Chapter 6
6
Kirill
The Next Day
" H ow did she take it?" I ask the minute I open the door.
"Well, hello and good morning to you too," Valentina chirps, brushing past me. She shrugs out of her long coat and drapes it over the black leather sofa.
My irritation level is at a high. I bark, "I don't have time, Valentina. How did Fiona react?"
Valentina's face turns stern. She points at me. "No need to get snippy."
"Talk," I order.
She puts her hand on her hip and discloses, "She's pissed off, hates Sean, doesn't want her niece and nephew to grow up as orphans, and is smarter than I credited her as being."
My chest squeezes tight. "Why is that?"
Valentina goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and grabs a bottle of water. She pops off the cap, takes a long sip, then reveals, "She already has the Royal Doctrine memorized."
Pride sweeps through me, along with surprise. It took me over a week to remember every tedious law. I cautiously probe, "She understood the intricacies?"
"Yes. Much faster than I expected."
That's my little bird.
She adds, "She's a pistol. Don't piss her off, or you're going to pay for a long time."
"Why do you say that?"
Valentina scoffs, "She thinks I'm the devil. I'm pretty sure it has more to do with her belief we're fucking than me being the messenger."
Panic hits me. "That's impossible. I told her we were friends."
Valentina nods. "Yep. I reiterated that, but little Miss Sunshine didn't want to accept it."
An uncomfortable tugging sensation in my chest erupts. I can't help myself and ask, "What did she say?"
"Nothing much. But I'm a woman. I can tell these things," she insists.
The hope fizzles. As I expected, Valentina is making something out of nothing.
Stop acting like Fiona will be any different than any other woman, I scold myself, then reprimand Valentina. "Let's stick to the tasks at hand, please."
Valentina rolls her eyes. "Fine. Have it your way."
I'm hit with a wave of relief. The last thing I want to do is wallow in my misery all day. I prod, "So she's going through with it?"
"Of course. She loves her niece and nephew too much. I suppose for Sean and Zara, too, although I'm pretty sure they're on her shit list for life. "
My gut dives, and guilt assails me. The last thing I want is for Fiona to hate her family members. And she and Zara are more than sisters-in-law. They're best friends.
Valentina points out, "There's only a week until the ceremony. Have you done everything on your end?"
I arch my eyebrows.
Valentina shakes her head in disappointment. "Really, Kirill?"
"What?"
She huffs. "This isn't a normal initiation. It's a coronation, and you're the king."
"So I've been told," I sneer.
"Snap out of it, Kirill!"
"I don't know—" I shut my mouth, another jolt of panic striking me.
"Ah, reality is hitting you," she coos.
My heart thumps hard against my chest cavity. "There's only a week left."
"Right. Do you want me to help you pick things out?" she offers.
I shake my head. "No."
"Are you sure? I can offer a female perspective."
I hesitate but then sternly reply, "No. I'll do it on my own."
Valentina shrugs. "Okay. Suit yourself." She finishes her bottle of water, tosses it in the trash, and puts her coat on. "If you change your mind, let me know."
"I won't," I insist.
She gives me an I-don't-believe-you look, then steps out my front door .
I pace my house for an hour, making a mental list of everything I'm required to do. Then I text my driver and flight crew. I exit the building and get into the SUV.
Traffic is heavy, and the drive to Chicago Executive takes longer than normal. It only serves to make me antsier. By the time I get on my plane, my palms are sweating.
My flight attendant, Arina, greets me with a curtsy. "Your Majesty. Nice to see you. Can I get you a drink?"
"Vodka," I state, then take a seat.
She brings me a crystal tumbler with three fingers of liquor and asks, "Would you like something to eat?"
I grumble, "No. Please tell the pilot to get off the ground as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir," she replies, then disappears. She returns a moment later, stating, "He said three minutes."
"Great. Thank you," I respond, then stare out the window, my heart racing faster.
What if I pick the wrong one?
I should have brought Valentina.
