by Holly Rayner
For the first time, I really study the area around the arch. It’s a wooden one, decorated with ribbons and more flowers. There are several people standing in front of it—Max, the wedding officiant, and Max’s two best friends. But I only have eyes for the handsome prince I am about to pledge my life to.
Max’s hands are folded in front of him, and even from the other side of the garden, I can see the love and delight sparkling in his eyes.
His adoration for me is a magnet drawing me closer to him. Just like that, my nerves are gone.
I have to work to slow my pace. If I go as fast as I want to, I’ll leave Otto in my dust and get to the arch long before the song is over.
It seems to take forever, but finally I’m to him. The song ends, and everyone takes their seats.
Otto lets go of my arm, and Max nods at him.
“Thank you, Father,” he says.
Otto grins and goes to take his seat in the front, next to Greta.
Max’s hands close over mine, and the officiate starts talking, but I hear none of it. All my attention is taken up by Max’s lips brushing my ear.
“You look stunning,” he whispers, his warm breath making me shiver.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I whisper back.
No doubt, it’s bad form to be carrying on our own conversation while the officiate is beginning the ceremony, but I don’t think I’d be able to hear anyone else if I tried. My ears, like my heart, belong totally to Max.
“You know what I’m really excited about?” I murmur. “Remembering this wedding.”
He chuckles low. “Bits and pieces of the first are continuing to come back to me.”
“Really?” I gawk at him.
We’ve been talking about making a trip to Copenhagen to visit the location of our first ceremony, and I hope that once I see the all-night chapel, I’ll remember more about what went down there.
“What do you remember?” I ask.
“Random images.” His eyes twinkle. I know there’s more.
“Of what?” I ask.
“…and now, the rings, please,” the officiant says. She smiles at Jackson, and Oscar helps him carry the pillow bearing the rings over.
“Of the woman I am meant to love for the rest of my life,” Max tells me.
Tears fill my eyes. I’m speechless.
“Maximillian Ostergaard,” the officiant says, “will you take this woman to be your wedded wife?”
“I will,” he says.
The ceremony is much like an American one, with slight variations. As Max slips the diamond ring on my finger, warmth spreads through me.
“Thank you, Jackson,” I tell him, taking the ring from the pillow.
My nephew smiles with those lady-killer dimples.
“Poppy Moran,” the officiant says, “will you take this man to be your wedded husband?”
“I will,” I say, putting the ring on Max’s finger.
“Then, in the presence of the Kingdom of Stromhaer, may I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
A gleeful laugh explodes from my lips, and I don’t even go for the kiss first. Max and I are suddenly hugging, squeezing each other tight. His lips press against my ear. My neck. My cheek.
Finally, they make it to my lips, where they give me the kind of kiss to last a lifetime.
The garden erupts in cheers and applause. Max and I draw apart to gaze into each other’s eyes, but we keep our arms around each other.
“Well?” he asks.
“Don’t tell me you’re giving me another opportunity to bow out?” I laugh.
“Oh, no,” he growls. “You’re mine forever.”
“Good.” I nuzzle my face against his. “Let’s get this adventure started.”
The End
His Royal Quadruplets
Holly Rayner
Copyright 2019, 2020 by Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Phoebe
The flight attendant is looking at me, but I have no idea what she just said. She holds a white pitcher in her hands. Steam from the pitcher wafts toward me, carrying the familiar scent of coffee.
Unsure of what else to do, I nod.
Smiling, the attendant pours out a cup and reaches past the elderly woman in the aisle seat to hand it to me. The seat between us is empty, which I’m grateful for.
I accept the warm Styrofoam cup and set it on my tray table.
Looking out the window, I see thick white clouds blanketing the sky below the plane. It’s impossible to see earth or ocean—I have no idea which it would be, at this point—below the clouds.
I roll my neck to the right and then the left, trying to get the kinks out, but it’s impossible seeing as I’ve been sitting upright in cramped airplane seats for the past ten hours. Giving up, I lift the Styrofoam cup and take a tentative sip.
The coffee is piping hot and surprisingly tasty, though it’s about the last thing I want right now. My stomach feels queasy.
I left Philadelphia at eight thirty last night, and besides a short layover in Iceland, I’ve been in the air ever since.
The granola bar I purchased prior to boarding is still in my carry-on bag, untouched. I briefly think about opening my bag to dig it out, but I can’t seem to muster the energy. I’m exhausted. Besides that, my appetite is shot.
I just can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I actually quit.
My stomach lurches—from the memory of it all, or turbulence, I’m not sure—and I close my eyes and frown as I recall the event that turned my world upside down just two days prior.
I set the cup down. I can’t take another sip.
The knot in my stomach tightens as the memory comes alive, vivid and sharp in my mind.
