Emelie
I pour a glass of red wine Monday night as my frozen dinner heats in the microwave, and then I gaze out the window over my kitchen sink, lost in thought once again.
My heart and my head are embroiled in a bitter battle and at this point, it’s anyone’s game.
The microwave beeps and at the same time I almost swear I hear a knock at my door, which is concerning seeing how I’m not expecting anyone.
Abandoning the kitchen situation, I make a beeline for my front door, rising on my toes and squinting through the peephole.
You’ve got to be kidding.
Swinging the door open a second later, I pose a hand on my hip and offer a flat and unenthused, “You’re back.”
“Emelie.” Julian smiles at me and a hint of his luxe, old money cologne embraces me before flooding my lungs. It’s an unfamiliar scent, clean yet spicy with a hint of citrus, but one that suits him well. “Forgive me for stopping by unannounced—”
“—again.”
“Yes. Again,” he says. “But I’m afraid I won’t be in town much longer, and I was coming by to see if you’d given more thought to my question.”
A man in all black stands behind him, and a black SUV with dark windows is parked in my driveway.
“I always thought my first proposal would include flowers, a bended knee, and a ring,” I say, “so thank you for placing that little plot twist into my life.”
“Your first proposal?” He arches an eyebrow. “Are you expecting several of them in your lifetime?”
“You know what I mean.”
He smirks. “Might I come in?”
I stand back and widen the door, and he turns, muttering something to his security guard—Rafa, I think his name is. A moment later, he shows himself in and closes the door. I realize now he’s carrying a large paper bag.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing.
Julian scans the room until his gaze stops at my small kitchen table, and he wastes no time unpacking what appears to be two dinners and a tall candle.
“What are you doing?” I ask, despite the fact that the answer is obvious.
He strikes a match, lighting the tall white candle he’s placed in the middle of the table.
“Wooing you, I believe this is,” he says, waving the matchstick until the light extinguishes. “How am I doing so far?”
If he thinks I’m still some naive sixteen-year-old, easily charmed, he’s in for a rude awakening. I leave him to wallow in my incredulous silence.
Julian pulls a chair out for me, but I remain planted. He turns, glancing over his shoulder at me, and for some inexplicable reason the intensity of his stare makes my body boiler-room hot.
"Well?” he asks. “Won’t you join me for dinner?”
Everything about him is ten times more formal than I remember. When we were kids, he was Levis and Nikes and t-shirts and messy hair. In fact, I had no idea the Chamonts (as we called them) were royals until I was eleven and I’d come across a news article with their photos in them. When I confronted my parents, they made me swear not to treat them any differently. Their little request complicated things though, because whenever Julian would hide bullfrogs in my bed or leave earthworms on my tire swing or frame me for general mischief around the house, I became too afraid to tattle on him.
He wasn’t just some boy after that.
He was a prince.
My young mind placed him on some invisible pedestal, like he was above me for being who he was.
I didn’t know better then.
I do now.
Taking a seat in the chair, I cross my legs and fold my arms in my lap, watching as he works the corkscrew on a bottle of wine he brought.
In many ways, I don’t recognize this version of Julian. He’s refined. Calm. Dashing in a grown man sort of way, and not a teenager-on-the-cusp-of-adulthood sort of way.
But it’s funny … of all the photos I’ve seen of him in gossip rags over the years, none of them could truly capture what it feels like to be in his presence. There’s a magnetic pull about him, especially when he imparts his undivided attention. And at times, when we lock eyes, I lose my train of thought and my resolve disappears into thin air. Not to mention, none of the photographs I’ve seen have done him a bit of justice. He’s much more magnificent in person—but only on the outside. I bet his inside is still just as rotten as it ever was.
I need to stay strong.
I need to not let his breathtaking exterior distract me from the wickedness and cruelty that lurks beneath.
That said, I’m still on the fence about my decision.
Regardless of what I decide, the last thing I want is for him thinking he could trample all over my heart then waltz back into my life smelling like a million bucks and looking like a dream and ask for my hand in marriage like it was his to have from the start.
The entire world has always been at his fingertips.
Why should I be as well?
“I’ve been thinking … ” I say as he pours wine into two stemless glasses he produced from his bag. “ … about your proposition …”
“I’m sure you have.” He smiles, sliding the second glass across the table until it’s within my reach.
“You’ve made it clear how this arrangement will benefit you and your country and my family,” I say. “But I have to ask—what’s in it for me?”
He shoots me a contemplative glance, like he’s mulling over the perfect response. Has he not thought about this? Does he actually believe that a marriage with him is consolation enough?
“You're asking me to sacrifice the best years of my life playing the role of wife to a man I don’t even like.” I know I'm being painfully blunt, but he needs to hear this. I imagine everyone in his circle sugarcoats things for him most of the time and reminds him of how perfect and wonderful he is day in and day out, and it won’t kill him to be reminded about his past transgressions.
“Five years,” he says, hand frozen around the bottom of his wine glass. “Give me five years and you’ll be a free woman.”
