Only as far as I can tell, he’s yet to have his date with karma.
In fact, from what I’ve read, his life is pretty magical.
Trips to the Maldives, parties in Ibiza, private planes, a fleet of royal yachts at his leisure, women lined up everywhere he goes, throwing themselves at him.
Screaming.
Crying.
Professing their love.
If they only knew the real Prince Julian.
“Anyway, what is it you needed to talk to me about?” I ask, checking my watch and ignoring a text from Gillian that flashes across the screen. She’s probably pacing my room, wondering what the hell is going on. And in all fairness, I never told any of my friends that I knew royalty.
That my first kiss was a prince.
That I gave my virginity to the future King of Chamont (more like he stole it).
After my sixteenth summer, it seemed irrelevant, and Julian wasn’t anyone I wanted to bring up ever again.
“Do you remember that pact we made?” he asks. “The marriage pact?”
My stomach heaves and my blood runs cold.
Of all the things I expected him to bring up tonight, that was the last.
“If you’re talking about the pact we made where we promised never to marry each other, then yes. I remember it. Clearly. In fact, it’s the one thing from that summer that stands out most.”
I’ve never told a single soul about our promise. I never wanted to have to explain it. I never wanted to explain him. Without the facts and details to accompany such a pact, it wouldn’t make sense anyway.
I’ve had friends who’ve made marriage pacts of the mainstream variety—if we’re not married by thirty, we’ll marry each other, that sort of thing—but ours was … unique.
And also necessary.
Our fathers were absolutely convinced that we were going to end up together one day, and our mothers used to throw around the word “betrothed” like candy at a parade with smiles on their faces as they were intoxicated off pricey white wine (and oblivious to our mutual disdain for one another that started long before either of us had so much as reached junior high).
After Prince Julian so callously and carelessly shattered my naive little teenage heart into a thousand-billion pieces, I had to make it clear in front of both of our families that a marriage between the two of us would never happen.
It was funny how quickly the word “betrothed” left our mothers’ vocabularies after that.
“Good,” Julian says. “I’m glad you remember it … because we have to break it.”
I start to reply but choke on my words, barely coughing out a simple, “What?!”
He can't be serious.
Julian smiles a devilish smile for all of two seconds before regaining his composure. He always did love getting reactions out of me.
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. Please tell me you didn’t fly all the way to North Carolina to ask me to marry you.”
“What if I did?”
“Then I’d say you’re ….”
“What? I’m what?”
“Delusional?” I half-chuckle. “Insane? Arrogant? Mistaken? I would never marry you.”
My hands fly through the air as I speak. I’m pretty sure I’m the one looking insane right now, but I’m too worked up to care.
Julian rakes his hand along his sharp jaw, exhaling. The tiniest bit of five o’clock shadow darkens his sun-kissed skin. I imagine he’s been traveling all day and he’s exhausted, but that isn’t my problem.
I'm not the idiot who thought he could walk back into someone’s life and expect her to say yes to his sorry excuse for a marriage proposal.
“I realize I’m asking the world of you, Emelie,” he says, and I wish he’d stop saying my name. It’s distracting coming from those full lips and soaked in that rich accent with his smooth cadence. “But I wouldn’t come all this way and ask this of you if I weren’t in dire straits.”
“You’re twenty-six.” And the world’s most eligible bachelor … but I don’t tell him that because he can’t know that I’ve kept up on him all these years. “Why would you want to get married now? And to me? I don’t even like you, Julian. What makes you think I’d even consider marrying you?”
My words are harsh, but the audacity of his request has me all kinds of stirred up and confused. I swear I’m feeling emotions I never knew existed before, and it’s making my mind run a million miles per hour with contradicting thoughts.
I don't know what it is about first loves, but even the briefest ones leave their marks and the tiniest, most microscopic part of you can’t un-love them, even if you can't stand them.
“You have every reason to feel the way you do, but please. Hear me out,” he says.
I realize now that we’ve yet to take a seat. We’re standing opposite each other, nothing but my cluttered coffee table separating us. I fold my arms over my chest, wishing I’d have thrown a cardigan over myself when I had the chance because how is he ever going to take me seriously when I’m standing here braless and indecent and barking at him like a crazy person who’s been tossing back Belvederes all night?
“The monarchy is currently in jeopardy,” he says. “In my father’s age … his beliefs are … shifting, if you will. He’s growing a bit extreme in his ways. Wanting to change things. The Chamontians, as you know, are a very outspoken people. They're not having it and quite frankly, neither am I. It’s getting to the point where the media is making a mockery out of him and our country is becoming late-night talk show fodder.”
“What does any of that have to do with you?” I ask. I vaguely recall reading a few articles here or there claiming King Lionel of Chamont is going senile in his old age, but beyond that I never gave them that much thought, writing them off like I do most gossip articles—as fictionalized entertainment.
“Our Parliament wants to do away with the monarchy completely,” he says. “They feel it’s a relic. A costly relic. And with my father acting out … they feel the monarchy is a liability as well.”
