Midnight Prince (Once Upon Ever After #2)

Chapter 1 – Marcella

MARCELLA

One of the first things I was ever taught was the power of invisibility.

Or maybe it’s less of a power and more of a necessary survival skill.

The defining talent all assassins carry.

Existing in the shadows while others play in the light.

Except I don’t exist, therefore, I can play wherever I want. Like I plan to tonight.

Sucking in a sharp, frostbitten breath, I hold it tight in my lungs as I scan the crowd of celebrities, dignitaries, world leaders, and royalty for my mark.

Since I first saw the guestlist, he’s the one I narrowed in on.

The wedding reception for King Sebastian of Messalina and his new bride, a much younger American, is about to begin.

And I plan to crash it.

The chalet entrance is only about fifteen meters in front of me, but it might as well be a thousand for how inaccessible it is. My phone buzzes in my sparkly wristlet, but I ignore Antonia for now, unwilling to miss my moment.

Minutes pass, and the chill I’m fighting sinks deeper into my bones until I see him.

I step out of the shadows, slipping around a royal attendant, followed by another, until I seamlessly glide in beside the former American president and his wife, who are chatting with a high member of English nobility.

“What a stunning gown,” I praise the former first lady, speaking to her in unaccented English.

Her head swivels in my direction as I place myself between her and Sir Robert Blake. A smile attempts to pull up her face as she gives me a quick once-over, approves of what she sees enough to speak to me, and glances down at the gown in question.

“Thank you,” she replies softly, though there is genuine gratitude in her voice. “It’s Barucci.”

“No doubt it was designed specifically for you.” I turn to Sir Blake. “Isn’t she exquisite in it?”

Ever the gentleman with centuries-old ingrained manners running through his blue blood, he gives a small head bow. “Absolutely,” he commends, though his eyes are all over my gown, including the ample cleavage I have on display. “And may I extend the same compliment to you in your gown?”

I preen, batting my lashes and even going so far as to blush ever so slightly. A hand lands daintily on the exposed skin just below my neck. “Are you flirting with me, Sir Robert?” I intentionally use the familiarity of his first name and let the smile on my red lips hold.

He lets out a hearty chuckle, not the least bit ruffled. “Can you blame me when I’m in the presence of such beauty?”

A tinkling of a laugh tickles past my lips, and I give the former first lady a playfully conspiratorial men roll of my eyes as if we’re ancient friends. She returns my look but carries on with her husband, leaving me here with Sir Robert, who falls in line perfectly as he offers me his elbow.

“May I escort you in?” he asks, and I can tell he’s searching for my name without asking for it. He doesn’t want to be perceived as rude and admit the faux pas that he doesn’t know it. I don’t take the bait.

“I’d be honored,” I tell him, slipping my hand through the crook and resting it on the black of his tuxedo jacket.

I keep my head angled toward him and away from the attendants watching everyone closely.

“Such a wonderful occasion. It’s lovely that the king of Messalina has found love again. Don’t you agree?”

This is the second security checkpoint after everyone has already gone through metal detectors, had their bags searched, and been tagged in with facial recognition at the first. I haven’t gone through any of that.

Instead, I scaled a legit stone wall last night to get inside the grounds, camping without the benefit of a fire, thankful a fucking wolf didn’t find me and make me his dinner.

I had to get ready for tonight, full-on wig hair, colored contacts, and makeup, in the goddamn woods with no electricity.

As all women can appreciate, thank God for battery-operated devices.

But this is where Sir Robert Blake comes into play.

“Completely,” he exclaims earnestly. “I’ve known Sebastian since he was born. His father and I were close mates and attended the same boys’ school in France growing up.”

“I had no clue.” My lips part, and my expression turns somber as I place my other hand on his chest, allowing the side of my breast to brush his upper arm. “The former king’s death must have been such a painful loss for you.”

He nods as we step over the threshold and into the chalet, which is more of a castle in the Alps on the border of Messalina and Switzerland.

This entrance leads to the ballroom, and no one stops us or even pays us the least bit of attention.

After all, Sir Robert Blake is very well known in this country to this family, as he just said.

“I was. It was heartbreaking. But time moves on, and Sebastian has grown into a wonderful king.”

