is stunned into silence, and I roll on.

  “I’m not sick. If I fell down and hit my head, I’d deal with it like anyone else. Christian does want to help me, and so does King Arthur, and they’ll be making a very sharp statement on my behalf tomorrow. I’m living my life over here, and it will be different because of the publicity, but this is my choice to make, not yours.”

  “I hope,” Mom says, her voice tearful, “that you aren’t caught up in the romance of being with a prince, because there is a steep price to pay for that, one you are only becoming aware of now. It’s not all palaces and fairy tales, and you need to take your rose-colored glasses off and see that. These tabloids will dig up more people like Brandy Gordon to tell stories about you. The press will follow you the entire time you’re dating Christian. Most of your days will be like this—hunted. They won’t always treat you like they did at Ascot. So you need to get your head around this and think clearly.”

  Brandy Gordon. She’s the one who sold me out? She was one of the mean girls in high school who loved to be the center of attention.

  I bet she called the Dishing Weekly hotline, I muse, just to see her name in print. Ugh.

  “This doesn’t only impact you,” Mom continues, interrupting my thoughts. “We have photographers parked outside the driveway, and they followed Paisley to work this morning. Your romance with a prince isn’t just about you, Clementine.”

  Nausea rolls over my stomach. I never thought of the press stalking my family.

  Once again, I’m reminded that Christian is right. I do need his help. My family never asked for this, and while I want to be independent, there are some things I can’t do on my own.

  Like get the press to leave my family alone.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice thick. “I’ll have Christian request for your privacy, and for Paisley and Evan’s, to be respected.”

  “I’m more worried about you. We can handle this. You don’t need this stress, sweetheart.”

  I can read between the lines: I don’t need this stress because that might cause some weird reaction in me and somehow lead to me getting sick again.

  I’m so frustrated I could scream. At my parents for treating me this way, for creating this mental gridlock that has now caused a problem with Christian. At myself for getting too much inside my head and not letting the man I love support me through this paparazzi minefield like anybody else would.

  “I need to go,” I say.

  “I’m not done talking about this, Clementine,” Mom says.

  “Mom, I love you, and we’ll talk more later, but I need to go. I’m going to be fine, and the world will go on and forget I had a tumor,” I say.

  If only you could, too, my heart whispers.

  I hang up and put my phone on Christian’s coffee table. I go to the window and part the curtains. The street is quiet, and silent tears fall down my face as I think of my outburst. All I want is for him to come home. I want to tell him I’m sorry, and that he was right, and I love him for wanting to protect me. I do need the help of the monarchy if I’m to lead anything close to a normal life.

  My phone rings again.

  This time, it’s Paisley.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Oh, my God, are you okay?” Paisley asks, her voice steeped in concern.

  “I was a complete asshole to Christian,” I admit, heat filling my face as I proceed to tell her what I said to him.

  “He knows you are upset, Clem,” Paisley says, being the voice of reason. “Christian is giving you time to calm down, and then you can talk this out.”

  “If he forgives me.”

  “Now you’re being overly dramatic. All couples fight.”

  “I hate that we did.”

  “Only emotional drama-seekers love fighting. Nobody else does.”

  “I’m sorry the press is stalking you.”

  Paisley snorts. “You can claim you don’t know me if pictures show up of me dragging the trash down to the curb in my milk and cookies fleece pajama bottoms with my I don’t do mornings T-shirt on.”

  I finally laugh. I can always count on my sister to make me smile.

  “I’ll always be proud of you,” I say. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Paisley says.

  We talk for a bit, with me reassuring her that I’ll get past this and her telling me damn right I will, before I hang up and set the phone back down. It feels like an eternity before Christian comes back, but finally, through the curtains, I get a glimpse of him coming down the sidewalk. I watch as he unhooks the gate and slowly moves toward the house.

  Anxiousness fills me as I wait for him to step through the door. Will he still be mad at me? Will he want me to leave? Will he listen to what I have to say? We’ve never really had a huge fight, so I don’t know how he handles being mad at me.

  The door opens, and Christian steps inside. My heart is pounding against my ribs as I rise from the sofa. I’m about to speak, but Christian does first.

  “I love you,” he says simply. “I love you with everything I am, and I’m sorry I walked out when you needed me.”

  “I was awful to you,” I say, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my blouse. Geez, I really need to buy pocket tissues; this is getting ridiculous. “And I understand why you needed to clear your head. I love you more,” I whisper. “More than you could ever know.”

