18 | Melina
Melina
While the greenhouse is filled with flora from all over the world, my attention is stolen by the much more exotic fauna.
Rich people. Well, mostly rich people, I assume.
They’re all drinking champagne, posturing, and looking like they smell really nice.
Though the small crowd calms my nerves, the not-so-subtle looks everyone is giving us do the opposite.
Three men in tuxes immediately approach Taylor to shake his hand.
He thanks two of them for coming in English and one of them in French.
They shake my hand as well, for some reason.
As we weave through high-top tables and planters, Taylor gets interrupted by about ten people along the way.
Some actually call him ‘Your Highness’ and he acts like it’s not weird at all.
In fact, he embodies it. It takes all my effort to keep my jaw off the floor watching him make small talk with guests and journalists.
He navigates each interaction like a social savant, listening intently to everyone’s banalities, knowing which women to la bise and which not to, remembering which men to formally handshake and which men to do that complicated back-slapping dude handshake some guys prefer.
But he’s a complete faker. For some reason, nobody notices the dutiful Alex whispering in his ear every once in a while to remind him who everyone is.
Sooner or later, people begin asking about me.
Taylor keeps his responses vague with ‘this is Melina,’ and I don’t say much besides my hellos, ‘enchantées’, and a few ‘no, we are not together’.
One couple asks what I do for a living, then seems confused after I tell them.
What the hell is she doing next to the prince? I can hear them thinking.
When we’re finally left alone, a waiter offers us champagne. Taylor takes a glass for me without asking if I want any. He’s right, though, I do want champagne.
“Do you have worms in your brain?” I ask him. “I was watching this medical drama once, and this girl cheated on her husband because of a parasite that completely changed her personality.”
“What are you going on about?”
“You’re being all smiley and nice. What the hell has gotten into you?”
“No worms,” he says. “I truly care about people’s jobs, babies, and new yachts.” He can’t even finish the sentence without laughing.
“How come I never get smiley and nice?”
“You don’t have any money. At least the kind I’m fishing for.” He doesn’t have to say it all matter-of-factly, even if it is a matter of fact. “Sorry, you’re stuck with crotchety old Taylor tonight.” His apology sounds oddly serious.
“Whatever,” I tease. “That prince guy seems like a smarmy douche anyways.” Although I do commend his willingness to schmooze for a good cause.
Taylor clinks his champagne glass with mine. “ Santé .”
His attention shifts to the woman waving from across the room. She’s a redhead, probably in her late thirties. Holding her hand is an adorable little girl in a yellow dress.
“I wanted to say hi before bedtime,” the woman says when she approaches. The little girl hides behind her thigh.
Taylor shakes her hand. “Thank you for coming, Marissa. How are you guys doing?”
I’m surprised he knows her name without Alex by his side.
“Kayla’s been really excited to go to class now that she has music twice a week, but we’re still in the fight for other schools.
The arts are always the first on the chopping block for under-funded districts.
It’s hard to stress to non-parents how important it is.
Sometimes I feel like we’re just screaming into the void.
I can’t thank you enough for listening.”
Kayla is staring at me, so I wave at her.
“Well, I have no intention to stop working with you,” Taylor says. “Your organization is the standard for the types of groups we want to associate with. I hope you feel the same about us.”
This woman isn’t a donor, rather, she’s a recipient. Nonetheless, I can tell Taylor is being genuine. I don’t know why, I just can.
“Are you a princess?”
I almost didn’t hear her. When I look down, Kayla is chewing her thumbnail, entranced by my dress. My little heart could flutter away.
Taylor cocks his head at me and mouths, ‘Are you?’ like he doesn’t already know the answer.
“No, I’m not,” I say to both of them.
The girl scrunches her nose. “Are you married?”
Taylor’s lip does the tiniest quiver. Even he can’t resist an adorable child.
Marissa laughs, then apologizes to us. “What did we say about asking people if they’re married, Kayla?”
Taylor looks down at her. She must resemble an ant from his height. “If I married Melina, she’d be a duchess.” He corrects her like she’s an adult.
“Then how do you get to be a princess?” she asks.
“I’ll tell you, but you have to keep it a secret.”
She nods like her life depends on this information. Taylor makes a show of scanning the room before getting on one knee and murmuring something into her ear. Whatever he said must’ve made her happy because she gets all wiggly in that way kids do when you give them a piece of candy.
“Really?” she whispers back.
Heart. Fluttering. Gah.
When he stands, Taylor squints and puts a finger to his lips. Kayla copies him, of course. Marissa and I exchange smiles because this is the most delightful shit I’ve ever seen, and coming from Taylor of all people, whose first word I’d use to describe wouldn’t be ‘delightful’.
Marissa tucks some hair behind her daughter’s ear. “Let’s go bother some other people,” she says.
