by Mia Caldwell
King Vattakov stood on one side of her while her father was on the other. It was almost as if the two men conspired to make sure she couldn’t conveniently disappear. King Stepan had to field more than one uncomfortable inquiry as to the whereabouts of his errant son. No matter how good naturedly he answered the question, Marisol could see his growing frustration in how his ears grew redder the longer his son didn’t show.
After the last inquiry which King Stepan laughed off with, “Young men, eh? We were like that once too,” he leaned over and whispered in Marisol’s ear. “If he doesn’t arrive, I’ll marry you myself. You’re too beautiful to let go.”
Marisol held back a shudder as she eyed the portly king. At one time he was a handsome man, but Vattakov was known to indulge as heavily as his son in different vices and the reek of cigars hung around him like a rancid wreath. The idea of marriage to this Vattakov was more disgusting than the younger.
The reception line thinned when there was a disturbance at the door.
“Yes, yes,” said a heavily accented voice in English. “I am late, but I’m supposed to be here.”
Vattakov spoke to one of his retainers that stood at his back and the man walked quickly to the entrance and escorted in a tall man, who looked a little worse for wear. While he was wearing a black tie and black tuxedo as her father and the King Vattakov were, but there was two day’s growth of beard on his chin and heavy bags under his eyes. He stumbled slightly as the retainer led him in.
The prince’s father looked displeased at the state of his son.
“Bring coffee, and make it strong,” he ordered, and another retainer scrambled to fill the king’s order.
“Zdravstvuyte,” said Tristan bowing low before his father.
“English, son, English,” said King Stepan irritably.
“They do not speak Russian?” Tristan asked without looking at either King Francois or Marisol.
“Neither do you speak French,” said Stepan, his ears growing redder.
“Pity. English it will have to be. Such an inelegant language.”
“Remember yourself,” hissed Stepan. “Do not make a scene before these people, and especially your bride and her father.”
Marisol turned to her father and pretended to speak into his ear. In truth this was a little playacting to give the King and his son a moment to themselves.
Tristan stood and grinned sloppily at Marisol.
“And this is my bride,” he announced a little too loudly. “Your photographs don’t do you justice. You’re ampler than you appear in them.”
“Tristan,” hissed his father with the warning of a pit viper.
Marisol flushed. How dare this man criticize her appearance?
A servant quickly brought the coffee. Tristan took it and downed several shots. He shuddered and handed the cup back to the shocked servant. “American coffee. How revolting. See if you can find a decent demitasse of espresso and keep them coming.”
“Yes, your Highness.” The servant backed away.
“American coffee doesn’t have any bite to it. I don’t see how anyone drinks it.”
“Tristan. we aren’t here to discuss coffee.”
“So we aren’t. We’re here to celebrate new business interests.”
King Stepan shook his head and then another retainer stepped up to the royals. “Dinner,” the man said. “Is to be served in the main hall.”
“Let us go be seated,” said Marisol’s father.
The four of them walked through the hall, the Kings shaking hands and thanking guests as they walked through, appearing the happy parents of a nearly engaged couple. Tristan wrapped his arm around hers though she suspected it was more to steady his steps. Alcohol wafted strongly from his breath.
“You must have had fun before you arrived,” said Marisol dryly.
“Yes. You’re only young once.”
“I would have thought by now you’d have had enough fun. The news is full of it.”
He flashed an incredibly bright smile, one Marisol mused, he used to charm the endless line of women that shared his bed.
“You’ll find that I am fun,” he said cockily.
“I’m sure,” she said turning her head and giving a little wave to someone that addressed her.
“Will I find you fun?” he slurred.
“I’m not sure what you mean?”
He whispered into her ear. “Are you experienced with men?”
Marisol gulped. “I’m a good Catholic, Tristan.”
“Ha!” said Tristan too loudly. “So am I.”
Yes, and we’ve seen how well that works.
“But never mind,” he continued. “You’ll like it in my bed. Many women do.”
“So I’ve heard,” murmured Marisol. The head table seemed very far away and Tristan didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get there.
“Ooh, was that a judgement, my fiancée? Do you disapprove?” He said the last words in a mocking voice.
“Your father represented to mine that you desire to settle down.”
“Ha,” said Tristan again. He pushed his head to her neck and licked it with his tongue. Marisol shuddered in disgust.
“The only thing I desire is to shut up the old man. He wants grandchildren, so we’ll give him grandchildren.”
“Well, yes, eventually,” Marisol said.
“Oh no, I’ll get you pregnant in the first year. And then the second. Possibly the third. Once he has a bunch of grandsons running around the palace he’ll shut up.”
“Do I not have a say in the spacing of our children?”
Tristan’s face turned very serious and stopped moving forward.
“You don’t get it, do you? You’ll fulfill your duties as my wife, the mother of our children and the princess of two countries and you’ll do it without complaint. I’ll have no patience with anything else. My father wants me married. Fine, but I’ll not be inconvenienced by this marriage one bit.”
