The Marriage Pact

by Winter Renshaw

  “We had the most amazing time!”

  “Are you home?” I write back.

  “No. We’re going out for drinks again tonight. We’re having too much fun and we’re not ready to call it a day just yet …”

  I sink down into a leather armchair by the fireplace at the end of my bed, and I drag my hand along my bristled jaw.

  It’s not like I can tell her to stop everything she’s doing right this instant and come home straightaway so I can talk to her.

  But it’s also not like we have any more time to waste.

  She needs to know. Now.

  Without wasting another moment, I dial Araminta and ask her to send me Emelie’s itinerary for tomorrow. Surely there’s got to be a section of time where I can pull her aside and break the news.

  A minute later, I check my email and open the attachment she sent.

  Brunch. Massage. Facial. Final fitting. Final hair and makeup trial run. Afternoon tea.

  Her schedule is completely packed, one thing after another after another.

  Closing out of my email, I text Emelie the words that will seal our fate one way or another: I NEED TWO MINUTES ALONE WITH YOU TOMORROW.

  Chapter 47

  Emelie

  The queen’s garden is even more lush and opulent than I expected. The scent of freesia and jasmine and peonies fills the air as we all sit around in white Chippendale chairs, under a sunny sky, sipping tea.

  Marguerite insisted on hosting us for an hour Friday afternoon, and somehow Araminta managed to wrangle my schedule around to make it work. I feel like we’ve been running around nonstop since the second my alarm went off this morning. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind a nap at this point, but I hardly have time to take a bathroom break, so that’s completely out of the question.

  Julian texted me last night and asked for two minutes alone with me.

  I’m sure this little “dry spell” is doing quite the number on him, but we’ll just have to make up for lost time Saturday night …

  My mother and Marguerite haven’t stopped chatting since we sat down. It’s just like old times. As kids, Julian and I used to argue about whose mother was the chattiest. We never could agree.

  We finish tea a little ahead of schedule and Araminta whisks us off to the caravan of black cars waiting outside to take us to the next stop. I think we have hot stone massages? Or maybe it’s the final makeup trial run? I can’t remember.

  “Emelie?” Marguerite calls after me as we leave.

  I tell the others to run ahead, and I turn back to my future mother-in-law. “Yes?”

  “Isn’t it wonderful? About the king?” she asks.

  “The king?” I try not to make a face, though I’m sure confusion is written all over me.

  Her dainty hands clasp at her waist and she’s all smiles. “He was diagnosed with a pituitary tumor. His surgery is next week. The doctor says once he’s recovered, he should be back to his old self again.”

  Everything in me is frozen, but my mind is running a million miles an hour.

  “That’s … great,” I say. And I mean it. I’m happy for them. I’m happy that she no longer has to worry about him, and I’m happy that his crazy antics finally have an explanation. “Does Julian know?”

  She laughs, waving her hand like my question is silly. “Darling, of course he knows. I told him earlier this week. He didn’t tell you?”

  My heart sinks. “No. He didn’t.”

  The threat of tears sting my eyes, but I can’t let her see. She wouldn’t understand, and it would only complicate an already-complicated situation.

  “Thanks so much for hosting us today,” I say, air kissing her cheeks.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says with a short wave as she watches me walk out the front door.

  I get in the car with my mom and sisters, and I keep my head down and pretend to be fixated with something on my phone. If I look up, if they see my face, they’ll know something is up, and I don’t want to get into it right now, not until I’ve had time to process this.

  Marguerite says she told Julian earlier this week—why wouldn’t he have told me? Is it because it would render this marriage arrangement useless? Was he planning to go through with the wedding and drop this little bombshell on me afterwards?

  Given Julian’s history of making self-centered decisions, I wouldn’t put it past him, but I really thought he’d changed. I believed he had with all my heart.

  I think back to the other day, when I saw him in the hall and he was distraught. He insisted nothing was wrong, but I knew better. In retrospect, I imagine this was what was on his mind. He was trying to decide if he was going to tell me or wait until after the wedding.

  We’re getting married tomorrow.

  Clearly he made his choice.

  The car pulls away from the castle, and I weigh my options as best as I can given my frazzled state of mind.

  I think back to the text earlier, when he was asking for two minutes of my time tomorrow, and I can’t help but wonder if he intended to tell me about his father then—and if he intentionally waited until zero hour knowing that it would be harder for me to walk away.

  Calling off the wedding at this point would be humiliating and make me look like a fool in front of billions of people. A month ago, nobody knew me. Now my name and face are on the cover of every celebrity magazine known to man. Gillian says it’s even worse back in the States, that Julian and Emelie stories are outselling Harry and Meghan two to one. She says if I were to come home now, there would be a mob of people following me everywhere I went.

  I steal a glance at my mother and half-listen as she talks to my sisters about their upcoming fall curriculums. Not marrying Julian would mean they’d have nothing, and all of this will have been for nothing.

  Funny how I was okay with being used when my heart was out of the equation. Now that I went and fell for him like an idiot who knew better than to get emotionally involved in a business transaction … everything changes.

