The Royal Situation (Billionaire Situation #7)

Chapter 1

LOUIS

The gallery is packed, and I’m scanning the crowd for my little sister so I can drag her stubborn ass out of here.

Delphine is twenty-six, ten years younger than me, and has made it her life’s mission to take me to events I don’t want to attend.

Tonight, she promised this stop would only take two hours, three tops.

My sister is searching for a replacement for Henri Beaumont—our royal portrait artist who passed away three months ago.

That was an hour ago, and she’s already exhausted my patience.

I weave through the crowd. Conversations blur around me, the usual art-world chatter about technique and meaning and whose husband is sleeping with whom. The air smells like the typical expensive perfume and old money that fill swanky New York art galleries like this.

Delphine’s probably in some back room, making a new bestie, oblivious to the fact that I’m supposed to be at my friend Dyson’s penthouse, three whiskeys deep, enjoying my last few days of freedom before my life ends.

Sure, it sounds dramatic, but it’s also accurate as fuck.

In two days, I’ll fly home to Montclaire to begin meeting the women my parents believe are wife material.

When I was eighteen, I agreed to get married by thirty-five.

If I didn’t, I’d be forced into an arranged marriage situation.

Back then, I was certain I’d find someone without needing help.

Now, at thirty-six, I’ve run out of time to search.

A wall of large canvases stops me mid-stride, and I forget about finding Delphine, the arrangement, and anything else plaguing me.

All that matters is the portrait of the woman asleep on a subway with her head propped against the window.

A hospital work badge is still clipped to bright blue scrubs.

The exhaustion is so real that I can feel it in my bones, but something else is bubbling under the surface too.

Hope, or maybe stubbornness, mixed with a tiredness that only comes from building a life, not giving up on one.

I step closer, studying the brushwork. The artist used hyper-realistic detail in her face, hands, and the worn fabric of the scrubs.

But bleeding out from the edges are bursts of abstract color, deep purples with soft golds leaking onto the canvas, almost resembling emotions.

Like the artist caught every invisible thing that woman had carried with her onto that train.

I move to the next one. A teenager sprawled across a subway seat, reading a paperback with the front cover torn off. His posture screams indifference, but his eyes are locked on the page, as he’s completely lost in whatever world he’s escaped to. Greens and electric blues bleed from his edges.

Next is an older man, holding a birthday balloon, alone, staring at nothing. But when I look closer, there’s someone reflected in his irises. A figure standing in front of him. The birthday girl maybe. A daughter. A lover. I’ll never know, and that’s what makes it devastating.

“The subway series is sold,” I hear the curator say behind me, and a tag is placed over the collection name.

Whoever purchased this has excellent taste. I wish it had been me.

I’m still in front of the canvas of the old man’s face when I turn and see a beautiful, dark-haired woman standing two paintings down.

She’s completely absorbed in a portrait of an empty subway car at night.

The overhead gallery light catches the gold in her brown hair, and I find myself staring longer than I should.

She’s wearing a simple black dress that fits her like she didn’t try too hard, but in a gorgeous way.

Her posture is straight but relaxed, like she belongs here and doesn’t need anyone’s permission.

It’s a confidence that’s earned, not faked.

She hasn’t noticed me, which is unusual. Pretty ladies always find me in a crowd.

I watch her tilt her head at the painting, and her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something to herself. But she doesn’t. Somehow, she’s completely unaware that I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

I should find my sister and get the fuck out of here right now. But I selfishly take my time moving through the paintings before they disappear into someone’s private vault, maybe never to be seen again. I stop when I’m standing beside her, close enough to smell her sweet perfume.

“You look like you’re concentrating,” I say, unable to help myself.

She turns, and when our eyes meet, I lose my train of thought for a second. Her blue-green eyes study me like she’s deciding whether I’m worth her time.

Plump red lips curve into a small smirk. “Maybe I am.”

“Really? What’s on your mind?” I take a glass of champagne from a passing server.

“World peace,” she says without missing a beat.

“Hilarious.” I take a sip, already hooked. “What’s your favorite collection here?”

“You ask that like you already have an answer.”

“I do.” I nod toward the paintings in front of us. “The subway series has captured me, and I’ve not been able to walk away from it.”

She sips her champagne and keeps her expression perfectly bored. “Really? There are plenty of incredible artists in the gallery tonight.”

“Sure, but this has me mesmerized.” I turn toward the artwork, toward the empty car with its worn seats and harsh fluorescent light, toward the shadow on the floor that might be someone standing just outside the frame. “Whoever painted these captured people who had no idea anyone was watching.”

“Nice assessment.”

I nod, staring forward. “It’s almost too intrusive though, like pieces of their souls were stolen and put on canvas. I can feel what each individual was carrying with them, all the weight of their life that they thought was invisible.” I take a sip.

Her brow pops up. “You’re serious.”

“Of course. I would’ve purchased the entire collection if someone hadn’t beaten me to it.”

“That’s a shame,” she offers, almost like it’s a condolence.

“It’s a tragedy. I’m very bitter about it.” I say it like I mean it—because I do.

“I’m partial to this collection as well,” she admits, and her expression shifts for just a second before she smooths it back into place.

I clink my glass against hers. “Guess that means you have excellent taste.”

“Or maybe you do.” She grins.

This woman is not flirting. She’s not nervous or trying to impress me.

“What do you see when you look at these paintings?” I ask, not wanting this conversation to end.