“Yes,” I agree, removing my hand and taking in the landscape of the sprawling room, dripping in crystal, glowing with endless candles, and fragranced with white and delicate pink flowers.

It’s regal yet simple and elegant without being pretentious.

Inwardly, I wonder if that’s the new bride’s touch or if she’s simply a yes girl to the beast king.

Not a lot is known about the American nanny who stole the king’s heart.

A server floats by with flutes of champagne, and I snatch one and take a sip.

It’s delicious. I’ve never had champagne before.

The bubbles tickle my nose, and with them, a giddy sense of temporary freedom vibrates through me.

In the corner, an eight-piece orchestra plays Mozart, and the room hums with money and power.

But I don’t care about any of that. It’s not why I’m here.

Sir Robert puts his hand on the small of my back and leans into me. “How about we find a real drink and some place quiet to talk?”

The man is more than twice my age, but that doesn’t matter to him. He’s a notorious womanizer and favors women who look exactly like me: young, curves in the right places with dark hair and eyes—hence the wig and contacts. It’s why he was so perfect.

I twist back to him with a smile. “I need to run to the ladies’ room. Please go ahead, and I’ll be sure to find you.”

He’s not happy about it, and he can likely tell I’m brushing him off, but those manners are incredible weapons I love exploiting, and he simply gives a firm nod and moves on his way. Good boy.

With that piece done, I float through the ballroom, keeping my head high while not making eye contact with anyone.

My job is to listen. To hear but not be seen.

To grab intel so we can plot the next course.

So far, it’s proving dull and useless. I can’t get near the king and his new queen.

They’re on the opposite side of the ballroom, and their reception line is hours deep.

Plus, I don’t exactly want them to see me. Not tonight. Not yet.

Turning the corner, I spot Prince Rowan engaged in conversation with a woman and her daughter. The moment he dismisses them, he takes a sip of his drink and yawns.

For some reason, it makes me giggle, and he hears it, his handsome face bouncing up into a self-deprecating grin, and I get a half-shrug when our eyes meet.

Tall and broad, he’s devastatingly handsome with short dark hair that’s a bit longer on top and coiffed back off his face.

He’s in a blue royal suit that’s perfectly tailored to him, with gold trim and epaulets, as well as medals of honor for service to his country.

“Bored, Your Highness?”

His eyes sweep languidly over me. “Not anymore.”

I dip my head but don’t engage. “Maybe a splash of espresso will help perk you up.”

“Maybe it’s the right company I’m lacking,” he volleys.

“Best of luck finding it then.” I wink and go to leave when he stops me.

“No, wait. Come back. Please come back.” He holds his hands up in supplication and gives me a sad puppy dog face with a crooked smile. “I don’t even know your name. At least give me that?”

I wave. “Goodbye.”

With that, I slip back into the congestion of the room, resisting the urge to turn around and see if he’s watching me go.

Unfortunately, I’m stuck with bullshit and not the sexy smirk of the prince.

Men talking politics I’m not interested in, nor will they speak candidly with a woman.

Women sneering about the new queen—she’s not that pretty; she can’t be that interesting; did you see how chubby she is?

How quickly did she spread her legs to ensnare the king?

How hideous is the scar on her neck?—that sort of catty bullshit jealous women like to gossip about.

Even their whispers are useless. This wedding is proving to be a waste of my time so far.

Naturally there are murmurs about the former prime minister and his attack on the king and his bride on the night of their engagement. But it’s nothing new. Nothing factual. More banal gossip and useless speculation that don’t further my cause.

“I bet she’s pregnant,” a woman in harsh red and too much makeup chides her friend. “Why else would a king, a man like Sebastian, marry crass American trash?”

God, I hate these people. I roll my eyes and turn away from them before her friend can respond, only to lock onto a pair of bright blue eyes aimed directly at me.

I start, surprised by how boldly and unapologetically he’s looking at me, and when he holds a finger up to his lips, I can’t help but smile. He caught my eye roll.

Prince Rowan returns the wink I gave him earlier and polishes off the last of whatever it is he’s drinking before he addresses the ladies in French, since that’s what they were speaking.

“As my new sister-in-law, I can attest Bellamy’s actually quite wonderful and enchanting,” he interjects.

“Hardly…” His face scrunches up. “What did you call her? Crass American trash, was it?”