No. This is my responsibility.
The flight to Monaco takes almost eleven hours. I normally sleep on flights, but I can't today. When I arrive, the hours of self-loathing and remorse over ruining Fiona's life hit a high.
The plane door opens, and I walk through the hallway, lit only by the flickering flames from the candles inside the sconces. There are several turns before I get to the first door. I put my hand on the knob and pause.
What am I doing ?
There's no way out of this.
Man up.
I open the door and enter a room with a table, a locked wooden box, and two oversized chairs. It's in the back of a jewelry store, which happens to be the most exclusive and expensive supplier of wedding rings in the world. I sit and wait.
A few minutes pass until Ahmed, an old Moroccan with wrinkled skin and who is The Underworld's only jeweler, appears. He bows reverently. "Your Majesty."
I rise and hold out my hand. "Ahmed. Good to see you."
He shakes my hand and smiles, replying, "And it is always a pleasure to see you, sir."
I motion to the chair. "Please. Sit."
He obeys.
I follow suit and wait.
His brown eyes gleam. He unlocks the box and removes the lid, claiming, "These are the best in the world, reserved for your queen."
Diamonds glitter with brilliance, making the situation I'm in more real. My pulse skyrockets as I pick up each one, assessing them.
"Perfect clarity, color, and cuts," Ahmed assures with pride in his tone.
"Yes, I can see that."
"Did you have a specific cut in mind?" he probes.
The hairs on my neck rise in apprehension.
She has to love it.
The air turns thick, and my palms sweat again .
Ahmed picks up a ring and holds it out, suggesting, "What about a princess cut?"
"She's not a princess. She's a queen," I remind him.
"Ah. Forgive me," he says and sets it down.
I study the rows of diamonds again, trying to breathe through my panic.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Can I get you a drink?" Ahmed questions.
"Maybe a water," I respond.
"One moment." He rises, disappears through the door, then returns with a glass of water and a smaller, gold metal box.
I down half the water and point at the box. "What's in there?"
His expression turns serious. He states, "There's one last diamond. Since you're marrying his daughter, I believe you should reconsider your declaration to keep it as a relic."
My stomach flips. I lock eyes with Ahmed, asking, "You mean Sean's ring?"
He nods. "Yes. The one reserved for Bridget for when she joined The Underworld."
I hold my breath, staring at the box.
Ahmed unlocks it, removes the gold lid, and scoots the box across the table.
I pick up the seven-carat, marquise-cut diamond attached to a gold band, mumbling, "I forgot about this ring."
Ahmed admires it, stating, "I miss the era where marquise cuts were the big rage. Bridget really loved them. Silver was making a big statement, but she preferred gold. And the inscription was classic Sean." He hands me a magnifying glass .
I spin the ring and look through the glass, reading, Mine for eternity . My skin erupts with goose bumps. I stare for several minutes at the exquisite piece, imagining it on Fiona's finger.
It's perfect.
Ahmed informs, "A lot of women don't like marquise. Do you know if Fiona does?"
I shake my head. "No. But if she doesn't like it, I'll get her a different one."
"Do you want to pick a second choice just to be safe? These other ones are more popular right now," he asks, pointing at the big box.
"No. I'm taking this one. Is it the correct size, or do you need to make adjustments?" I prod.
He smiles. "She is the same size as her mother. It'll fit her perfectly."
"Then it's meant to be," I state, feeling a swell of relief.
He puts it in the box, replaces the lid, and locks it. He hands me the key, declaring, "If you lose this, I have another."
"I won't," I insist, putting the box in the inside pocket of my sports coat.
"Good. And congratulations," he offers.
A strange feeling hits me. I nod. "Thank you." I rise, shake his hand, and exit through the door I entered. Then I walk down a different hallway and open another door, stepping into an empty room with one chair.
That anxious feeling reappears. I pace the small space, then sit and tap my fingers on my thighs.