“You didn’t mention that Saturday night.”
“Royals divorce all the time,” he says. “Once I secure my seat and we give the public a few happy years, we can discuss going our separate ways. Princess Diana did it. Sarah, Duchess of York did it. Give me five years and if you want to go, I won’t try and stop you.”
“What if I fall in love with someone during that time?”
“You won’t,” he says without pause.
I wrinkle my nose. “And you know that, how?”
“Call it a hunch.”
I sniff. “Just as self-assured as always.”
“Confidence is an excellent trait to have, especially amongst leaders.”
He can justify it all he wants, but it doesn’t change the fact that his arrogance is still running the show.
“And what about children?” I ask.
“What about them?”
“Would I be required to ...”
His lips cock at one side as he takes a sip of red wine. “An heir would be lovely, but I would never force a woman to carry a child against her will. I’m not a monster.”
I had no idea Julian had a noble side.
A thrill runs down my spine and my heart gallops in my chest at the thought of being tangled in bed with this version of him, but I stop my imagination before it goes any further.
If I know him—and once upon a time I did—this is nothing more than an act.
“How gracious of you, Your Royal Highness,” I say.
“I’ve always admired your spirit, Emelie,” he says, paying me a rare compliment. When we were younger, he had an affinity for pointing out the small bump on my nose or any time I had something stuck in my teeth or the fact that he thought I looked funny when I ran. Never once did he utter a single nice thing about me until that one summer ...
Dusk settles into my townhome and candlelight paints his face in a warm glow. I try to imagine life as a royal,
how constraining and confining it would be, how invasive it would feel to constantly be in the public eye, and how I’d be spending the next five years essentially trapped in a loveless, fake marriage.
Five years is a long time.
A year, sure.
Two, all right. I could maybe make that work.
But five?
“You haven’t touched your food,” he says, nodding at the cold filet of steak in front of me.
“My appetite’s been temperamental these past couple of days,” I say.
Thanks to you, Julian …
“You’re overthinking,” he says, as if he knows me. “You’ve always been an overthinker.”
I’m taken aback at his observation and how he would remember something from so long ago.
“If ever I couldn’t find you at night, I’d check the treehouse by the pond,” he says. “Sure enough, there you’d be with a flashlight in hand, scribbling your thoughts in your journal. When I’d ask what you were doing, you’d say you were thinking, that your head was so full of thoughts you had to get them all out and put them on paper or you’d never be able to fall asleep.”
It comes back to me now, the way he would check on me some nights. Though I’d hardly call it “checking on me” because he’d inevitably wind up doing something to grate on my last nerves, like stealing the rope ladder or threatening to tell my parents I was outside past curfew.
Then there was that one time he threw my journal into the pond.
“When you’re queen, you won't have to worry about anything,” he says. “Though if you’re still into the whole diary thing, we can get you a whole set. Leather-bound. Monogrammed. Cotton pages. Anything you like.”
I can’t tell if he’s being kind or taking an underhanded dig at me.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself. I haven't agreed to anything.”
“But you will.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his overconfidence once more, and instead I bury my frustration in a coy yet ladylike sip of wine.
“I have to return to Chamont in two days,” he says, finishing his dinner while mine remains untouched. “I understand what I’m asking of you, Emelie, and believe me when I say I take none of this lightly, but I do require an answer soon.”
“Or what?”
He glances to the side, exhaling through pursed lips. “Or I’ll be forced to let Parliament disassemble the monarchy.”
“So the future of your kingdom lies in my hands?” My voice is laced in incredulousness, and I wish so badly that I could bring up Princess Dayanara, but then he’d know I’ve been keeping tabs on him over the years.
“If you put it that way, I suppose it does.” His response is serious. I don’t think he’s kidding.
“I still don’t understand … why me?”
“You’re my oldest friend,” he says, though I wouldn’t necessarily call us friends. Not anymore. “You’re the only one I trust. And the only one I want. And my people will adore you, just as I once did. Just as I still do … if you can believe that.”
I don’t.
My heart races for a second, irregular and defiant, but I maintain my composure. Last time I gave him what he wanted after he said all the right things, it didn’t end well for me.
“You should go now,” I say.
He places his silverware aside and dabs at the corners of his full mouth with his napkin before rising, and without a protest, he lets me walk him to the door.
“I leave in two days,” he says, turning to me before he goes. “I realize that isn’t a lot of time to make a life-changing decision, so I intend to give you your space until then. In the meantime, should you need to reach me for any reason, I’m staying at The Palmetto under the name C.H. Barstow. If you give the front desk that name, they’ll put you through to Harrison, my royal aide.”
Julian shows himself out and I lock up behind him, stomach tied in the tightest of knots as his words echo in my head.
As I make my way to the dinette to clean up, I pass a family photo taken the spring before my father passed. We were all so happy then, not a care in the world. Living for the moment, our hope-filled futures blindingly bright. Blissfully unaware of the plans fate was making for us in that moment.