  The car stops outside what appears to be a spa. A few doors down, I spot Artemis—that beautiful rooftop restaurant Julian took me to for our first real date.

  My stomach sinks and a wave of every color of emotion washes over me.

  My mother climbs out of the car, followed by Isabeau, then Lucienne.

  Gathering my composure, I follow and meet up with the rest of them, keeping toward the back of the herd. Araminta is up front, talking to the spa manager as one of the spa employees hands out glasses of cucumber water.

  I need time.

  I need time to think. To decide.

  “Emelie?” Araminta calls, standing on her toes as she gazes over our small crowd. “You’re up first!”

  “Hey, you okay?” Luci asks when she comes up to me at the end of the day. We’ve just returned to the palace, which is dark except for the full moon that shines through every open window. “You’ve been talking nonstop all day, and then you didn’t say more than two words after we left that castle. What’s going on?”

  I don’t manage to get a single word out before I break down into tears.

  “Good God, Emelie.” Luci grabs me by the arm and pulls me into her suite, shutting the door. “What is it?”

  Sitting on her bed, I tell her everything. I tell her about Liam. I tell her about falling for Julian. I tell her what the queen told me and what that means.

  She sits cross-legged on the floor, picking at the fibers in some rug that probably costs more than my annual salary.

  “So?” I ask. “Say something.”

  Her wide green eyes flick up onto mine and then she shrugs. “I … I don’t know what to say, Em. This entire situation is so messed up.”

  A tear rolls down my cheek, cold and itchy, and I take an angry swipe at it.

  “What do I do?” I ask my twenty-year-old sister, who has no business making such a life-changing decision for me. “What would you do?”

  “I don’t know what I’d do,” she says. “But th
e way I see it, you have three options. You can marry him because you do love him—selfish asshole or not—and you can live happily ever after in your palace. Or you can leave him at the altar tomorrow, which I think would be a little too dramatic for your style. Orrrr you can just confront him. Which is what you should probably do … immediately.”

  “Right.” I get up from her bed and finger-comb my hair into place before checking my reflection in a dresser mirror.

  I don’t want to look like I’ve been crying.

  I want to look like I mean business.

  I check my phone. It’s almost eleven o’clock now. With tomorrow being the big day, I’m sure Julian’s already in bed. He had texted me earlier asking when we were going to be home, and I told him I wasn’t sure and that I’d get a hold of him as soon as I got back.

  I thought I’d be back much earlier than this.

  I shoot him a quick text now, letting him know I’m back in the Lundberg Wing. It shows as received but not read.

  “What’d he say?” Luci asks.

  “He hasn’t seen it yet.”

  “What are you going to do? It’s getting late …”

  I tuck my phone into my back pocket and take a deep breath. “I guess I’m going to go find him.”

  Luci worries the inside of her lip before giving me a hug. “You’ve got this.”

  I leave my sister’s room and make my way through dark halls and corridors and stairways until I get to the door that separates this wing from the main part of the palace.

  The door is closed and when I reach for the handle, I find it locked. I press the call button on the nearby intercom and wait.

  No answer.

  I type in a code on the keypad, but I’m met with a beep and a red light. The code to this door must be different from the one going in and out of the door I use when I go for my runs. Grabbing my phone, I think about calling Araminta or one of the other palace staff members, but it’s late and they’ve got enough to do tomorrow. It wouldn’t be right to make them get out of bed and trek across the palace to open this door, nor do they need to witness the ensuing drama on the eve of one of the biggest royal weddings in Chamont history.

  My text to Julian is still showing as received but not read, so I call him.

  No answer.

  I send another text.

  No response.

  I linger by the door, waiting another minute before relenting and heading back to my guest suite. If he’s sleeping like a baby right now …

  My veins are ice water and my skin is hot, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to get an ounce of quality sleep tonight, but what can I do?

  Stripping out of today’s clothes and into a change of pajamas, I wash up and crawl under the covers, lying in a dark room, eyes open wide and fixed on the ceiling as I practice all the things I’m going to say to Prince Julian of Chamont tomorrow morning.

  Chapter 48

  Julian

  “Harrison, have you seen my phone? I seem to have misplaced it.” I’m tearing my room apart Saturday morning before I hit the shower.

  Harrison hangs my wedding suit over a dressing mirror, stopping to turn to me. “I’m sorry, sir. I have not. Shall I check your study? Or perhaps the library?”

  “Yes. Please. Look everywhere,” I say, flipping over pillows and rummaging through drawers.

  Harrison leaves in a hurry, and in the meantime, I hit the shower.

  It was eight o’clock last night when Emelie still hadn’t returned from the city. I sent her a text asking her to let me know when she got in, but by ten o’clock, I decided to lie in bed while I waited. I must have left my phone somewhere and passed out.

  I’m not sure how I managed to sleep with such a heavy mind. Perhaps the mental exhaustion helped …

  I step under the hot spray of the shower, but I feel nothing.

  There isn’t much in this world that scares me, but the thought of losing Emelie knots my stomach and fills me with a sick sense of dread.

