I stand there watching Belle walk away, like this whole thing is a damn train wreck, because that’s what it is.
Alex elbows me. “You saw that, right?”
“I saw it,” I say, my voice the epitome of calm. But that’s only on the outside.
“So Belle just walked off to meet her cheating ex-fiancé who wants to get back together with her,” Alex says. She sets her empty champagne glass down as a caterer passes with a tray and turns back to me. “And you’re standing in here.”
“Where else would I be?”
How about someplace like punching Derek in the fucking face?
Alex raises her eyebrows. “I don’t know, maybe stopping her from getting back together with him?”
“Why would I do that, Alex?” I whisper.
Alex cocks her head to the side as she looks at me. “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe because you like her.”
“I never said I liked her.”
“Yeah, right,” Alex says. “You guys have been obsessed with each other since she got here.”
“Says the girl who’s pointedly ignoring the bodyguard she clearly has a thing for?”
Alex crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you’re just going to let her run off with her crappy ex,” Alex whispers.
“I’m not letting her do anything,” I say, my tone low. “Belle is capable of making her own decisions.”
“You’re so stubborn.”
“Go talk to Max.”
“Fuck off, big brother.”
“Love you, little sister.”
I walk away as Alex flips me off while pretending to scratch the side of her face. Outside of the ballroom, I walk down the hallway, fully intending to go straight to my room.
I should just let it go. I know I should.
That would be the appropriate thing to do.
It would be the royal thing to do. We’re taught, from the very beginning, to do what’s appropriate, to maintain bearing above all.
Our name is all we have. That’s what my father would say.
I can think of few things that are worse ways of ruining my family’s name, or my father’s legacy, than falling for my stepsister.
Belle is her own person. She should make her own decision. And if that decision happens to involve getting back together with the jackass who was stupid enough to cheat on her, then so be it.
The rational part of me knows that letting it go would be the mature thing to do.
I stand in the middle of the hallway for a long minute.
Maybe I’m not that mature after all.
89
Belle
“I know I screwed up, Isabella.” Derek stands in front of me with his hands in his pockets. And he shrugs.
He fucking shrugs.
Nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal.
“You screwed up,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that fucking my maid of honor – not once, but repeatedly – doesn’t count as screwing up. Screwing up is forgetting my birthday, or –“
He interrupts. “It was an accident, Isabella,” he says. “I didn’t mean to –“
“Ohhhhh,” I say, my tone exaggerated. “Well, you see, I didn’t realize it was an accident. In that case, since you only accidentally put your penis in Adriana over and over and over for two years, obviously I’d have to forgive you.”
“I knew you’d see reason,” Derek says.
“That was sarcasm, you idiot,” I say, my voice coming out louder than I intend.
We’re inside one of the drawing rooms, a civilized place surrounded by priceless antiques. And I have to clasp my hands in front of me to keep from picking up one of the porcelain pieces of art on a nearby table and throwing it at Derek’s stupid head.
Because that would be inappropriate. And soon-to-be princesses are never inappropriate.
“You were gone for two years, Isabella,” he says. “How was I supposed to last for two years? Besides, it was just sex. It meant nothing to me. She meant nothing to me.”
“You could have just said you wanted to break up,” I hiss, my hands on my hips. I’m dangerously close to reaching for the porcelain figurine nearby. It’s a horse, rearing back with its legs in the air. I wonder how much it’s worth.
I wonder what it would look like bouncing off of Derek’s forehead.
“But I didn’t want to break up,” Derek says. “And, you know, being European royalty will be a real asset when you’re part of my campaign someday. Think of it. You could be the wife of a Governor. President, even.”
I stare at him in disbelief, mentally congratulating myself on having not slugged him yet. He looks at me with the kind of earnest self-righteousness that can only come from being both stupid and spoiled.
“You mean that I could still be your wife?” I ask, my voice rising an octave. “You’ll have me, even after all of this?”
“We could be a team,” he says. “You and I. With your beauty and my brains, we’d be unstoppable.”
I stare at him, his words echoing in my head. Was he always this much of a tool, or did he actually get dumber in the past two years?
“You’re a moron.”
“Don’t make this mistake, Isabella,” he says. “Do you really want to give up all of this?”
“All of what? You?” I ask. “Don’t make me retch.”
Derek’s face changes, his expression no longer contrite. Now he just looks at me sneering. “You always did think you were too good for me,” he says. “With all of your saving the world crap.”
“I am too good for you, Derek.”
“You stupid cunt,” he says, his face screwed up, inner ugliness transforming his appearance. He brushes past me, knocking into my shoulder as he walks by.
“What the hell did you just call her?”
I hear Albie’s voice behind me, and whirl around. “Albie, don’t –“
“I called her a cunt,” Derek says. “Because that’s what she is.”
“Albie, it’s not worth it –“ I start.
Too late.
