Chapter 3
Valentina
The palace gates loom before me like something out of a fever dream, wrought iron and foreboding.
My hands shake as I show my ID to the guard, and for one terrifying moment I'm convinced he'll take one look at my face and declare, “Lady Valentina Romano, you're under arrest for impersonating Fabiana Fontaine!”
Yup, I’m as melodramatic as a soap star right now. That’s what you get from years of hiding behind a fake identity, who happens to write about the royal family.
But of course he doesn’t know who I really am. No one does here at the palace.
And that’s the way it needs to stay.
The guard simply nods and waves me through, and I shoot him a tight smile before I park my rattling pile of rust in a space beside one of the palace’s sweeping lawns.
My car door creaks as I close it, and I half expect curtains to twitch at windows as staff and family startle at the sound.
I take a deep, steadying breath and smooth down the skirt of my suit. Squinting in the bright summer sun, I try to throw a lasso around my thoughts that are running like wild horses.
Is the King going to sue me for libel?
Could he have me deported?
Is he going to ban me from ever writing about the royal family again, which would mean the end of my career and my income? And most importantly, Nona and I will be out on the street: homeless, hungry, and desperate.
Or perhaps he's going to have me flogged at dawn in front of an audience of everyone I've ever written about, all of whom will be baying for my blood?
I push an errant hair behind my ear.
There’s an outside chance I might be catastrophizing right now.
A woman in her forties, with her hair cropped, wearing sensible shoes, with a no-nonsense demeanor, approaches me. “Ms. Fontaine, I presume?” she asks, her eyes gliding over my car in obvious judgment before they land on me.
Show time.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Nadia Aloni, your security escort today. Please, come with me.” Her face is severe; her light blue eyes are otherworldly.
“Sure thing,” I reply.
She leads me through a stone archway and into the palace through a service entrance near the kitchens. Not the entrance I used as a child as a guest of the palace for garden parties and the like.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen, and fallen hard.
We make our way through whitewashed corridors until we enter the part of the palace I’ve seen before. Marble columns, high ceilings, gilded edging. The entire place reeks of wealth and privilege.
“His Majesty will see you in the library,” Nadia Aloni says as we approach a familiar set of double doors.
My stomach drops to my charity shop designer shoes.
The King’s library? That’s where my father brought me several times to show me first edition children’s books that smelt of dust and wonder.
I remember marveling at the rows and rows of leather-bound books with gold detailing in the bookcases that seemed to stretch right up into the sky.
I remember climbing a ladder on wheels, wishing it would whisk me around the room as if I were Belle in Beauty and the Beast in my very own library.
The irony is not lost on me that I'm about to be lectured about my career choices by none other than the King himself in the same room where I once dreamed of my own fairy tale ending.
But that was the old me, the starry-eyed child who no longer exists.
The doors open, and there he is, King Frederic of Ledonia, the man who destroyed my life.
He’s sitting behind a grand wooden desk, flanked by a middle-aged man in a suit as he concentrates on some papers, looking every inch the monarch who could have me tossed in a dungeon for treason.
Do they still do that in the 21st century?
I clasp my hands behind my back and squeeze until my joints turn white.
You’ve got this.
“Ms. Fontaine,” the man at the King’s side begins. He looks like he’s in his forties, with perfectly styled but thinning hair, and a smile that could sell ice to penguins. “I’m Ronan Clementine. We spoke on the phone.”
The guy I thought was my Uncle Bertie making a prank call.
“H-hello, Mr. Clementine,” I stammer, wishing I had the bravery of a woman who hadn’t just stepped out of the staff corridor and into the royal firing squad.
“May I introduce His Royal Majesty, King Frederic,” he continues with a respectful bow of his head—for the King’s benefit, not mine—and in return, I glide my gaze over the king’s familiar face.
He’s a tall and imposing, a handsome man, even in his advancing years, “the silver sovereign”, as I once referred to him on a TikTok.
It went viral.
“Your Majesty,” I manage, doing what I hope is an acceptable curtsy despite my knees threatening to buckle beneath me. Every crazy thought I’ve had about why I’m here buzzes around my head. Should I make a run for it? I mean, who willingly meets their executioner?