  Christian moves over to me and draws me back into his arms. I breathe a sigh of relief as his arms span around my back, and I feel nothing but love and warmth from his embrace.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.

  “Me, too,” I murmur into the fine fabric of his dress shirt.

  Christian steps back from me and takes my hand in his. He leads me back over to the sofa, where we sink down together. His arm is immediately around me, drawing me close to his body, and I close my eyes. We sit in silence for a few moments before Christian speaks.

  “I will never try to stifle your spirit or you
r freedom,” he says as he begins to play with my hair. “I love those things about you.”

  “I know,” I admit, embarrassed for my outburst.

  “But I won’t stand by and let the press get away with violating you when I do have the ability to take action. I have resources you don’t. And if the shoe were on the other foot, if you could do something to help me, I know you would because that’s what love is. It’s helping each other when you can, supporting each other. Helping you live your best life. That’s all I want, considering the difficult circumstances I’ve dragged you into.”

  I push myself up so I can look at him. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I chose to be here, to be in this life. I won’t lie to you, though. Seeing that picture—seeing my face drawn on and the headlines screaming to the world I had a tumor—hurts. It hurts more than I can say.”

  Tears fill Christian’s light-blue eyes. “I know what your medical privacy means to you, and I’m gutted that has been taken away. Because of me.”

  I sniffle back fresh tears. “I don’t want people to feel sorry for me.”

  Christian sweeps the tears away with his fingertips. “Nobody who gets to know you will feel that way. All they will see is the smart, ambitious, capable, funny woman that I do. If anything, they will see you as someone to be admired.”

  As I see myself through Christian’s lens, a calmness takes over.

  “Maybe,” I say aloud as if hardly daring to believe it, “not everyone will see me as fragile like my parents do.”

  “Paisley doesn’t see you that way anymore,” Christian says. “She used to. But seeing you as an adult, she’s changed her perception.”

  A switch goes off in me. He’s right. She isn’t hovering over me in an over-protective way. She sees me as an adult, as her peer.

  Normal.

  “I’m not the only one who has gone through this,” I say, thinking aloud. “Either living with a disease or having recovered from one. When I had those tests last winter, I prayed that if I were spared, I’d somehow do good for people. I’d use my gifts to make a difference. I just didn’t know how. But now I do. I want to help people who are facing their lives post-surgery or post-diagnosis. I want to offer support and share my story. This is what I’m meant to do, and if it took this horrible day to see it, that’s okay. It’s part of my story.”

  Christian’s eyes search mine. “I love you so much, and I love that you’ve found your cause.”

  I nod. “I’m okay with a statement being released. You’re right. Boundaries need to be set.”

  “Good. My communications secretary here at Kensington Palace is going to release what I wrote tomorrow. Would you like to read it?”

  I exhale. “Yes.”

  Christian retrieves his phone, swipes a few things, and hands it to me. I begin to read:

  As Prince Christian begins his new role in public life on behalf of the monarchy and for the people, he understands there will always be an interest in what he does. He will strive to inform the public of his work with organisations and charities through his relationship with the working media.

  While Prince Christian does realise this interest extends to his private life as well, he is deeply concerned with the amount of attention focused on his girlfriend, Ms. Clementine Jones. Her medical privacy was violated, something that is unacceptable to Prince Christian. While she might be in the public eye, she has a right to privacy as any other citizen does. Her medical history, something deeply personal, was displayed for the world to read without her consent in a painful way that was disrespectful, hurtful, and humiliating. This sets a dangerous precedent, as the lines of decency and respect for her rights have been shoved aside. She has a right to privacy. She has a right to walk down the street without being jostled by photographers. Her family has a right to be able to leave their homes without being accosted by the press.

  The prince hopes the media will reflect upon these words and give Ms. Jones the respect and privacy she deserves, the same as anyone else, as she creates her new life in London and with Prince Christian.

  I grow emotional as I read his heartfelt plea on my behalf. I swallow hard and hand him back his phone.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, choking up. “Thank you for loving me like this, and for being such an honorable and good man. I’m lucky to have you.”

  “No. Thank you, for being here and for putting up with this. No man is luckier than I am.”

  I place my hand against his cheek. “There is no place I’d rather be.”

  Christian lowers his lips to mine, kissing me gently.

  “I will always be here to help you navigate this life,” Christian says, his light-blue eyes shining with everything that is in his heart. “Please don’t hesitate to share your concerns or ask for my assistance, not just about royal things but all problems. We’re in this together, but I can only be an active participant if you let me, sweetheart. We need to communicate openly and honestly to be a team.”