Albie punches Derek in the face, and he stumbles back, his hand over his nose, crashing into the end table and sending that porcelain figurine to the ground, where it shatters into pieces.
“You stupid fuck,” Derek says, lunging at him.
“Stop, Derek!” I scream, but he ignores me, rushing straight for Albie and driving his head into his stomach. They fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs, and Derek’s fist connects with Albie’s face before Albie manages to roll on top of him and hit him again.
I’m yelling at both of them to stop, and everything is chaos as our bodyguards run into the room and pull Albie off Derek. Noah stands in front of Albie, blocking him from trying to land another punch, and Albie pushes him back. “Get out of my way, Noah,” he says. “I will beat his ass. I don’t care who’s here to watch it.”
Derek struggles, shouting obscenities at Albie, even as Simon and Max restrain him. “This is none of your business, you prick,” he says, his mouth a bloody mess.
“Please! Just stop!” I yell, running toward Albie. His eye is already bruised underneath, a cut over his eyebrow where Derek punched him. “Are you okay?”
“You’re fucking him!” Derek shouts, his rage apparent. “I knew it! You’re pissed off because I was screwing Adriana, and you’re over here fucking that spoiled prick!”
“Get him the hell out of here before I hit him again,” Albie says.
I can hear people outside the room. I know the commotion is attracting attention. But all I can focus on is Derek’s accusation.
You’re fucking him.
“Shut up,” I say. “Everyone shut up.”
I hear Derek laugh as the bodyguards drag him out of the room. “I knew it. Your own stepbrother. You stupid bitch.”
I know that they’re taking Derek out of the room, and I think Noah says something to me. I can hear Albie’s voice, calling
my name.
But all I can hear in my head is Derek’s accusation.
You’re fucking him.
Your own stepbrother.
And then my mother is there, and the King. I can hear them talking, but it’s like I’m underwater, their voices are distorted and muted. I’m here and they’re far away.
Far, far away.
Then everything goes dark.
90
Albie
“Won’t you please excuse us for a moment?” my father asks. He stands with his back turned toward me on the other side of the library, the first room far away enough from the ballroom to be assured of privacy. The royal physician hovers over me, pulling at my forehead as he does a cursory examination.
“I’m fine,” I say, an edge in my voice. “Is Belle all right? She fainted.”
“She’ll be okay,” Doctor Evanston says. “You’re going to need a few stitches above your eyebrow. I can do it, but to minimize scarring, I think we should call in a plastic surgeon.”
“Plastic surgeon,” my father scoffs. “Is my son going to bleed to death in the next few minutes?”
“Of course not, Your Royal –“
“Then won’t you please give us a few minutes.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The door shuts, leaving my father and I alone in the room. I know what he’s going to say. I can already anticipate it.
I should be embarrassed, ashamed of myself for displaying utter and complete lack of royal bearing.
I should be worried about Belle’s ex-fiancé’s accusation that Belle and I are together.
I should be concerned about what my father will think. Or what Belle’s mother will think. Or what the public will think.
But I don’t fucking care.
“What the hell were you thinking?” my father asks. He doesn’t look at me.
“I was thinking that Belle’s ex is an asshole who deserved to be punched in the mouth for the shit he was saying about her.”
My father turns around slowly. “You are not eighteen,” he bellows. “You’re not a child. And you’re not a normal person. How long is it going to take you before you understand that? You’re a prince. Getting into a bar room brawl in the middle of a charity event is not something that a member of the royal family of Protrovia does. It’s not something the Crown Prince of Protrovia does!”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say sarcastically.
“What in the world would possess you to do such a thing?” he asks. “All of the things you’ve done, the tabloid headlines and filth they’ve printed in the papers – I thought you’d left that all behind when you joined the Army.”
“He called her a cunt,” I spit. My father flinches at the crudeness of the word. I wonder if anyone’s ever said the word cunt in front of the King of Protrovia before. I guess there’s a first time for everything in life, isn’t there?
Some part of me, a warped part, finds that amusing.
I think I might be a little delirious.
“I don’t care what he called her,” my father says. “Did you even stop to think for a moment before you hit him? Prince Albert of Protrovia assaults a guest of the royal family – it’ll be all over the newspapers tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry it’ll distract from the PR pieces about the wedding,” I say.
“I thought the Army changed you,” he continues. “I thought it instilled some sense of responsibility in you. But I can see that nothing’s changed at all. You’re still the same immature, irresponsible boy who has no appreciation for consequences – no appreciation for tradition and family and –“
I stand up, the blood rushing to my head. “What the hell would you have done, if some guy were saying things about mom?” I yell. “I’m supposed to stand there, while some asshole talks about Belle that way?”
“It’s not the same thing,” he roars. “You’re not married to Isabella. She’s barely family, not even your stepsist –“
“She’s my wife!” I yell, rising to my feet, my hands balled into fists at my side. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, anger surging through me, and I don’t realize what I’ve said until I hear the words, practically echoing in the space between us.
