I told him he was working himself to death.
He laughed.
And then I begged him to go running with me, like we used to.
He reminded me of his bum knee.
I mentally made a note to stock his office fridge with bottled water and fresh fruit the next chance I got, and to order him a fitness tracking watch, something to vibrate every so often to remind him to get up and walk around.
But those aren’t the things that stand out to me the most about that moment.
It was what he said. “Em, you’ve always been the caretaker of this family. Always worried about everyone else. Always there when we need you. If anything ever happens to me, I know the family will be in good hands.”
He chuckled through his nose and patted my shoulder, like he was joking, but we both knew he wasn’t.
I promised him that night that I would never change. As a first-born, I’m inherently responsible and, at times, bossy. But that’s how I get things done. And that’s why I’m never afraid to take charge when the moment calls for it.
I think about my mother and how I wish I could help her more. And then I think about my sisters—both of whom are in college, both of whom have hopes of attending graduate school in the near future. Isabeau wants to study law and Lucienne wants to be an architect.
I'd do anything to be able to take care of them the way my father would’ve wanted … but keeping my promise to him means breaking my promise to Julian.
“Miss Belleseau?” Clayton Crabtree, one of my most diligent students, tugs on my arm. “Are you okay? You’re just, like, standing there staring off into space.”
A few other students chuckle. This is not my finest moment as an educator.
“Yes, I’m fine, Clayton. Please return to your seat.” I uncap a blue marker and begin scrawling our science lesson on the board behind me.
If I married Julian, I wouldn’t be simply breaking a promise … I’d be sacrificing my career … a normal life … my freedom and anonymity … a chance at finding real love.
He’s asking the world of me.
But my family is my world.
“Okay, today we’re going to be exploring animal adaptations,” I say, mustering as much enthusiasm as I can. I can’t sacrifice student engagement just because I’m distracted. “Who can tell me what adaptation means?”
I turn to my students, wearing a smile despite the fact that everything inside me is twisting and turning, heavy with sick worry and a sprinkle of anxious dread.
I can tell Julian no.
I can dig my heels all I want.
But at the end of the day, marrying Julian would mean never having to worry about taking care of my family ever again. And if that’s the case, what choice do I have?
Chapter 4
Julian
They’re already dubbing him The Mad King.
“The Mad King Is At It Again!”
“The Mad King Has Lost His Head!”
“The Mad King of Chamont Rants on Live Television!”
Not quite the legacy my ancestors had in mind, I’m certain.
Outside my hotel balcony, an entire throng of local women are chanting my name. But inside, I thumb through the latest online articles from a news outlet back home.
My father is at it again. This time he interrupted live television to go on some raving tangent about diplomatic relations with Russia which inexplicably segued into doing away with our tourism division altogether, which accounts for approximately fifteen percent of our gross domestic product.
We’re a small island nation but a major travel destination. The island of Chamont is a paradise. Heaven on earth. Palm trees. Blue waters. Perfect weather year-round despite the fact that we’re in the northern hemisphere and completely surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean. In fact, our island is so coveted that the British and the Americans fought over it in the War of 1779. When neither party was making any remarkable advancements toward winning, our people rebelled and declared our own independence with the help of my six-times great-grandfather, whom the Chamontians appointed as their King.
I fear that now, without a proper and timely intervention, every day that passes is one day closer to the official end of the Chamontian monarchy.
“Pardon the interruption, sir, but might I recommend addressing the young ladies outside your window?” My royal advisor, Harrison, stands before me, his hands tucked behind his hips. “Perhaps it would … calm them down.”
We’re on the tenth floor of The Palmetto and we took all our usual security precautions, but somehow word spread that I was in town and now here they are.
“Right, right.” I darken my phone screen before rising from the chair and slipping my suit jacket over my shoulders. Royal protocol dictates that I must be formally dressed during each and every public presentation.
Making my way to the balcony doors, I draw the curtains, slide the door open, and step outside.
As if I’m some kind of pop superstar or professional athlete, the crowd below goes wild. Even from my high perch, I can tell some of the women have tear-streaked faces, as though merely being in my presence is some sort of dream come true.
I’ll admit, there was a time I used to relish in this sort of thing. I lived for it. It fed my starving ego and I had very little shame about that.
But times have changed.
Priorities have shifted.
I give the crowd below a formal wave, my hand cupped the way my father taught me long ago, and flash a megawatt smile.
Lingering for a few more minutes, I head inside when I spot a news crew van rolling up and a woman in a pant suit and heels jogging across the hotel lawn, microphone in hand as a camera man chases behind her.
Harrison closes the balcony door behind me before pulling the curtains.
“Our pilot is needing a confirmation for tomorrow,” he tells me. “Are we still planning to depart at two o’clock?”
I decided yesterday that dropping in on Emelie unannounced and in the middle of the night was a desperate move. At the time, my intention was to show her how urgent and pressing the matter was, to illustrate to her that I came straight from my chartered plane to her doorstep.
When I realized the error in my logic, I decided to give her space, and I left her alone all of Sunday. My hope is that once the shock of my request wears off and she speaks to Delphine, she’ll realize all the ways this marriage will benefit her and she’ll be resigned to change her mind.
Checking my watch, I surmise that Emelie is likely finished teaching for the day and en route to her home.
“Sir?” Harrison asks. “I hate to bother you about this, but our flight crew is requesting a confirmation as soon as possible so we can coordinate our runway time.”
I think about the throngs of women below. Emelie was right. I could handpick any American girl to be my bride and bring a swift end to my current problems … but I don’t want just any American girl.
I want Emelie.
Just this past week, I held a closed-door, confidential meeting with our official royal publicist and explained my intentions. He was quite pleased that, should Emelie Anne Belleseau accept my offer, he would be able to paint her as my “childhood love,” and highlight her educational background, love of children, inherent beauty, class, and timeless poise. Not to mention, she’s of French-American heritage, and the Chamontians have a particular fondness for the French.
On paper, she has all the makings of a beloved future queen—a “people’s queen” as they call them—and an engagement with her will be an excellent distraction from all the nastiness and negative publicity that has engulfed our nation over the past year.
My kingdom needs this.
And I need her for reasons she can’t even begin to imagine.
“Harrison, tell the pilot we’re going to need an extra day,” I say. “And when you’re finished, have the driver come around. I’m going to to pay Ms. Belleseau another visit.”
Chapter 5
; 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.”
The Complete P.S. Series Page 58