14. Cataleya
“Will you accompany me to the Nelson Charity Gala?” Christian asks one day as we’re having lunch together. “It’s next week.”
I spear my fork into my salad, letting out a sigh. The last few months have been exhausting with the constant attention from the paparazzi, as well as the grand wedding planning. Honestly, I’d rather not go.
I look up to tell Christian that, but the look on his face is apologetic.
“I’m afraid it’s not really optional,” he says before I can answer. “We’re the royal couple, we’re expected to be there.”
“Damn,” I whisper, raising my eyebrows in resignation. Resting my chin on my hand, I sigh. “Thanks for asking, though. It gave me a semblance of a choice.”
Christian reaches across the table, letting his hand rest on mine momentarily. His thumb rubs patterns into my skin. The small, reassuring gesture does wonders for my mood, to my surprise.
“It’ll be fun,” he lies, shooting me a smile.
The warmth of his hand and the easiness in his smile wanes my tiredness, even if just for a moment, and by the time the gala comes around, I’m determined to play my part as best I can—even if it comes as naturally to me as walking in five-inch heels, which I should not have attempted to try for the first time this evening.
“Prince Christian, Lady Cataleya!”
The room is abuzz with cries, as the press shoves and elbows each other just to photograph us. Christian puts an arm around my waist, pulling me close to him, as I shoot the photographers a dazzling smile, masking my inexperience with sheer bravado. All in a day’s work for the future Queen of Solvaria, I suppose.
At the very least, I look the part. I’m wearing a peach ball gown, adorned all over with Swarovski crystals. My diamond earrings and matching diamond tiara complete the look, and I’m almost convinced that I was born for this role.
Well, I suppose I was born for this role in terms of my lineage. Not in terms of demeanor, though. That’s beside the point.
In any case, it seems I’m a natural because the photographers all beam at me. I shoot them a radiant smile as Christian and I make our way into the palace where the gala is taking place.
“Your Highness,” a voice comes, and Christian turns to greet a man I recognize as Lord Nelson. “So pleased that you both could grace us with your presence.”
He bows low before raising himself up and catching my eye.
“My Lady,” he says, and I flinch slightly, remembering there are royal protocols to follow in situations like this. He bows again, and when he lifts his face back up, I see he’s a little starstruck by my presence. It’s a novelty, but I’m determined to act like the perfect fiancé.
Holy shit, those photographers never stop taking photos, do they?
“Lord Nelson,” I reply with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Prince Christian and I are always happy to support a worthy cause. I only hope our presence will succeed in assisting your charitable pursuits.”
“That’s very kind, Lady Cataleya,” the old man replies with a look of pure gratitude.
With a slight tilt of the head, I shoot him another ingratiating smile before Christian and I move into the crowd.
“That was absolutely perfect,” I hear Christian whisper in my ear, incredulous. “Where did you learn to act like that?”
I let out a short laugh, pleased that he thinks I’m playing the part well enough.
“Back in law school, I was expected to network like my life depended on it if I wanted to intern at a good firm,” I explain, discreetly wiping my clammy hands on my dress fabric. “I’m used to schmoozing professors and lawyers, though. Not this.”
“I don’t know why you were running from this for so long, then,” he replies, and when I look up, I see he’s laughing, too. There’s such an ease to his movements, something that I can only hope I’m emulating. “Seems like you’re almost better at this than I am.”
“Well, you’d better count your lucky stars I’m on your side, huh?” I tell him in a low voice. “If I’d married one of your brothers, you’d be in trouble.”
Christian seems to find this hilarious, and the two of us have to fight down our laughter as one of the aforementioned brothers comes to greet us.
“Well, don’t you two look like a happy couple?” Ishmael teases, shooting me a knowing smile. “People keep asking me about you two. I’m running out of compliments to give.”
We’re soon joined by his wife, Liza, and for a while, the four of us chat. She’s a sweet, calming presence that tapers the gala’s intense environment. Liza whispers how she likes my dress and we talk about our love of the served champagne.
Later on, Christian and I make our way around the room. I manage to play the part of a future princess flawlessly. All the while, I smile at the rapport Christian and I have built over the last few months.