Marisol’s chest tightened, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe. He expected what? A compliant bed partner? A brood mare? No. No. No.
Finally they reached the head table, but to her horror she found that she and Tristan were sitting together in the center with his father sat on the right of Tristan, while her father sat left. She said little as the prince pulled her chair for her.
Marisol sat, her knees shaking, her heart beating rapidly.
Her father glanced at her with concern.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m tired, Papa,” she said, using her childhood endearment for him.
“She probably needs a drink,” said Tristan. “Waiter,” he said snapping his fingers toward one of the servers. “Bring the Princess a pomegranate martini, and I’ll take a jack on the rocks.”
“Please, Tristan,” said Marisol, “I don’t drink.”
“Nonsense,” said Tristan. “Everyone drinks.” He leaned over to her ear. “You need to loosen up, Princess. You wouldn’t want me to get bored with you quickly, do you? After all, we have a lifetime together and your father needs this union to work.”
Marisol shuddered once again. As she was thinking how intolerable this Prince was, she felt something brush against her leg. She looked at Tristan, who leered at her. Then she realized it was his hand that lifted the hem of her dress and ran it along her thigh.
Oh, God, she prayed, make him stop. Please make him stop.
Tristan didn’t stop. He traveled along the top of her thigh to finger her inner thigh and edged up toward her panties, where he slid his fingers under the lace.
Marisol was mortified. No one ever took such liberties with her and certainly not in a room full of dignities and ambassadors.
“Is good, yes?” he said his eyes filled with lust.
Marisol gulped. She didn’t know what she could do that wouldn’t make a scene. Her breath strangled in her throat and she needed fresh air.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I need to powder my nose.” She pushed bac
k her chair abruptly, tugging away from Tristan’s errant hand. She walked as quickly as possible away from the arrogant prince who thought she was his plaything.
CHAPTER THREE
Escape
Marisol didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she couldn’t go back to that room with that awful prince. No one had ever treated her in such a disgusting and disrespectful manner. While she didn’t expect that she would fall in love with her husband right away, she knew such things were possible in arranged marriages if both people were respectful and kind toward each other. This prince neither had the inclination nor the capacity for either.
Pregnant every year for three years? Not on her life. She knew that was bad for both mother and baby. Give him no complaints? How could she not? He was everything she despised in a man, inconsiderate, insensitive and overbearing. He didn’t deserve any wife let alone her. Because Dalyasia was a tiny, unimportant country, Marisol knew her prospects among the sparse European royalty was minimal, but she certainly expected that whoever she married would at least respect her.
Apparently, Tristan respected no one, not her, her father or even his own father. Showing up drunk was bad. Tossing rudeness and lechery on top of that was even worse.
Marisol became deeply frightened of what her life would be like married to a man like that. If he was like this upon a first meeting, what would he be like in a year, or ten? And once she’d fulfilled her duty as a brood mare, what would things be like then? Marisol had no trouble imagining that she’d be married, but alone, surrounded by children that would ultimately mirror their father’s contempt of her.
In her haste to get away from that awful man, Marisol bumped into a waiter.
“Excuse me,” said woman. The woman was dark-skinned like her, and her proportions were more generous than Marisol’s.
Marisol looked her up and down, never contemplating that a woman would wear a man’s wait uniform.
“No, forgive me,” said Marisol breathlessly. “I, I—” Her heart was fluttering in her chest.
“Your earrings are beautiful,” said the waitperson.
“Thank you.” Marisol felt dizzy and nothing was making particular sense at this moment.
“Topaz?”
“Yes, it the national stone of my country.”
“Right. You’re that Marisol chick.”
“Please, I’m not feeling well. Where is the ladies room?”
“The ladies room for this floor is out the main entrance and at the end of the hall.”
“Please, I don’t think I can make it that far.”
“I’ll get my supervisor.”
“No! I mean, please, don’t leave me alone. I feel very lightheaded.”
“Then I should get my supervisor.”
Marisol swayed, and the woman grasped her to hold her up.
“Okay, I’ll bring you to the employee’s room, but you mustn’t tell people I did this okay? I’ll get in trouble. A little water on your face is what you need.”
“Oh no,” said Marisol, “I need more than water.”
“Drinking, eh? That will do it to you.”
“No,” said Marisol. Her impossible situation struck Marisol again, and she began to cry as the waitperson led her down a narrow hall. The woman pushed open a narrow door and led her in a room with rows of lockers and benches between the rows.
“You sit here while I get you some water. I’ll be right back.”
Marisol sat, feeling alone and without friends, incongruous and ridiculous sitting in a room for the workers of this hotel. An unfamiliar feeling settled around Marisol, one she never experienced before. It was hopelessness.
The woman returned with a clean, damp towel and a bottle of water.
“Here, this should fix you up, somewhat.”