The door finally opens. Colette, a petite woman with a tight bun, glasses hanging around her neck, and just as many wrinkles as Ahmed, beams at me. She curtsies and chirps in a French accent, "Your Majesty. What an honor to see you again."
I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. "Colette. How have you been?"
"Very good, sir."
"And your family?"
"Just as well," she informs.
"Glad to hear it."
She motions to the chair. "Please sit. Can I get you anything to drink or eat?"
"No, thank you."
"Alright. One moment." She opens the door and belts out orders in French.
Two younger women appear in the doorway. They curtsy, then wheel three racks of dresses inside the tiny space.
Colette motions toward the door. "Thank you." She says something in French, and they disappear. She turns toward me with a huge smile. "What an exciting decision you get to make!"
My stomach clenches. I never understood why Sean Sr. created a rule that the king picks the queen's wedding gown. It seems like it takes away the excitement from the bride.
Fiona's far from excited, I remind myself.
Maybe this is better for her if I do it.
Who am I kidding? I know nothing about wedding dresses.
"Sir, may I show you my top picks?" Colette asks.
"Please," I beg, not wanting to screw this up but feeling like I'm going to .
Colette pulls a dress off the rack and hangs it on the wall hook. She selects two more and points to the first. It has a super-puffy skirt and reminds me of a princess.
"Not that one," I say.
"No?"
"No. She's a queen, not a princess," I state.
What aren't these people understanding about this?
Colette nods. "Understood, sir." She moves to the next dress. It's form-fitting and all satin.
"Too plain," I say.
She moves to the third dress. "This one has more beading. Is it more your taste?"
I stare at the pearls and lace, then give Colette a frantic look. I admit, "I don't know how to do this."
She softly laughs. "It's okay. We'll find your queen the perfect dress. Don't worry."
I rise and move toward the racks. "Do you mind?"
"Not at all," she says.
I sift through the heavy dresses, bypassing most of them, pausing on a few, then get to the last rack.
"Saved the best for last," Colette states.
"I hope so," I mutter, my palms wet again. I wipe them on my pants and carefully touch only the hangers. I slide four dresses across the rack, then freeze.
The dress is a golden cream color with an intricate geometric design and just the right number of crystals and pearls. And it has a dove on the chest .
My little bird.
Colette claps her hands, practically singing, "It's such an exquisite couture piece! The entire dress is hand-embroidered with sequin crystal beading and elegant pearls. The bird holds the corset together, and did you know that doves represent love?"
Love.
Not in the cards for me.
"Feel the luxurious lace! It's so soft," she continues.
I trail my fingers down the skirt, unable to refute her claim. I confess, "I thought lace was itchy."
She smiles. "Not the most elegant kind!" She steps next to me and pulls it off the rack, then takes it to the wall and hangs it on the hook. "Can you see Fiona in it?"
I study the dress, unable to imagine anyone but her in it.
Colette gushes, "Ah! You can imagine it! I see it dancing in your eyes!"
My cheeks heat, and I shift on my feet. "Sorry?"
She points at me. "That look! Right there! This is the dress, isn't it?"
I study the wedding gown, trying to imagine Fiona in anything else, but it's useless. I ask Colette, "What if she doesn't love it?"
She shrugs. "Pick two backups. I'll send you with all three."
I think about it for a moment, then declare, "I'd appreciate it if you pick the others."
She nods. "No problem, Your Majesty."
"Thank you."
She quickly selects two very different gowns, hangs them on the wall, and inquires, "Are these good? "
"Sure."
"Great." She enters the hall, says something in French, and the young women return. They curtsy again.
"No need to curtsy anymore today."
"Sir?" a dark-haired girl asks.
"It's okay. I'd prefer you don't," I tell her.
"If the king says no, just obey," Colette reprimands.
The girl's cheeks heat. "Yes. Sorry, sir."
"No problem."
Colette speaks in French again, and they wheel out the dresses. She turns toward me with a new gleam in her eyes. "Are you ready for the fun part?"