“Why don’t you talk to him? Have him step aside?”
“Believe me, Emelie, I’ve tried that. It only makes things worse. He flies into these rages ...” his voice tempers into nothing. “We can’t even have him examined by the royal physician. He’s uncooperative and hostile toward everyone who comes into his path, my mother included.”
A vision of King Leo at my dad’s funeral last year comes to mind. Normally a stoic man with a round belly and a boisterous boom in his voice you can hear halfway across town, he was thinner, frailer, and quieter. Less hair. Lackluster blue eyes that had almost turned grey. I thought it was the loss of his best friend that was doing a number on him. Now I wonder if it was something more …
“Our Parliament has the power to overthrow the monarchy and they’re on the cusp of doing so, however, I’ve spoken with our prime minister, and she is willing to make an exception,” he says. “She’s willing to remove my father from power and replace him with a successor. However, the royal order, which spans back hundreds of years and dozens of generations, states that the successor must be married.”
I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. “If Parliament can overthrow your father, I’m sure they can change an outdated rule.”
“I agree with you wholeheartedly,” he says. “Unfortunately, I’ve had that conversation with our prime minister as well. Chamontian culture is steeped in tradition. This was a non-negotiable for them.”
“Don't you have a cousin or something? An uncle?” I ask. I can’t count how many times he confessed to me when we were younger that he had no interest in being king or running a country. He thought his father’s job was boring and said he’d “sooner gouge my eyes out with a sterling silver caviar spoon.”
“My father was an only child,” he says. “I’m the only successor. I’m all they have.”
“Your mother can’t take over?”
“It doesn't work that way.”
“It shoul
d.”
“Right. It should. But it doesn’t. And she wouldn’t want to.” He exhales, nostrils flaring. “Anyway, getting back to business, you’re—”
“Wait.” I lift a flattened palm. “Let me make sure I understand this. You need a wife, and the first person you think to ask is me?”
“Yes, Emelie,” he says, jaw setting as he exhales through his perfect, straight nose. “I was just about to explain my rationale to you.”
I silence my commentary and give him my full attention, but only because I’m dying of curiosity.
“My country, as you might know, has a rather complicated relationship with yours.”
Fitting.
And also true.
“And I believe this could be a step in bridging that divide and changing … perspectives. Public and personal.” He pauses before locking eyes with me again. "To put it frankly, Emelie, Chamontians despise Americans, and from what I understand, the feeling is mutual.”
“I don’t think we should be generalizing, but I understand what you’re getting at,” I say. “That said, you’re wasting your time. I’m ninety-nine percent sure you could walk up to any random American girl on the street and propose to her and she’ll say yes. I mean, there’s this whole Meghan Markle phenomenon now and there are a lot of girls dreaming of having royal weddings of their own, so … lucky you.”
“I don’t want some random girl from the street, Emelie. I want you.”
His words suck the air from my lungs, but not for long. “Do you hear yourself right now? How crazy you sound? You’re not even making sense. I can’t stand you, Julian. I would never marry you. And that’s a promise I intend to keep.”
I check my watch again before heading to the patio slider to let Rafa back inside.
“Our conversation is over,” I say to them both before turning to Julian and escorting them to the door. “You came to ask a question. You got your answer. Good luck.”
They leave, quiet. Dumfounded, probably. And I lock the door behind them, refusing to let myself watch through the peephole.
The instant they’re gone, Gillian rushes down the hall, throwing questions at me faster than I can think to answer them, but I still have one of my own: why does he want me?
The man didn't just shatter my heart that summer, he obliterated it. It took me years to piece it back together and even then, it was never fully right after that. Never quite whole.
I meant it with every fiber in my soul when I swore I would never marry him.
I meant it then.
And I mean it now.
Chapter 2
Julian
“Julian.” Emelie’s mother, Delphine, greets me the next morning with open arms and wistful, glossy eyes. “It’s been too long. How are you?”
We’re standing in the sweeping entryway of the two-hundred-year-old Briar Cove, North Carolina colonial the Belleseaus have always called home, only instead of fresh flowers in cut crystal vases, imported rugs, and dazzling chandeliers, we’re surrounded by stacked moving boxes.
Not only that, but I can’t help but notice all of the light fixtures have been stripped from the walls, and in the parlor, a couple of gentlemen are hoisting up a velvet settee.
It turns out Mr. Belleseau had been struggling financially for several years before his untimely passing and nobody knew. His business was struggling, so he borrowed against the equity in his home, and because things were so tight, he let his life insurance policy lapse. When he died, he left behind a wife and three daughters, a mountain of debt, and an empty bank account.
Pierre Belleseau was a proud man. I can’t say that I fault him for not wanting to worry his family. I’m sure every part of him believed he would reverse their situation all in due time, so there was no need to stress the others. How was he to know he was going to fall asleep behind the wheel after working a sixteen-hour day in the office?
“You have no idea how good it is to see you,” Delphine says, still embracing me.