The meeting room was crowded. It smelled of coffee and bagels. Derek Whyte, my boss and CEO of Whyte Wealth Management, sat at the head of the table. As usual his slick hair was combed back to cover the bald spot at the top of his head, and his designer suit was the flashiest in the room.
He scanned the faces of his cowering employees as he said, “I’ll be at the Power Investment series for two days, and I expect everyone here who manages client portfolios to be there as well. Anyone who doesn’t make it is going to fall behind—quickly—and I won’t stand for that around here. We’re the top investment firm in Philly, and we’d better act like it. If you’re not a shark, you’re shark food. Phoebe has cleared everyone’s schedules for the 24th to the 26th.”
I looked down at my laptop screen. The dates didn’t line up. I cleared my throat.
“Ah, sir… about that.” I remember how shaky my voice was. To contradict Derek in front of others was no small thing.
All eyes turned to me—including Derek’s. He dared me to speak.
I cleared my throat again. “I think… I think you may have confused the dates, sir,” I said. “The Power Investing Conference starts on March 23rd.”
His face grew red. I’d been working for him for years. I knew that was a bad sign.
“I never get dates wrong,” Derek said. “I’m positive it’s the 24th. I helped plan the conference.”
“I have it here on my calendar,” I said. I knew I was right, but that didn’t make it any easier to contradict him. “I’m almost positive…”
Derek rolled his eyes. “I’m almost positive,” he repeated, in a high-pitched, airy voice—an imitation of me.
The employees around the table laughed nervously as he went on.
“That’s why you’re a secretary, Phoebe, and not in wealth management like the rest of us. In this business, you can’t be ‘almost positive.’ You have to be certain. And I’m certain that the conference will start on the 24th. Why don’t you go take care of your mistake? Make calls to the conference organizers, if needed, and then ensure that all of the wealth managers’ calendars are cleared for the 24th to the 26th.”
I remember at this point my face was heating up with frustration. “But sir, I’ve already—”
“But sir!” he repeated, again in the same voice.
Snickers all around.
“Out,” he said, pointing to the door as if I were a dog he was disciplining. “And Phoebe? It would be good for you to remember your place around here. After you’re done fixing your mistake, why don’t you make another coffee run? I think we could all use a fresh cup.”
I could hear the laughter continue, even after I stepped out of the meeting room and closed the door behind me.
That was the moment I decided: I wasn’t going to work for hours to correct my bosses mistake. In fact, I was not going to correct Derek’s mistakes anymore, ever. I was done.
It was time for me to resign.
I walked back to my desk. My heart beat faster as I began gathering my things—knowing that I had to get out of that toxic environment, and that I would never return.
I opened my desk drawer, catching sight of the profit and loss report that the accountant had handed me that morning to file.
The ridiculously high profit that the firm had netted the month before almost made me nauseous to look at. It was so high, yet the men in the other room did nothing to deserve that kind of income.
“What Nicole could do with that money…” I whispered to myself, shaking my head. “But to Derek, it’s nothing.”
I reached for the report, my eyes scanning the bank account information printed clearly on the top right corner.
And that was when I made another life-changing decision.
One that floods me with fear, every time I think of it.
“Would you like a stroopwafel to go with your coffee, ma’am?”
I snap my eyes open and the memory fades from my mind. I see a new flight attendant. She’s different from the one that served me the coffee, and apparently she speaks English.
I shake my head. “I don’t have much of an appetite,” I say.
“Not feeling well?” she asks. “Don’t worry. We’re scheduled to land in just about an hour, and it should be a smooth descent into Westegaard. That was the last touch of turbulence that we’ll go through, I believe.” She gives me a bright smile.
I force myself to smile back.
Unfortunately, lady, I have a feeling that there’s going to be plenty of turbulence ahead for me, I think to myself.
The friendly flight attendant moves on, and I’m left once again with my thoughts.
I shouldn’t have done it.
What was I thinking?
I reach a hand up and rake it through my long, brown hair. In the process, I bump my elbow into the Styrofoam cup of coffee and brown liquid sloshes out and pools on the gray tray table.
“Shoot,” I whisper.
I reach for a napkin and start mopping up the mess. As I work, I think over what the flight attendant has just told me. In a few hours, I’ll land in Westegaard, a country I’d never even heard of until I searched the internet for places where I could hide. It’s a country half the size of Pennsylvania, with very few ties to the outside world—perfect for my purposes.
I need to disappear.
But will I truly be able to cut ties with the life I’m leaving behind?
The thought of my older sister, Nicole, causes a wrenching sensation in my gut. I might never see her or her son, my precious nephew Andy, again.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I use a dry corner of the otherwise coffee-stained napkin to wipe it away.
I close my eyes again, and my mind tugs me back to the moment that put all of this into motion—the moment that gave me a reason to hide.
All of the information was right there, on the profit and loss statement.
