by Karina Halle
Then I asked him about her.
He told me he had no commitments.
I believed him.
And yet here he is, with her.
“Princess Stella,” Prince Pierre says, gesturing to Zoya. “Allow me to introduce Zoya Ivanov, Orlando’s girlfriend and future princess one day.”
“Oh come on,” Zoya says, acting bashful. She does a quick curtsey to me and then beams. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness. I’ve heard so many good things about you.”
Her Russian accent is thick, her teeth are so perfect and white that they have to be veneers, and her smile is genuine. She actually sounds like she’s happy to meet me.
“Likewise,” I tell her, and my smile feels faker than ever.
Because . . . what the fuck?
I mean, seriously, what the fuck?
I glance over her shoulder at Orlando and he’s just smiling politely at me.
Smiling.
Politely.
As if I knew he was bringing her all along.
You know those cartoons where the person’s head gets redder and redder until it goes off like a train whistle? Well, I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening right now.
Maja clears her throat and shoots me a nervous glance. “How about we make our way to the dining room. Dinner is almost ready.”
Perhaps I look like I want to murder him.
Because I do.
Oh, I do.
Everyone starts walking to the dining room like they all live here now and Zoya falls in step beside me. “I love your dress,” she says to me. “Who makes it?”
I blink at her, so damn confused. “Uh, this thing? I don’t know. Maybe Valentino.”
“I thought so,” she says. “So flattering to your figure. And your hair is gorgeous. All real? No extensions?”
I nod absently. What’s happening? “All real.”
“Mine is real too,” she says. She’s currently wearing hers in a high Arianna Grande style ponytail. She tugs at it. “All the papers say it’s fake, but I know it’s not. But sometimes I think maybe I could sell my own line of hair extension accessories. You know, in case the tennis thing doesn’t work out.”
I have to say, I’m rather charmed by her at the moment, so charmed that I’ve momentarily forgotten why I feel so horrified. “I’m pretty sure the tennis thing is working out for you.”
“Not forever,” she says in a low, almost sad voice.
We sit down at the table and Orlando happens to be across from me, Zoya beside him.
I don’t know where to look. I can’t really look at either of them.
I’m livid that Orlando was still seeing Zoya this whole time, that he lied to me. No commitments? Is that why she’s here, now, in front of me? I mean, what the hell? You don’t bring your girlfriend to the house of the girl you just cheated on her with! Even if they had been on some sort of break, it wasn’t quite a break if she came back in the picture days later.
And I feel embarrassed and ashamed for Zoya. I’m the other woman in this situation. I’m sitting across from her at this dinner table while the servants place beef carpaccio in front of us and the champagne is flowing and meanwhile, last week, he had fucked me all over the damn the house.
Last but not least, I’m mad at myself. I should have known he was a liar. I should have known he was a smooth-talker and too good to be true. I should have kept my walls up, my guard up, I should have ignored my hormones the moment he walked in that door.
I’m pathetic. A real pathetic excuse for a woman. And even though Anya isn’t here and wasn’t involved in this at all, I feel like a horrible mother to boot.
“Princess Stella,” Zoya says to me, and I glance up at her, suddenly remembering where I am. Everyone at the table is looking at me curiously and I have a feeling that I totally missed something.
I’m also clenching my fork like I want to stab someone.
I relax my hand and smile. “I’m sorry, I was somewhere else.”
Zoya tilts her head and gives me a sweet look. “I was just asking about your daughter. Orlando told me about her. How old is she? Nine?”
Orlando told me about her.
What the fuck else did Orlando tell you?
Did he tell you how he made me come so hard I had a religious experience?
Did he show you the nail marks I made on his back?
Didn’t you wonder?
“Anya. Yes, she’s nine.”
“Such a fun age,” she says warmly. “I have a niece who is nine and I love her to bits. She’s obsessed with pigs right now and I think she would love Snarf Snarf.”
“She won’t love him so much when he nearly bites her arm off,” Orlando comments ruefully.
“That’s nothing,” Pierre injects, as he chews on a piece of beef. “When I was in Zimbabwe, I had a friend who got a boar tusk to the shin.”
“And totally deserved it,” Matilde adds cheerfully.
I glance at Orlando’s arm. He’s wearing a black dress shirt that fits him like a glove and, from what I can tell, he doesn’t have a bandage on. Any other time I would ask him how his arm is doing but right now all I can think about is stabbing that arm with my fork.
But that wouldn’t be very becoming of me and I have to remind myself that no matter what, I have to keep Aksel’s best interests in mind. I’m representing him at this moment. Any personal issues I have must be shoved to the side.
“Well Anya is obsessed with horses,” I manage to say, even though making small talk is an effort with all the rage surging through me and such. “She’s been obsessed since we moved to England. She’s been doing horse camp and pony clubs and lessons and begging for a pony every day, but so far I’m waiting to see if it’s a phase or not.”
“Good for you,” Zoya says. “You would think being a royal and all that you would just be handed whatever you want, but it’s good that you’re making her wait and not spoiling her.” She makes a funny face at Penelope. “Not like the princess here did with her children.”