I had phoned her the other day and explained everything, including my plan to convince Emelie to marry me. We had a laugh about it at first, and then Delphine realized I was serious. Without pause, she gave me her blessing and told me how happy it would make Pierre to know that Emelie ended up with me. It was always his wish, she said, and then she informed me that Pierre always thought of me as the son he’d never had.
Delphine had also mentioned briefly over the phone that she was moving, but I didn’t realize until now that she was taking all of their antique light fixtures as well. On second thought, I imagine she sold them for cash.
"How long will you be in town?” she asks. “Isabeau and Lucienne will be driving home from Duke tomorrow. They’ll be here for the summer, though Isabeau has an internship in Charleston next month.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be in town more than a few more days,” I say.
“When do you plan on visiting Emelie? You know it’s her birthday today. I was planning on taking her out for brunch. You should join us!”
“I spoke with her last night, actually,” I say. “I’m afraid she’s not exactly open to my proposal. At least not yet.”
I can’t say that I blame her.
I’m not an imbecile—I knew I wouldn’t be leaving there with a yes.
I just needed to plant the seed.
Now Delphine’s going to water it for me.
“Excuse us,” one of the movers says as he hoists a box onto his shoulder.
We step aside, and I manage to steal a glance into her kitchen, which is void of appliances, nothing but wooden cabinets and empty spaces where shiny metal objects used to reside.
We spent most of our summertime at their country house by the lake, but occasionally we’d head to their city house for a change of scenery or when Pierre had a work obligation he couldn’t reschedule.
Delphine follows my gaze before realizing what it is I’m looking at, and then she covers her heart with a hand.
“My apologies. I don’t mean to stare,” I say.
“It’s been hard,” she says. “In so many ways ...”
“You don’t have to say another word, Delphine.”
Growing up, I never had extended family. Both of my parents were only children. I didn’t have aunts or uncles or cousins. My grandparents weren’t exactly the fun-loving, spoil-you-rotten type. They were typical stuffy royals and they passed when I was quite young. To be honest, I hardly remember them at all. If it weren’t for the royal archives, they would be strangers to me.
The Belleseaus were the closest thing to extended family I ever had, and I loved them like family.
Still do.
It kills me to see Delphine shouldering all of this. I imagine she’s selling this house piece by piece just to keep the lights on and maybe cover some of Luci and Isa’s tuition. Pierre never would’ve wanted to see his family like this.
“Where are you going from here?” I ask Delphine.
“Brunch with Emelie,” she says. “Remember? I told you it’s her birthday today.”
“No, I mean, where are you going to live?”
“Oh.” Her shoulders fall and she peers out the open front door to the moving van parked on the browning grass of her once-immaculate front lawn. “I found a little apartment halfway between Durham and Emelie’s place in Fayetteville.”
For as long as I can remember, Delphine was a stay-at-home mother, and she relished in her role. She lived to take care of her family. It was her sole purpose, and her three daughters were her biggest pride and joy. Unfortunately her circumstances have left her much too young to retire and much too inexperienced to land anything beyond an entry-level job.
“If Emelie marries me, your family will be royal-by-proxy,” I say, half thinking out loud.
“I beg your pardon?”
“There will be a small stipend allocated for you and the other girls,” I explain. “It’s mostly to cover travel and other official engagements, but once I’m in charge, I can increase those
allocations.”
“Julian.” Delphine’s hand claps across her mouth. “You’re incredibly thoughtful, but I couldn’t take advantage of your generosity like that. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Nonsense. It wouldn’t be right for me to turn a blind eye on your situation, Delphine.” I take her hand. “It pains me to see you like this.”
She swipes at a tear that falls from her left eye before tucking her chin against her chest.
“This is a very humbling moment for me, Julian,” she says, voice broken as a breeze rustles her wavy blonde hair.
“What happened was a tragedy,” I say. “But I would be honored to help. You’re family to me. All of you. I want to help.”
“Julian ...”
Delphine’s eyes lock on mine, and I can’t help but notice how hers match Emelie’s fleck for fleck — green with the tiniest bits of gold if you look close enough. And they share the same sort of modern Grace Kelly poise. The way they move, the way they talk. The occasional flicker of a coy grin. My people would adore Emelie as their queen.
And secretly, I would too.
But for reasons of my own.
Chapter 3
Emelie
A small bouquet of red carnations rests between my mother and I at brunch Sunday morning. It’s always been a tradition of hers—flowers on our birthdays—only they used to be elaborate in their presentation, bordering on ostentatious at times.
Her motto was always, “The bigger the better,” and that applied to most things in her life, especially flowers. This year, the five wilting carnations in the small vase between us serves as a reminder of our family’s reversal of fortune.
We’re seated outside our favorite café when a tranquil breeze catches my hair. I tuck the wayward strands behind my years and adjust my dark sunglasses. The Advil I took an hour ago is finally kicking in. Ironically, I’m not hung over today—I’m sleep-deprived. It’s almost worse.
For several hours last night I tossed and turned, replaying my conversation with Julian again and again, trying to make sense of it all.
The Marriage Pact Page 2