When we get a brief moment to ourselves, our masks drop slightly and we’re able to talk easily. The fact that we can tease each other like that means we’ve reached a point of comfort with each other, which relieves me. I didn’t want to have to walk on eggshells around Christian. Not for months on end, anyway.
It’s not all comfort, though. Not by a long shot. I often still get a thrill when I look at him. Like now.
I glance over at Christian as he engages a noblewoman in some drab conversation about the country’s exports. I can see he actually really cares about what he’s talking about, and the sparkle in his eyes somehow makes me want to join in the conversation.
“The Prince is, of course, a strong believer in Solvaria’s unique produce,” I jump in, shooting Christian a warm smile. “And he has every right to be. Did you know that he’s a talented gardener himself?”
This little personal tidbit has the noblewoman tittering, and Christian shoots me a look of amusement. He has no interest in gardening, of course, but he’s caught on to my game, and the two of us spend the next ten minutes regaling the gathering audience with tales of his horticultural prowess.
I feel a jolt of excitement at this little secret perjury we’ve co-created. It’s fitting, though, considering we’re spitting out lie after lie to uphold the enchanting image of the Crown Prince and his future wife.
“And do you partake of the fruits of the Prince’s labor, Lady Cataleya?” the noblewoman asks eagerly.
“I’ll say this,” I tell her, leaning in conspiratorially. “I will never eat another plum in my life, unless it’s been tended to by his hands.”
The small crowd erupts with murmurs of approval, and against all odds, I’m actually enjoying myself. As I catch Christian’s eye, I give him a smile and I can tell he is pleased, too.
When I look back at the circle of guests gathered around us, though, I notice something I hadn’t seen before. There’s a certain look they’re giving us, even as the conversation moves on, and it takes me a moment to see it for what it is. Envy. Even Ishmael and Liza, who have doubtlessly caught onto our ruse, are smiling at us with something like admiration.
I’m a little shocked, but a second later, that shock is replaced by a sort of warmth that I recognize as pride. Even if it is a fa?ade, I know that for the next year this man will be mine.
I sidle up to Christian, spurred by the thought, and slip my arm through his. His warmth replenishes my energy, and soon the two of us move on, socializing with another group of aristocrats and politicians.
Wherever we go that night, I catch that same glimpse of envy, and several people even comment on what a charming couple we make.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Christian replies, shooting me a warm smile.
When the orchestra starts up, Christian holds his hand out to me.
“Would you care to dance?” he asks, and I see a sparkle in his eye.
My hand gracefully lands in his. “Nothing would make me happier.”
The moment Christian whisks me away to the dance floor, I feel the entire room watching us. I had expected a waltz, something demure, but when the band shifts into a slow, heated number, my heart races.
Christian, seemingly unperturbed, presses his hand into the valley of my lower back. The heat of his hand is matched only by his body as he pulls me close to him.
“Just follow my lead,” he tells me, his breath warm on my cheek. “Don’t focus on anyone else. Focus on me.”
As the music dips and soars, Christian guides my body in perfect unison with his. My steps mirror his steps, my breath his breath. My entire body bends and twists with his, pressed up against him the entire time.
As we move, I feel myself falling deeper and deeper into him. And an electric jolt runs up my body with every step. Briefly, I have to wonder what it would be like to sleep with him. Would we move in rhythm like this? Would he guide me this effortlessly? Would my body bend to his whim as easily and joyfully as it does now?
My God, Cataleya. Is this really the time and place for those thoughts?
Those images invade my mind as we approach the song’s crescendo, the beat hastening as Christian moves me across the floor. I can hear his breath in my ear, hot and fast, and I know mine is the same.
When the final notes of the song ring out, Christian dips me low. For a moment, all is silent as we gaze into each other’s eyes. The tension of the last few minutes hangs palpably in the air until slowly, hesitantly, the crowd begins to applaud us.
It’s this that finally breaks the spell, and Christian pulls me back up. The moment our bodies separate, I feel like I can breathe again, but it’s not without a certain reluctance. Whatever that was, it was powerful, and I don’t know what it means.
The crowd appears to have no doubts, though, and we’re congratulated by several guests on our obvious chemistry. Chemistry is right, but what this reaction will result in is anyone’s guess.