I’d logged into Derek Whyte’s business accounts many, many times since I started working for him when I was twenty-three. I knew exactly how to transfer money into one of the many e-payment accounts he’d set up. From there it was easy to put the lump sum of one hundred thousand dollars into my own account; I’d done similar transfers of much, much smaller amounts before, several times, when Derek couldn’t be bothered to reimburse me for various expenses that I had incurred—like taking his prized Shih Tzu to the groomers on my own dime.
It took only five minutes.
Then, I typed up a quick email of resignation and hit send. Minutes later, I was out on the sidewalk, heart beating fast, shaking like a leaf.
I open my eyes again and look down at the napkin still in my hands.
It’s been forty-eight hours since then, and I’m still shaking. Will this trembling ever stop?
Even if I can successfully transfer the money I stole to Nicole, and then disappear forever in Europe, will I ever feel calm again? Will I ever be able to relax?
If the past forty-eight hours is any indication, the answer is no.
Have I made a huge mistake?
The elderly woman in the aisle seat stirs and opens her eyes.
“What time is it?” she asks as she stretches. We chatted earlier, as we boarded the 7:40 a.m. flight from Iceland to Westegaard.
“Ten thirty,” I say.
“Morning or night?” she asks. It seems I’m not the only one feeling disoriented.
“Morning,” I say, and the response feels odd. Back in Philly, Nicole and Andy are sleeping soundly in their respective beds. They don’t yet know I’ve left the country. They won’t know until I figure out a way to contact Nicole and explain myself. I’m going to have to be careful. I haven’t wrapped my mind around the details yet, and the idea of saying goodbye to Nicole threatens to stir up more tears, so I push it from my mind.
“Are you excited to land?” the woman asks as she picks up her purse from its spot under the seat in front of her.
“Oh… excited? I don’t think so,” I say.
“Ah, yes,” she responds. “That’s right. You said this was a work trip for you.”
“That’s right,” I say, recalling the fib I told her as we boarded.
I don’t usually lie, but what else could I say? “I’m fleeing the country so my nightmare of a boss won’t find me after he realizes I embezzled money from his firm” just didn’t feel appropriate.
“You said you have a son at home?” the woman says. “You must miss him terribly.”
“Nephew,” I say, correcting her. “Andy. He’s—he’s a special kid. Six years old. Yes, I miss him already.”
“That’s right. Now I remember. That’s very sweet that you care for him so much. He must be in the first grade?”
I shake my head. “He’s a bit behind for his age. He’s actually in kindergarten this year. He has cerebral palsy, so he’s in a wheelchair most of the time and goes to a special school. My sister couldn’t get him there last year because it’s over an hour away. But this year, we’ve got a better schedule figured out and—” I stop short, as I realize that I’m babbling.
The woman has pulled a tube of lipstick from her purse, and she’s now coating her lips with a layer of bright red. She smacks them together and says, “Oh! Your poor sister. Raising a special needs child can be very challenging. I hope she has plenty of support.”
I swallow and look out the window.
Plenty of support. That doesn’t exactly describe Nicole’s situation.
The truth is, I’m Nikki’s support. But I’m not enough. She needs more. Andy needs more.
Hopefully, the hundred thousand will help Nicole pay for the orthopedic surgery that Andy desperately needs.
That will make all of this worth it.
I turn back to the woma
n. “She’s a single mom,” I say. “But she’s doing okay. Actually, Andy really needs orthopedic surgery, and Nicole has never been able to afford it. But her financial situation is about to change, and I think she’ll be able to schedule the surgery for later this spring.”
“That’s wonderful!” the woman says. She grins at me, pops her lipstick back in her purse, and then latches the bag. As she slips her purse back under the seat she adds, “You must be very pleased.”
“I am,” I say. And for the first time in almost two days, I smile. “I think this might be the surgery that really turns things around for Andy. If he gets it, he might be able to walk on his own once they operate on his back. That’s what he wishes for, you know, every birthday when he blows out the candles.”
Just then, the seat-belt light comes on, and a language I don’t understand floats over the intercom.
I turn and look out the window. The clouds have parted, and I can now see land far below. The plane angles downward, and I buckle my seat belt. Though I can’t understand the language that’s being pumped through the speakers, I know exactly what is being said.
We’re beginning our descent into Westegaard.
Chapter 2
Phoebe
Bling! Bling! Bling! My phone alerts me to three new messages the moment I turn it on.
All around me passengers that have endured the last few hours of flying are gathering up paperback books, water bottles, sweaters, and purses.
I check my phone and see three new text messages from Derek.
The first says:
“What is your admin assistant password?”
The second reads:
“Never mind, I found it. I can’t believe you left without giving notice. Do you realize how royally screwed you’ve left me? I will not stand for this. Call me.”