I arch my eyebrows.
Colette questions, "I was told you'll have a Knights of the Round Table ceremony?"
My chest tightens. I had forgotten about my upcoming moment of horror, not just for myself but for Fiona.
"Just one moment," she says, and peeks out the door again, rattling off a string of French.
Another rack, this one full of lingerie, is wheeled inside, and the girls disappear.
Colette asks, "Is there a specific body part you'd like to focus on?"
Jesus.
"No. Whatever you think she'll like is fine," I answer as I take a seat. I put my ankle on my knee, trying to look casual and not appear embarrassed .
Colette holds up two barely-there white pieces of fabric. "Are you thinking separates or one piece?"
The image of what I think Fiona will look like pops into my mind. My mouth waters and my dick hardens.
I'm the fucking king. Stop acting like a child.
"I'm not picky," I admit, trying to sound normal, but it comes out strangely.
Colette wrinkles her forehead, turns to the rack, shifts through several pieces, then pulls out a creamy white one-piece with tiny hints of gold and blue. She boasts, "Fiona will look great in this!"
Hot blood shoots through my veins. The space in my pants reduces further.
She adds, "It'll solve the blue requirement too."
"What's that?" I question, tearing my eyes off the lingerie.
She beams. "You know. Something old. Something new. Something borrowed. Something blue."
"Oh. That's an American tradition, right?"
"It was from the Victorian era in the U.K. America ran with it," Colette states.
Old. New. Borrowed. Blue.
Stress begins to stir within me.
Colette shakes the delicate piece and asks, "Is this the winner? Can you see her in it?"
I rise, grumbling, "I'll take it. Can you package everything and have it taken to the plane?"
"Of course."
I move toward the door and then freeze. "Shit! "
"What's wrong, sir?" Colette frets.
"How do I know it'll fit her?" I question.
She smiles. "You must have pre-wedding jitters. You know all the dresses and undergarments are already sized to those about to be initiated."
"Oh. Right. Sorry, I have a lot on my mind," I fumble, then nod. "Thank you for your help."
"Anytime, Your Majesty," Colette says with a curtsy.
I exit the way I came in, and when I reach the plane, I brush past Arina.
Old. Borrowed. Blue.
"Drink?" Arina offers, holding out a tumbler of vodka.
I grab it with a nod and tap the crystal, looking out the window. Every second that goes by stresses me more.
Arina stops in the aisle next to my seat. "Sir, the packages have arrived. I stored them up front. Is there anything else you need before we leave?"
"No."
"Okay, I'll let the pilot know," she says.
Within minutes, we're in the air.
I reach for the gold box and unlock it, staring at the ring.
Something old.
A splinter of relief lodges itself in my chest. "Old, new, and blue is taken care of, but what about borrowed?" I mutter, taking a sip of liquor and grimacing as it burns my throat.
The eleven-hour flight doesn't go any faster than the first time. I pace the majority of it, wondering what Fiona could borrow .
The pilot announces, "We're about to land. Please take your seat and secure your seat belt."
I obey, leaning my head back against the seat and closing my eyes.
Think!
We land, and I'm no closer to an answer. My SUV waits on the runway, and I don't waste time getting into it. The dresses and lingerie are loaded into the trunk, and within twenty minutes, my driver pulls up to the curb in front of my building.
I go inside, wait for the elevator that still hasn't been fixed, and worry about what Fiona can borrow.
"What a stupid tradition," I mumble, stepping into the penthouse. I pace the family room until the packages arrive.
Once I'm alone again, I take the dress with the dove, the lingerie, and the ring out. I put them on my oversized bed and stare at them.
I need to know if she likes any of this.
Worried I made the wrong choice, I glance at the items and then go over to my desk. I open the drawer, tear off the top of my letterhead so I don't break any rules, and remove the cap from my fountain pen.
A thousand things race through my head, and I take a few moments to sort through them, then begin writing.
My dearest Fiona...