They leave, but not before Kayla gives me a tiny wave.
I wave back and turn to Taylor. “You’re adorable. What did you tell her?”
“Just that Santa Claus isn’t real.”
“Well, she seems to be really excited about it.”
“She should be. This is the beginning of her journey to becoming a critical thinker.”
I roll my eyes because I know he thinks he’s too cool to admit he wanted to make Kayla’s day out of the pure goodness of his little Grinch heart.
Taylor brings his shoulders to his ears. “What? The whole prince thing has me do well with the three-to-ten age demo. I can’t let that go to waste.”
Again, adorable.
Kayla stares at me from across the room. When we make eye contact, she looks away.
“You didn’t say anything about me, did you? Kayla keeps stealing glances.”
“She’s a child, Melina.” He gestures at my dress. “She probably just likes looking at things that are sparkly.”
That didn’t answer my question. I’ll give up now because he’s never going to tell me.
I nudge his elbow. “So this maiden you’re going to wed.”
“What about her?” He doesn’t sound thrilled with the idea.
“Why would she become a duchess? I thought your mom became a princess when she married your dad.”
“I didn’t think you had the intention of carrying my spawn.”
I “ha” awkwardly, then scratch my head. “Uh, take me out to dinner first.”
Then I realize he has given me dinner. Three fucking times.
“In St. Claire, you have to be related to the crown by bloodline. She became a princess when she gave birth to the future sovereign.” He throws out his hands to dramatize his importance. “Me. Or Tom, if I get shot in a parade or something.”
“So the only way to become a princess is to be born one or to birth your child.”
He takes a sip of champagne. “Weird, eh?”
Extremely. I don’t think he explained the concept of royal blood to Kayla either.
“Do you even want kids?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, I know it’s kind of expected either way, but if you had the choi—”
“I’m not bringing a child into this world I don’t want,” he says sternly.
“Sorry,” I mumble. I didn’t mean to suggest Taylor would have a child for the wrong reasons, but that’s exactly what I just did.
“It’s just—” Taylor starts, staring off at Kayla.
“It’s just what?”
“They could hate it, you know?”
‘It’ meaning attention? The monarchy? Life?
I look up at him. “Do you hate it?”
Instead of answering me, Taylor furrows his brow at someone in the crowd.
A man with perfect black hair and blinding white teeth smiles to acknowledge him.
Why are rich people all so beautiful? They must all have the same secret skin cream they don’t let the bourgeois access.
Everyone at this party has the face of a goddamn supermodel.
Taylor is expressionless as the man walks over.
“Long time, no see,” he says with a nice British accent.
“I thought, uh, I thought you were in England.” Taylor seems caught off guard. He’s never caught off guard.
“I moved back a year ago with my partner.”
“Are you married?” Taylor asks with the same inflection as Kayla.
“Yes, I’m Gael’s plus one.”
Taylor fails to hide his shock. “Your husband is Gael Dumas?”
Gael Dumas is one of the richest men in the country and the richest black man in the world. He’s the billionaire CEO of the software company he started in his mom’s garage, and I’d say at least fifteen years older than the guy we’re talking to now.
I notice the man eye me up and down. Taylor must’ve noticed too.
“Sorry, Melina, this is James Clybourn.”
“Jamie,” he corrects. “Old Friend.”
Friend? I thought Taylor didn’t have many of those.
Our bizarre conversation is interrupted by Gael Dumas himself giving Jamie a glass of champagne.
“Bonsoir,” he says to Taylor as they shake hands.
“I hope you’re doing well, Taylor,” Jamie says. “Really.”
Something weird is happening between the lines of this exchange.
“Yes,” Taylor says. “Thank you.”
Gael whispers something in his husband’s ear, and Jamie gives Taylor a wink before the couple leaves.
“He just winked at you,” I say to break the tension.
“Yep,” Taylor says like he’s familiar with Jamie’s winking tendencies.
“Jamie Clybourn,” I mumble as Taylor chugs the rest of his champagne. “That name sounds familiar.”
“He’s an actor.”
“Anything I’ve heard of?”
“How should I know?”
The tone of his voice is noncommittal, but I can tell he’s thinking about something.
“Why was that conversation so awkward? Did you guys have a falling out or something?”
“You could say that, yeah.”
I won’t push. Taylor’s true colors are less than charming, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s made some enemies.
“Shit,” he says. “My dad is calling me over.”
To the left, Prince David waves through a gaggle of people.
“I’ll stay here and try the hors d’oeuvres if that’s okay.” Frankly, his father scares me.
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”
Taylor rests his hand on my forearm before he leaves, like he wants to touch me one last time before he’s gone for a few minutes. The gesture feels unintentional yet unwarranted. I don’t mind, it’s just a little confusing.