“Pleasure,” the King replies, although the way he says the word suggests it’s anything but. “Please sit, Ms. Fontaine.” He gestures at a chair across from him, and I lower myself onto it, every muscle in my body rigid.
This is the end. The end of my career—or worse.
He places his clasped hands on the table, his dark eyes trained on me in unflinching directness. “I imagine you’re curious why I’ve invited you here today,” he says.
Ummm, yeah?
“I'm sure you have an excellent reason,” I reply.
I wonder if they have room service in the palace dungeons.
“You recently published an article about my youngest son, Prince Maximilien.”
“That's right.” That hollow feeling claims my belly once more.
“It was a little… harsh, shall we say.”
So, I'm going to be rapped over the knuckles for reporting on man-child Max.
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, I simply reported the facts. Your son made some interesting decisions that ultimately resulted in his landing in a pond.”
“You’re absolutely right, and your sources, whoever they may be, reported the events accurately.”
His words surprise me.
“They always do,” I reply, sounding one hundred percent more confident than I am.
The King and Ronan Clementine share a look.
If he's going to bring out the firing squad, now would be the time. My eyes dart nervously to the door, half wondering if there's a row of soldiers with rifles waiting for their cue.
King Frederic leans toward me. "Ms. Fontaine, I'm sure you'll be surprised to learn that I greatly admire your work.”
I blink at him in shock. “You are?”
I mean, what the heck?
“Of course I am. Although you tend to dwell on the negative traits of both my family and me, your writing can be insightful and well informed. On top of that, you have a sharp wit I appreciate.”
Huh. The row of armed soldiers marches away.
“Thank you very much, sir,” I reply, my muscles relaxing for the first time since I climbed into my car to drive here.
Who knew the king admired me?
Or…is this a trap?
“I have a proposition for you,” he continues.
And here it is.
“We would like to work with you on a project.”
Wait, what?
This meeting is getting weirder by the minute.
“Work...with me?” I'm fairly certain my expression resembles that of someone who's just been told gravity no longer exists and we're all about to float around the room.
“That's what I said,” the King replies evenly.
“I'm sorry. What do you mean you want to work with me, sir?”
“Ms. Fontaine, my son, Maximilien, has found himself in something of a public relations predicament.”
That's one way to put it.
“You're referring to my most recent report about him diving onto the slip n’ slide and landing in the pond,” I say, cringing inside.
He might just be a prince to me and the rest of the country, but he's the King's son. He can't love that I've written that story, or any of the other stories I've written about Max and his siblings over the years, despite the fact they’ve all been true.
“That was the latest incident in a string involving the prince,” Ronan Clementine confirms. “Although we have had concerns about Prince Maximilien’s choices for some time now.”
Choices is a nice way of saying horrible decisions that have landed him in all sorts of pickles, including a pond.
“Look. I'm sure you didn't like that I reported on that, but I have a duty to my readers. They love to know what members of the royal family are up to, and Max—I mean Prince Maximilien—does provide me with rather a lot of material.”
The king presses his lips together as Ronan Clementine replies, “There's no need to be defensive. We know you have a duty to report, which is why we've invited you here.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“We'd like to offer you exclusive access to document my son’s efforts to rehabilitate his image. A behind-the-scenes look at the real Prince Maximilien, if you will,” the king says.
I stare at him. Is he seriously asking me to help Prince Max look better in the eyes of the public by making stuff up?
“You want me to write a puff piece? Something that will compliment him and make him look good?” I ask.
I might be masquerading as my alter ego, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. My journalistic integrity is that line.
“We want you to share the truth about the prince,” Ronan corrects smoothly. “You only hear about his mistakes. We would like you to present a documentary about him, showing all aspects of his personality rather than just his less-than-optimal choices.”
“I'm confident that you’ll find my son to be more than simply your attention-grabbing headlines,” the king says.
“Which is why, as previously discussed, you will get all the access to the prince that you will require. We can provide you lodgings here at the palace to make things easier for you,” Ronan Clementine adds.
My eyes widen to the size of royal dinner plates. “You want me to move into the palace?”