  “I promise. From now on, you’ll know everything I’m thinking, and together, we’ll take on this life.”

  As Christian kisses me again, I vow I will keep this promise. Whenever I face a problem, I will share it with Christian. It’s not a sign of weakness to accept help but rather a sign of maturity.

  We’re in this together, I think, repeating Christian’s words. No matter what comes our way, we’ll tackle it together. We’re a team.

  And we always will be.

  Chapter 31

  Tea at Five O’Clock

  TGIF.

  I exit Cheltham House on a beautiful summer evening in July. I stop for a moment and gaze out over the lush green lawn and vibrant summer flowers that make up the terraced garden, the sunlight shining brightly and bathing it in a beautiful glow. Coming from Phoenix, I still can’t get over the lushness of England, even in the city.

  Then it hits me.

  I’ve been in London for exactly one month.

  I take a moment to reflect on what a milestone this is. After my medical past was revealed in Dishing Weekly, I received a groundswell of support from the public regarding the media going too far. I started receiving letters from people who have not only dealt with brain tumors but other illnesses that they wanted to keep private from even the closest of friends. It opened my eyes to how many people struggle with the emotional weight of illnesses, whether past or present, and I knew I had found my purpose. While I cannot take on any cause in a royal capacity, I have decided to volunteer for patient support groups for brain tumor survivors.

  To my shock, Queen Antonia—who hasn’t spoken to me since that day at Ascot—said in a release she was “deeply touched” by my story and has now become a supporter of research to help children with brain tumors. Jillian called bollocks on that. She declared it a PR stunt, and I agree. Christian said he hoped his mother was truly moved in some way and that this would eventually lead to me being accepted by her.

  As much as he knows the truth about her, she’s still his mother. While he’s not in denial like James, I saw a glimmer of a young man hoping to see his mother was changing for the good, and I refuse to take that hope away from him. I don’t know how it will play out, but Christian was pleased she was going to do something that showed support for me, so I refused to put any negativity on it, choosing instead to be grateful for what it was.

  Christian has flourished in his new role. He’s gone all in on his support for caregivers and is now a patron for the non-profit group Care 4 Caregivers, a support network. He’s going to speak on their behalf, chair fundraisers, and create awareness.

  He’s taking his message global, too, and is now on a tour of Australia and New Zealand and will visit caregiver organizations there as part of his trip. He’s also going to see some wildlife refuges, too, and I think that will springboard his next charitable cause.

  While Christian has been gone, I started giving tours at Cheltham House on my own. People started asking for me by name, not because of my skills but because they w
ant a snap of Prince Christian’s girlfriend. The press has mocked me for being a tour guide, and worse, mocked Christian for dating one, but I don’t read the articles anymore. Dishing Weekly taught me a valuable lesson: that unless I want to feel like crap about myself, I don’t need that garbage in my headspace.

  Good vibes only, please, I think with a grin.

  At the estate, we’re going to start yoga classes outdoors. And to tie-in to Christian’s cause, Felicity is going to host a tea in the State Dining Room for members from Care 4 Caregivers as a treat. Jillian doesn’t know it yet, but Christian and I made sure she’s on the guest list for that one.

  I spy Roman pruning along the pergola in the rose garden. Since I’m not having dinner with Liz until later—she and I have become good friends since all that crap went down a few weeks ago—I decide to see if I can get Roman to come around to a new idea I have. I walk down the steps to the path where Roman is, and a warm smile spreads across his face as he notices my approach. A sun hat covers his hair, and I can’t see his eyes behind his dark sunglasses. A gray T-shirt stained with sweat and khaki work pants make up his uniform, along with gardening boots. Roman stops and tucks a tool into a work belt that is slung around his hips.

  “Fancy some more flowers for your house?” Roman teases.

  I smile. “While I love you for always giving me enough for a weekly arrangement, no,” I say. “I have an idea to run by you.”

  He takes a moment to remove his sunglasses, and his hazel eyes regard me with curiosity. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “You know how we are testing yoga as part of a program to build our relations within the community and bring new visitors to Cheltham House? Well, I have another idea. What about Master Gardener classes? We could have different kinds, like teaching people how to grow and care for roses, prepare for fall, or plant bulbs. We could even have kids’ classes and get them involved in nature. I think there are a lot of opportunities here, and we can teach the history of the garden at the same time.”

  Roman appears thoughtful. “I think Grandfather would enjoy that,” he says slowly. “He can’t do much physically anymore, but he has an incredible knowledge base. I think he’d love it, actually.”