Maybe I could swallow my pride.
Maybe I could do this.
But it would only be for them and never for him.
Julian can have my company for five years, but it’s the only thing he’ll ever have.
My heart? I’ll be damned if he ever gets his hands on it again.
Chapter 6
Julian
“Here you are, sir.” Harrison places a crystal tumbler of Macallan on the table beside me Tuesday night when the hotel phone rings. “One moment.”
He strides across the room to take the call, returning a few seconds later.
“That was the front desk,” he says. “Miss Belleseau is here to see you. I told them to send her up.”
I knew she’d come.
I take a heavy-handed sip before rising from my chair and finger-combing my hair into place.
“How do I look, Harrison?” I ask.
“Like the future King of Chamont.” He makes his way to the door, waiting with his hands folded in front of him.
I fight the pride that tugs at the corners of my mouth. Now’s not the time to be smug despite the fact that my victory is mere moments away.
She’s coming here to tell me she accepts my offer, and at this time tomorrow, she’ll be flying home with me and all will go to plan.
Clearing my throat, I wait for the knock at the door and anchor myself in the center of the hotel suite foyer. Patience has never been a virtue of mine, but seeing as how I have no choice in the matter, I wait.
Harrison stays posted at the door, and the instant he hears the three swift knocks, he answers.
“Ms. Belleseau,” he says before moving aside. “Welcome. Won’t you come in?”
Her eyes lift across the small space until they find mine, and her hands clasp in front of her waist. She’s in jean shorts, a white tank top, sandals, and a wildly colorful cardigan. Her long hair is piled on top of her head—hardly the look of a queen, but I like it nonetheless.
My all-American sweetheart …
“I’ll do it,” she says as Harrison locks the door behind her. Emelie takes a few more steps closer, until we’re only a few feet apart. “But I have terms and conditions.”
“Such as?”
“No sex,” she says.
I hide my disappointment with a smirk. “Glad we’re getting that one out of the way. What else?”
“No romance.”
“Easy.”
“Limited public engagements,” she adds.
“I’m afraid that one isn’t up for negotiation,” I say. “But you’ll be pleased to know that we aren’t allowed to demonstrate any public displays of affection, so any and all public engagements will require nothing more than a smile, a curtsy, and a few kind words.”
“Fine.” Her arms fold across her chest, like she still isn’t comfortable with the idea of this arrangement. “You get me until my twenty-ninth birthday and not a day longer.”
“Deal.”
“Oh. And I’m allowed to see my family at any chosen time, regardless of schedule or engagements,” she says.
I hesitate—logistics and all of that.
“That’s my non-negotiable,” she says. “My mother and my sisters are my everything. If I want to see them, you’re going to make it happen or the deal is off. And my friends too. I want my friends to be able to visit."
That’s her non-negotiable? I figured it would’ve been the sex …
“All right,” I say. “Shall we pinky swear on this as we did with our last agreement?”
She fights a smile—a good sign—but her poker face returns in an instant, rendering her back to unreadable.
“You have my word if I have yours,” she says, not moving so much as an inch closer. Her chin lif
ts and her shoulders straighten as she looks me dead in the eye. I can’t tell if she’s feeling good about her decision or giving me her best poker face.
“Apparently pinky promises aren’t as binding as we thought now, are they?”
My joke falls on deaf ears. She isn’t amused.
Her arms lower to her sides, as though she’s feeling slightly less defensive than when she first walked in the door.
“You’re going to make an amazing queen, Emelie,” I say, envisioning her in my great-grandmother’s glimmering Belcast tiara. “Welcome to the royal family.”
I move in, taking her hand in mine and lifting it to my lips to deposit a kiss. When I glance up, the most horrified expression has taken over her beautiful face.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says.
“Of course I do,” I say. “You’re my fiancée. My future wife. I shall treat you with the respect and endearment befitting of a queen.”
I sound like a schmuck, but I can almost see her melting before my very eyes. A few more opportunities to warm her up and she’ll be the proverbial putty in my hands.
Emelie’s hand retreats from mine. “It’s just … this isn’t … you’re so … I’m not used to you being so … proper.”
Harrison chuckles behind her.
“You knew me when I was a child, an adolescent,” I say. “You’ve yet to know me as the man I’ve become.”
She swallows, licking her lips as she stands, transfixed in my presence. I imagine all the ways she’s trying to wrap her head around her idea of me and all the ways I’m contradicting that.
“You have until Thursday to get your affairs in order. We fly out at three PM.” I check my watch. She has less than forty-eight hours to pack, but I’m not worried. If there’s anything that gets left behind, I’ll send someone to retrieve it once we’re home.
“The last day of the school year is Thursday,” she says. “Friday is a mandatory work day for me. I have grades to submit and—”
“—fine,” I interrupt. “We’ll leave Saturday. I’ll just have to reschedule my meeting with the prime minister. She won’t be pleased but once I explain my reasons, I’m sure she’ll understand.”
The Marriage Pact Page 4