Penelope rolls her eyes. “I had nothing growing up. I say, spoil your kids while you can.”
“I agree,” Francis says. “Which reminds me, I need a new car.”
“Oh you do not,” Pierre says, which then launches them into an argument about cars.
I don’t pay it any attention. In fact, the whole dinner and dessert go by in a haze. By the time it’s over, I already have my exit strategy.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, as I get up. “I’m going up to bed. I have quite a headache that’s not going away.”
Pierre narrows his eyes. “You had this same headache last week.”
“I must be allergic to something in the champagne.”
“Tannins,” Penelope says, nodding vigorously.
Sure. That’s it. Tannins. Not your asshole stepson.
I bow to the guests and then quickly get my ass out of there. I’m just getting to the second floor, breathing a huge of relief that I can finally process all this by myself, when I feel someone behind me.
I whirl around to see Orlando.
I don’t have time to think.
I just go right to him and place my hands at his chest, giving him a hard shove back.
He’s immovable but I don’t care.
“Fuck you,” I sneer. “Fuck you and your fucking face.”
“I can explain,” he says calmly, but I just shove him again.
“And fuck you for bringing her. And fuck you for sounding so calm.”
“Because I can explain, if you just listen to me.”
“I’m not listening to you. There’s nothing you can say to me that will ever make this right.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What do you mean it’s not what I think?” I snarl, trying hard not to yell. “I saw you kiss her during dinner, multiple times. You held her hand. Her hand was on your knee. The damn tabloids say she’s your girlfriend. Are you going to deny that you’re together?”
>
He sighs and rubs the heel of his palm into his forehead. “No.”
Even though I knew it, it still hurts to hear. My heart drops a little.
Which makes me mad, because I really shouldn’t be this mad.
He’s an asshole. A liar. A cheater.
And I had sex with him.
This is all his problem, not mine.
“It’s complicated,” he says after a moment.
“It’s not complicated, you fuckface,” I say to him. “You’re just a dick. You want to have your famous tennis superstar girlfriend and fuck a princess on the side. Well, congratulations. You did just that.”
“Will you just sit down with me and hear me out?” he pleads, his voice hard. If I wanted to get caught up in believing the soulfulness in his blue eyes, I could. But I don’t. I’m better than that.
I’m angrier than that.
“Sit down with you? Listen to you? Fuck right off. I hope I never ever see you again.”
And with that I turn away from him.
“Stella,” he says and grabs my arm, but I shrug it out of his grasp and march down the hall to my bedroom.
Once inside, I lock my door.
I plan to stay here until everyone is gone tomorrow.
I’ll probably stay in here until Aksel comes back.
And then I’m going back to my daughter.
Back to my usual role.
My normal life.
Back to where I belong.
And all of this will be soon be nothing but a bitter memory.
Chapter 6
Orlando
Monaco
Two weeks later
“Over here, Prince Orlando!”
“Zoya, show us that pretty smile for the camera.”
“Your Serene Highness, will you address the rumors about your brother?”
Normally I don’t pay any of the multi-lingual shouts that the reporters and photographers fling at us during these events. It’s always the same and you learn from a young age to just ignore it. But when they start to question me about my brother Francis, then I can get a bit prickly.
I stop halfway up the steps, tugging my hand out of Zoya’s tennis racket grip, and try to find the face of the reporter who asked me that. My eyes scan the bunch of camera-toting fuckers dressed like penguins, as if they’ll be allowed in the casino if they dress nice enough, and then see a man with balding hair, tiny beady-eyes and a befuddled look on his pale face, as if he never expected me to look at him.
And this is him. I’ve seen him before. I’ve seen all of them before, but I’m pretty sure he reports for one of the shitty tabloids up in the UK. He might have even been the one who came up with The Royal Rogue nickname back when I was young.
“What about my brother?” I ask him, squaring off. There’s a red velvet rope keeping the photographers away from the gala guests, but that doesn’t mean anything to me.
Whatever shock on his face vanishes. I expect him to cower a little—I’m a big guy and people like him know very well what I’m capable of—but instead he raises his brow, a cocky motherfucker.
“I asked if you will address the rumors about your brother, Prince Francis,” he says, raising his chin.
“And what rumors are those?”
The man glances behind him at the other photographers who seems to step away, not wanting to be involved in this. My family has been tabloid fodder since as long as I can remember but there are still some questions and comments and stories that seem a little personal. Anything that has to do with Francis, Zoya, or my real mother tend to be off-limits. Stories about my stepmother’s plastic surgery or my father’s bloodlust are accepted as normal.
“Before you say something that’s going to piss me off,” I quickly add, “why don’t you start by telling me your name and who you work for?”
“Mancel Thereuax,” he says. “French correspondent for the Daily Mail.”
Of course. The Daily Mail is notorious for being the breeding ground for bottom feeders.
I can hear Zoya clearing her throat from behind me, coming back down the steps. I know she doesn’t like it when I start to get involved with the press like this since it could put her at risk. “Orlando, they’re waiting,” she says brightly, though I hear the tension in her voice.