  Maybe I should have demanded her attention like a petulant child, but I thought surely we’d have a chance to talk before today. Now I’m going to look like a conniving jerk for waiting until zero hour to tell her she doesn’t have to marry me.

  I finish my shower and grab a towel, tying it around my waist. When I step out of my en suite, I find Harrison waiting for me.

  “Your phone, sir.” He hands it over. “You have one hour until the photographer arrives. She’ll be snapping a few images of you getting ready for your big day. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a few things to tend to downstairs. Call me if there’s anything you need in the meantime.”

  With that, he’s gone, and I check my messages.

  My heart sinks when I see that she did text me last night. Twice. And she called too. All around eleven. I waste no time calling her, and I’m both relieved and filled with nausea when she answers on the second ring.

  “Julian,” she says.

  “Em, I’m so sorry.” I drag my hand through my hair, grabbing a damp fistful as I pace my room. “I left my phone in another room last night, and I fell asleep. Where are you?”

  “I’m in the Lundberg Wing,” she says. “With my sisters. We’re having our hair done.”

  There’s no excitement in her tone. Quite the contrary. Is it possible she knows? Or perhaps she doesn’t know and the reality of getting married is hitting her hard and she’s having second thoughts.

  “Do you have a moment so we can talk?” I ask. I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. The hesitation I’m met with only makes it worse.

  “Sure,” she finally answers.

  “Meet me in the drawing room.” It’s off limits today and the farthest room from all the hustle and bustle. We can speak privately and comfortably there. “I’m on my way right now.”

  I quickly throw on a pair of navy chinos and a white polo and head to the drawing room.

  In five hours, we’re to be married.

  Something tells me that isn’t going to happen today.

  Chapter 49

  Emelie

  My hair is half-curled and messy at my shoulders and I’m storming the palace halls, my satin robe trailing behind me. A woman on a mission, I make my way to the drawing room to meet with Julian.

  I’m exhausted.

  I’m stressed.

  I’m torn.

  I’m livid.

  I’m offended.

  I’m sleep-deprived.

  I’m everything.

  And I’m fully prepared to confront him.

  Before I head in, I stand outside the double doors and take three, long deep breaths.

  He’s pacing, and he doesn’t see me at first.

  “Julian,” I say.

  He stops, eyes fixed toward me, and then he rushes to my side. When he reaches for my hand, instinctively and without thinking, I retreat.

  “Em.” His hand falls to his side and his chest rises and falls. “There’s no easy way to tell you this … and I know the timing is horrible … but my father has seen a doctor this past week, and it turns out he’s suffering from a curable condition and is expected to make a full recovery.” He swallows a deep breath before continuing. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is that … I no longer need you to marry me.”

  “How long have you known?” I ask, my hands on my hips.

  He studies me. “Since Wednesday.”

  I shake my head and look away. “I’d ask you why, but I don’t think you could possibly give me an answer to justify why you waited until the morning of our wedding to tell me this.”

  “I tried to tell you—”

  “—apparently you didn’t try hard enough.”

  “You’re right, Em. I didn’t.”

  His admission stuns me, rendering me speechless for a moment. I expected a laundry list of excuses.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” I ask. “We flew hundreds of my friends and family here. There are millions of Chamontians … billions of people around the worl
d …”

  I don’t finish my thought because I know it’s silly—no one should get married because they don’t want to disappoint other people, most of them complete strangers. But I also don’t want to look like a fool.

  My ego stings.

  My heart hurts.

  My eyes burn when I look at him.

  I blink away the sting of tears, but one manages to escape. Julian reaches to wipe it away, but I brush him off.

  “What are we supposed to do?” I ask.

  He’s quiet, and irrationally I hate him for it. I’m used to him having all the answers, always saying the right thing at the right time.

  I suppose there’s no easy solution for any of this.

  Somehow we’ve managed to make a bigger mess out of an already messy situation.

  “I would have married you,” I say. My eyes burn when they meet his. I’m sure all the contempt is radiating off me in waves, hot to the touch—like my skin, like my blood when I look at him.

  “I tried to tell you.”

  “At zero hour.”

  His contemplative stare rests on mine and his shoulders sink as he exhales. I hope he’s kicking the hell out of himself on the inside.

  “If you would’ve told me Wednesday,” I say, “the day you found out … I would have still married you.”

  His lips press together and his temples pulse. “If you’d like to call the wedding off—”

  “No,” I interrupt him. “I’m not going to waste everyone’s time or make myself into the world’s biggest laughingstock because you failed to tell me this until today. We’re going to get married, and we’re going to figure everything else out afterwards.”

  My decision shocks even myself—up until this moment, I was still on the fence about it all. But the more I think about it, the more I think a brief marriage and quickie divorce would be less scandalous than calling off a hyped-up wedding hours before it’s set to begin.

  Standing up there and smiling and looking at him with stars in my eyes is something I was prepared to do regardless—I was going to do it before I’d even fallen in love with him. Despite the raw, intense anger flowing through my veins every time I look at him, I’m going to push through. I’m going to get it over with. And then we’ll go from there.