She considers the question, actually takes her time with it. “Life lived. I don’t see people in vulnerable states. I see emotions in color. Anyone can paint a face, but the eyes are where the truth lies.”

I tilt my head because this woman just handed me more depth in minutes than I’ve gotten from anyone in months.

“I think the best art evokes emotion and tells a story without words.” I pause. “There’s beauty in that, but I’d also argue some things are universally beautiful and don’t need interpretation. Like sunsets and the ocean.” I glance down at myself. “A man in a well-tailored suit.”

“Humble.” She rolls her eyes.

“Always.” I grin and extend my hand. “I’m Louis.”

She takes it. Her grip is firm, and her skin is warm, and I hold on longer than I should.

“Addison.”

“Nice to meet you.” I release her hand, raise my glass, and she taps hers against it.

I’m quiet for a moment, studying her. She’s comfortable in the silence, like she has absolutely nothing to prove to me.

“What?” she finally asks.

“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I wasn’t expecting to have the most interesting conversation of my year tonight.”

She relaxes, just barely. “Life is full of surprises.”

“It certainly is.” I smile, and it’s not the one I use for cameras or diplomats. This one just happens. “I have a feeling you’re full of them.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“Guess,” I offer.

“The UK?”

I’m genuinely offended. “I’m not British.”

“You kinda sound British.”

“The country I’m from has been speaking French since the thirteenth century. We’re Mediterranean.” I fiddle with my cuff like she insulted my entire bloodline. “The British wish they sounded this good.”

“All I’m hearing is fancy European.”

“And all I’m hearing is American ignorance, but I’m too polite to say so.”

She laughs, surprised, and the sound is real and unpolished, nothing like the performative giggles I get from women who already know my title. “Did you just call me ignorant?”

“I said I was too polite to say it.” I grin. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s the inference that offends me.”

We stand there for a moment, neither of us speaking, and the gallery noise fades to nothing. I’ve completely forgotten where I am. The crowd, my sister, the arrangement waiting for me at home. None of it registers.

“I’ve never met someone quite like you,” I admit, and my gaze drops to her mouth before I can stop it.

Her lips are slightly parted, and I wonder what she tastes like.

“That’s a terrible line,” she says, sipping her champagne.

“It’s an observation.” I drag my eyes back to hers. “You don’t seem impressed by me.”

She gives me a look so sarcastic that it should come with a warning label. “Should I be?”

“Most people are.”

“Women just fall to kiss your feet?”

“In a way, yes,” I say, and I don’t look away. “But not you.”

She holds my stare, and I think if I leaned in right now, she might—

“Addison, there you are.”

Delphine’s voice shatters the moment, and I want to strangle my sister.

She appears at Addison’s elbow, glancing between us with barely concealed delight. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She grins. “There you are! Great. Glad to know you’ve already met my brother.”

Addison blinks. “Your brother?”

“Prince Louis Adrian of the Montclaire Dynasty.” Delphine gestures at me like she’s presenting a museum exhibit. “Heir to the throne. Royal pain in my ass.”

Addison stares at me. “You’re a prince?”

I shrug. “Surprise.”

“You, uh … I—should I curtsy to you? Is that how this works?”

“Absolutely not.” I mean it—because the last thing I want from this woman is formality. “I hate the attention here. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and my father’s name lights up the screen.

“I have to take this.”

I meet Addison’s eyes one last time before stepping away, and the distance feels wrong.

The conversation with my father is short and clipped. He reminds me about the upcoming meetings and my responsibilities, and I say yes to everything because that’s the only acceptable answer. When I hang up, I stare at the phone in my hand and feel the walls closing in.

When I return to the main gallery, Addison is gone.

Delphine is waiting by the entrance, looking far too pleased with herself. “Ready?”

“Where did she go?”

“Who?” Delphine’s smile is innocent, which means it’s not.

I scan the room one last time and spot Addison near the back, talking to Patterson Cross. My friend. My drinking buddy when I visit New York. The guy who gives me shit about my accent and doesn’t care that I’m royalty.

She’s talking to him like she knows him. Is this the woman he told me about months ago?

Addison glances over and catches me watching. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she raises her glass in a small, almost imperceptible toast. I raise mine back.

“Let’s go,” Delphine says, tugging my arm. “You can buy me dinner and tell me more about how inconvenienced you are by your title.”

I let her pull me toward the exit, but I look back once more. Addison’s still watching me.

In the car, I can’t get comfortable in my seat.

“That was Patterson Cross in there,” I say. “Why was she talking to him?”

Delphine examines her nails. “That’s her older brother.”

His sister. Not his girlfriend. Relief floods through me for one stupid second before the real problem registers.

“What?”

“Addison Cross. Patterson’s little sister.” She looks at me with a serene smile. “Didn’t I mention that?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Hmm.” She turns to look out the window. “Must have slipped my mind.”

I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. I spent twenty minutes flirting with my friend’s little sister while my arranged marriage waits for me at home.

“Everything okay?” Delphine asks.

“Fantastic.” I try my best to keep my tone as neutral as possible.

She doesn’t respond, and I’m grateful for that.

As I lose myself in my thoughts, I can still smell Addison’s perfume on my jacket, still feel the warmth of her hand in mine. She looked at me like she saw the real me. Not a prince, a headline, or a crown to be worn.

Right now, I have to forget Addison Cross exists and prepare to meet my future wife. I can never think about blue-green eyes, subway paintings, or how she made my heart race ever again.