I don’t even have to turn around to know she’s aiming her blinding smile at the reporters. Even more camera flashes go off and they start yelling at her again to pose. She’s wearing a glittering silver gown that’s low-backed, skin-tight, with a slit that goes to her hip and, just like that, she’s brought the attention off of me and Francis and back to her.
We’re all in this royal mess together.
I give Mancel one last hard look. “If you want to talk about Francis, I’d be happy to give you a private meeting and tell you everything you need to know.”
There’s no mistaking what I mean by this. AKA, I’ll fuck him up.
He stares at me for a moment and then presses his lips together, looking away.
I exhale internally in relief and then turn around to see Zoya posing for the photographs, sticking out her tanned leg that is shimmering with bronze powder. I give her a grateful smile for her distraction. She probably prevented me from punching Mancel out. I’d done that once before when I was young and it still haunts me. Fucker deserved it, though.
I take her hand and pull her up the stairs and into the Monte Carlo Casino.
It’s not unusual for us royals to be going to all sorts of events and fundraisers and galas, but this one is important because Matilde is putting it on. She works with a few humanitarian groups in Botswana and Mali and once a year tries to raise public awareness in Monaco. Her belief is that this is the wealthiest and most expensive country in the world, and we could do a lot by giving more to others.
I agree and in some ways I wish I had the kind of passion and focus that she has. Matilde knows exactly what she wants out of life and she goes for it.
Zoya is no different. She knows what she wants. But she also knows that what she really wants seems impossible at times. I’m just her happy medium. I used to think perhaps I was her steppingstone but sometimes I wonder if this is it. Is this my future?
“Why do you bother responding to them?” Zoya whispers to me, as we’re walking through the casino arm in arm, smiling and nodding and greeting various public figures and local aristocrats. Everyone is dressed in their black-tie best. There are musicians scattered around the corners of the casino, playing orchestral ballads. Champagne glitters under the low lights and some guests have gathered around the blackjack tables, watching others play. “You know the press are vultures. They just want a rise out of you so they can write about it.”
“I don’t like the way they go after Francis,” I admit. “I’d rather they go after me.”
“They have gone after you. Your whole life, since your mother died, all the way until now.”
“And they’ve stopped because of you,” I point out, keeping my voice low as I smile at the Mayor of Marseille but keep walking. Maybe he was the Mayor of Nice? It’s hard to keep track. “You give them the illusion that I’m grown up and respectable,” I add. “A royal rogue no longer.”
“And you give them the illusion that I’m not-at-all madly in love with a woman,” she says. She smiles broadly at the faces as we keep walking but there’s a lot of anguish in her heavily accented voice. If only everyone could hear what we’re saying.
The truth that only my siblings know about.
“So we help each other out,” I say. “But there’s no one to help Francis.”
“He can help himself, Orly,” she says tiredly, using a nickname she doesn’t use much anymore. I glance at her and her smile is just starting to falter. After Zoya joined us for the back end of the Nordic tour, we’ve been on the go ever since, making appearance after appearance. Since tennis—and her secret lover Emily—had taken her for most of the summer, I know it’s overwhelming for her to be thrown back in the deep e
nd of our very fake relationship, back in the public eye and living an elaborate lie.
“He’s twenty-six-years old and he can handle his own truth,” she goes on. “If the press wants to spread rumors that he’s gay, let them. Don’t fight his battles for him.”
“Let them say what they want? That’s easy for you to say.”
She looks at me sharply and though to the naked eye it may seem like she’s smiling at me adoringly, I can see the fury in her eyes. She’s frightening when she gets mad. Times like this I know what it’s like to be her opponent on the court and why she so often wins.
“It’s not easy for me to say. Okay?” she says in a harsh whisper. “If Francis comes out, he’s not going to lose what I have to lose. I’ll lose my career. I could even face death. You have no idea what it’s like back at home, no idea at all. I have no rights there. Perhaps your father will be deeply disappointed in him and maybe the tabloids will be invasive, even cruel, about his sexuality. But he would survive it. I wouldn’t.”
I know better than to argue with Zoya. She’s right.
I’d always figured Francis wasn’t straight, so when he pulled me aside, drunk and crying, at his twentieth birthday and admitted to me that he was gay, I wasn’t shocked. Matilde knew, of course, as twins do. Penelope did as well. But he wanted to keep it a secret from our father. As amiable as he is, our father is very old-fashioned and can hold a grudge like no one’s business. Just ask the King of Spain. Plus, this would mean that Francis could never give him a legitimate heir to the throne and that would throw our whole family into turmoil.
Which is why all the damn pressure falls on me. If I don’t give my father an heir to throne—a legitimate one, through marriage and all—the fate of the entire country is at stake. The Franco-Monegasque treaty of 1918 states that without an heir, all of Monaco reverts back to being part of France. In addition to that, if I settle down like I’m supposed to and become a father, the pressure is lifted off of my brother, letting him be free to whoever he needs to be.