She’s my wife.
Shit.
This is a bell that can’t be un-rung.
My father stands there unmoving, just looking at me. For a minute, I think he’s so angry, he’s going to hit me. I’ve rarely seen my father lose his temper, hardly ever deviating from the staid and steadfast King that he is.
But right now, he’s angry. Really angry.
“What exactly are you talking about?” he growls. His face is crimson. I’ve never seen him this upset.
Yet I can’t seem to stop the words that come out of my mouth. I could take them back. I could simply say that I misspoke. But I don’t want to. I want him to know.
“Belle and I,” I say. “I married her. We are married.”
91
Belle
The back of my head throbs where I hit it when I fell. I’ve insisted I was okay practically a thousand times, yet no less than five members of the royal staff have checked on me approximately a thousand times since I fainted, even though the physician said a concussion was unlikely.
“Unlikely, but twenty-four hours of bed rest as a precaution.”
I’ve texted Albie, but he hasn’t responded. The doctor said that Albie was fine, simply banged up and needed a few stitches.
Stitches.
Because he punched Derek in the face for calling me a cunt.
I’m not sure whether to be flattered that Albie stepped in to defend me, or pissed off that he threw caution to the wind and got into a fight over me in front of everyone.
You’re fucking that spoiled prick.
Your own stepbrother.
Derek’s words echo in my head, over and over on repeat like they’re playing on a loop.
I text Albie again. For a second, I consider sneaking through the secret passageway to go see him, but that would be too risky. There will be doctors and his security and too many people around now.
Instead, I lie against the pillow for a second and close my eyes. Just for a minute, I tell myself.
Pound.
Pound.
Pound.
I blink my eyes once, twice, three times, willing the pounding in my head to go away.
Then I realize that it’s not in my head. It’s coming from the door to my bedroom. And there’s daylight streaming through the windows.
I must have fallen asleep.
“Isabella Kensington.” The door to my room swings open, and my mother blows inside like a tornado.
Crap.
My stomach sinks. She didn’t come to see me last night after the doctor examined me. The lecture I expected to get – something about decorum and propriety and how I ruined my own charity event by being at the center of a brawl between my ex-fiancé and my new stepbrother – never materialized.
Instead, I’m getting that lecture first thing in the morning. Before I’ve even had a cup of coffee.
I hold up my hand. “I don’t want to hear it, mother,” I say. “You had no right to invite Derek to the event.”
“Derek,” she says, her voice going up practically an octave. “You think this is about Derek?”
“My head is throbbing and I want to take a shower,” I say, avoiding her gaze. I sit up on the edge of the bed. “Save the lecture. You invited my ex-fiancé who cheated on me to my charity function and I embarrassed you. I’d say we’re about even.”
I slide my legs over, about to stand up when my mother stops me by waving a newspaper through the air.
“You think I care about your and Derek's little fight?” she asks, her voice shrill. “This, Isabella. This is what is plastered all over the headlines this morning. This is what’s all over the internet. Read it.”
"What is it?"
Then she holds it up in front of my face.
Prince's Secret Shoc
ker: It’s A Family Affair!
Married…To His New Sister! The Story The Royal Family Doesn't Want You To Read!
I rip the paper from her hands, my stomach queasy as I skim the article, bits and pieces of phrases jumping off the page at me. A source close to the palace confirms that Isabella Kensington and Prince Albert have been sneaking around the palace for months now…married in a Las Vegas ceremony at a wedding chapel, by an Elvis impersonator…
My heart sinks.
Oh God.
"It's true, Isabella," she says, ripping the newspaper out of my hands and throwing it on the ground like it's contaminated. "Don't try to tell me it's not. Royal Intelligence did their own digging around."
Fantastic.
"It was a joke."
"You didn't see fit to mention any of this when you showed up here?" Sofia asks, her voice shrill, nearly a squeak at this point. "You didn't think that perhaps you might have wanted to mention that you'd met Albert before – that you married him in Vegas? And what kind of person – a Kensington – gets married in a wedding chapel in Vegas?"
"It was a joke," I repeat, my voice flat. “I’m sure it’s not even legal. We were going to get an annulment.”
All I can think about is the fact that all of this – the sham marriage, my relationship with Albie – will be plastered across every tabloid magazine, every gossip blog, every evening celebrity news show throughout Europe. Every sin either of us have ever committed in our entire lives will be dragged up and rehashed in the public eye until people are satisfied that we've been sufficiently humiliated.
Our relationship will be laid bare.
I'll be laid bare.
I can't handle it.
"This isn't a joke, Isabella," Sofia hisses. "Whether it was legal or not is irrelevant. You think that these kinds of things are unimportant, frivolities that are beneath you. It's that easy for you to destroy my relationship with Leopold."
Her Bodyguard (Raunchy Royals Book 2) Page 53