Marisol pressed the cool cloth to her face and drank some of the water.
“Thank you.”
“I’m Shayna, by the way.”
“Marisol Duvaingnon.”
“Yeah, I know. Your arrival was on the news.”
“It was?” She didn’t think her father and her merited that kind of attention from the press.
“Sure. You’re marrying that Russian prince?”
“Tristan Vattakov.” Without trying, she spoke his name with contempt.
“Yeah, that one. Sounds like you don’t like him.”
“I despise him.”
“Yeah, then why are you getting married?”
“Our parents arranged it.”
“Yeah? Wow. I can’t even imagine. We don’t do things like that here. Well, mostly. There are some parts of the city where that happens, but that’s minimal. Even the Asian girls pick their own boyfriends.”
“Well, that’s not how it can be for me,” said Marisol bitterly.
“Why not? This is America. We do what we want here.”
“I’m Dalyasian.”
“Yeah? But wait, let me remember that news report. Wasn’t your mother American?”
“Yes. She was a dancer on Broadway.”
“Well, that makes you American too. A child of an American is an American citizen.”
Marisol shook her head. “I don’t think it works that way.”
“It doesn’t matter. New York City is what’s called an amnesty city. It doesn’t matter where you’re from, because immigration can’t make you leave as long as you don’t commit a crime.”
“They can’t?”
“Nope. My boyfriend Francois is from Jamaica. Came here illegal. They’d love to get their hands on him, but they can’t.”
“Francois is my father’s name.”
“See, we have something in common. In any case, you don’t like how things are? Then leave. It’s America. The home of the free. Heck, you can even get a driver’s license with ID and a residence.”
Marisol clutched at her bag where she kept her passport and her phone. Her father always made her carry that document in case, he said, they got separated unexpectedly. Freedom. It was something she’d never contemplated. For an instant the prospect of casting off the shackles of her position illuminated her mind. She could do what she wanted. Maybe she could even find her mother’s family.
“How do I get out of here from the back way?”
“Hold on, Princess. You can’t leave looking like that. They’ll spot you from a mile away, plus some might think you’re a hooker in that get-up.”
“A hooker?”
“A prostitute.”
Marisol recoiled. She was dressed like a prostitute? Her father would be mortified to know that he spent hundreds of thousands to make her look like a whore.
But what am I really when I can be bought by another family to be brood mare to a prince?
The thought fueled her desire to flee.
“But wait. I keep an extra set of clothes in my locker. Just in case, you know?”
Shayna opened her locker noisily then rummaged around it, producing jeans, a t-shirt and a pair of running shoes.
“Here,” she said offering the musty smelling clothes to Marisol. The princess looked at them doubtfully.
“But hey,” said Shayna pulling them back. “If you don’t want them.”
“No, but I have nothing to give you.”
“I like your shoes,” said Shayna.
“Okay,” said Marisol. “You can have the shoes.”
Shayna grinned.
“Get ready. And when I come back, I’ll show you out.”
“Wait. You aren’t leaving me?”
“Have to. I’ve been gone too long. Besides I’ll check things out for you. I bet if you’re gone too long, your people will have a fit too.”
Shayna bounced from the locker room with a wave and “I’ll be back soon.”
The waitperson was right. Father’s security and probably King Vattakov’s would look for her soon. She didn’t have long. Marisol shed her dress and put on the clothes, leaving all her underwear including the silk stockings since she had no socks. She took
off her wig and pulled the necklace off it and all the jewelry the front pocket of the jeans. She took her passport, her credit card and her phone and put them in the other pocket. Then she remembered something from watching movies, and took a minute to pry the backing off her phone and removed the battery. She didn’t want to be tracked.
Marisol placed the heels, the purse and the wig inside of Shayna’s still opened locker.
“Please, God, help me,” said Marisol as she stole from the locker room in search of her freedom.
***
Finding her way of the hotel wasn’t hard, but finding her way around the city was.
Not daring to use her phone to navigate, she was forced to wander. At the first bank she came across, she attempted to use the credit card to get cash. She knew she was going to need it, but frustratingly the automatic teller refused to give her any.
“Hey,” said a woman rudely behind her. “Can you speed it up? It’s not safe to stand here long.”
Marisol looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m having a problem.”
The woman peered over her shoulder and whistled.
“Five thousand dollars? I’ll say. Most ATMs only allow five hundred to be withdrawn in twenty-four hours. For that amount, you’d have to go inside and the bank is closed now.”
“Oh. Thank you. I didn’t know. Do you know where I can find a person’s address?”
“What?”
“I’m new in town and looking for some people.”
“Well, I suppose you can try the library. They have all sorts of directories there, and computers for the public to use, but it closes in a couple hours, so you’ll have to hurry.”
Marisol took the cash and flagged a cab.
“Take me to the library, please.”
“Which one? There are over fifty of them in the city.”
Fifty? She couldn’t imagine.
“The closest one.”
***