The thought of living behind enemy lines is unsettling to say the least, let alone the fact I’ll be under the same roof as the ridiculously handsome and charming Prince Max.
An unwanted tingle shoots down my spine.
I might have labelled him a himbo and a man-child, but I’ve never denied how attractive the prince is.
“We do,” Ronan Clementine confirms. “That way you can have untethered access to the prince, both here and when he travels north for a personal project later in the month.”
“North?” I squeak, because the idea of not only living in the palace when I'm hiding my real identity, but travelling with him has my insides tying in elaborate knots even a sailor would be proud of.
“My son has various commitments through the rest of the summer. If you accept this offer, you will need to shadow him on all his commitments, which includes travelling to the northern palace with him,” the king replies.
“Why me?” I ask.
“Because you’re the one writing all the articles and posting all those videos to social media, Ms. Fontaine. You seem to have an uncanny ability to know what the members of my family are up to at any given time.”
It’s called sources.
“You’re perfectly positioned as the journalist who ‘tells it like it is’, as they say, only you’ll get the whole picture by shadowing the prince for a month,” Ronan Clementine says.
“A month?” I guffaw.
A full month behind enemy lines would test me to the limits.
“Of course we will provide you with generous compensation for your time, Ms. Fontaine,” he adds.
My brain nearly short-circuits. Generous compensation?
“How generous is generous exactly?” I ask.
Could it be enough to fix Nona's house, pay the bills, and maybe even afford the luxury of heating this winter?
Without saying another word, Ronan slides a piece of paper across the desk toward me like he’s a spy in a movie.
I lift the edge of the paper and glance at the figure.
I nearly fall off my chair.
Holy guacamole. They mean business with a capital B.
I see a toasty warm winter in mine and Nona’s future, a fully functioning kitchen tap, and maybe even a new water heater for that price.
“I take it from your expression that the sum is amenable to you?” Ronan Clementine asks, one eyebrow arched in my direction.
“It’s…err… amenable,” I reply. “But I do need to say one thing.”
“Which is?” the king asks.
“I'm not going to create a glowing account of your son simply because you're paying me well. I will need to be honest, showing the world who the prince is behind the headlines. Warts and all.”
A muscle in the King's jaw twitches. “I'm confident that you will find my son is a truly decent fellow, despite some of his choices, and almost entirely wart free.”
My journalistic integrity wars with my bank account. On the one hand, this seems dangerously close to propaganda. On the other hand , that number on the paper could change everything for Nona and me.
And if I'm being completely honest, the opportunity to get inside access to the royal family, to see how they really operate behind closed doors? It's every royal journalist's dream.
It could make my career.
“Can you guarantee that I will have full editorial control?” I ask.
“Complete control,” Ronan confirms. “We must proceed swiftly with this project. So…”
So, it’s me or someone else. As difficult as this will be, as personally challenging to keep up my Fabiana facade, I want to be the one to take on this project.
“I'll need to speak with my boss.”
“Of course,” Mr. Clementine replies.
“When exactly did you have in mind for this to start?” I ask.
“Tomorrow would be perfect,” the king replies.
I press my lips together, my mind racing. This is the kind of opportunity that could send my career into the stratosphere, change Nona’s and my life forever.
Or this could be the most spectacular disaster of my life.
But really, what choice do I have?
“If my boss agrees, then I will accept," I say, before I can talk myself out of it because there’s no way Judith won’t agree to this. She lives for this sort of thing.
The King smiles—actually smiles—and for a moment I remember why my twelve-year-old self once thought he looked like a handsome king in a fairy tale.
He rises to his impressive height, tall and broad, just like his sons Alex and Max, and shakes my hand. “An excellent choice, Ms. Fontaine. Ronan will handle all the contract details.”
“All right,” I say. “Thank you.”
“No, no, no. Thank you,” he replies, his dark eyes trained on mine.
I turn to leave when a thought occurs to me. “What does Prince Maximilien have to say about this arrangement?” I ask.
“He’s totally on board with it,” the king replies smoothly.
“And he’s aware it’s me who’ll be working with him?”
King Frederic’s smile widens, and I swear there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “He’s looking forward to it tremendously.”
I very much doubt that.