Chapter 5
Valentina
The bathroom in my room at the palace is larger than my entire bedroom at home. It's all marble surfaces and gold fixtures that probably cost more than I make in a year.
But then, this is the palace, the seat of power and wealth in this country. If anyone's going to have gold fixtures, it'll be the royal family.
I lean toward the ornate mirror, my hands in rubber gloves as I carefully apply dye to my roots with the precision of a surgeon performing delicate brain surgery. I can't have Valentina's dark hair showing through Fabiana's blonde, particularly not here at the palace.
As far as disguises go, dying my hair and throwing on a pair of non-prescription glasses are about the most basic things I could do.
But the fact that I've not been anywhere near the palace as Valentina Romano since I was a tween has given me a certain level of anonymity that I’ve used to my utmost advantage.
My hands shake slightly as I work, and I force myself to take deep, steadying breaths. I've spent my entire adult life maintaining this identity, and now I'm doing touch-ups in the very palace where the need for it began.
The irony would be enough to make me laugh out loud—if it weren't so freaking terrifying.
I'm behind enemy lines. I need to keep my wits about me at all times.
I set a timer for my hair, kick off my shoes, and sink into the four-poster bed, with its silk comforter and enough scatter cushions to sink the Titanic, careful not to get any of the dye on the covers.
Of course, there's a monogrammed cushion with the Royal House of Canossa seal, just in case I forget I'm in Frederic Canossa's house.
I fling that one across the room, watching as it lands on the floor by the sweeping velvet curtains that frame the window.
Don't judge. I've got to get rid of my pent-up emotions in some way, and doing it on a cushion is pretty tame, let's face it.
My phone beeps, and I see my boss’s name flash up on my screen.
Judith Giovanni:
This is the chance of a lifetime, Fabiana. Don’t mess it up.
You’re telling me. This is my moment. My shot. And I'm going to do my darnedest to take full advantage of it.
Me:
I won’t. I’ll get the inside scoop on him, warts and all. You can count on me.
Judith Giovanni:
Good girl. Nail this project and you're off the royal beat for good. I'm thinking investigative journalism, political commentary, whatever direction you want.
My heart leaps. I’ve been pushing my boss for this for years, but she’s kept telling me that I’m invaluable with what I do.
The idea of no more royal weddings, no more charity galas, no more writing about what Prince Max wore to a nightclub? It’s a dream come true. Real journalism.
Carrot officially dangled.
Me:
I won't let you down.
I place my phone beside me and marvel at how fast this all happened.
Yesterday, I was summoned to the palace, expecting dungeons, firing squads, or at the very least, a rap over the knuckles for calling his son names.
Today, I'm the palace's newest resident, with my very own rooms consisting of a bedroom, bathroom, living room, and a fully stocked kitchenette, where I can't imagine anyone ever cooks.
Even though I need to play nice in the royal sandbox, I'm not going to play their game.
They might be paying me to front this Prince Max PR stunt, but I'm going to report him as I find him—which yesterday was as a mixture of a petulant child and just about the most handsome man I've seen in my life.
But no matter what, I won’t be swayed by the prince with his handsome looks and broad shoulders, as so many women before me have been.
No matter how much his height lends him an enviable presence someone my size can only dream of.
The way his rich, smooth voice rolls over me, tickling my belly.
The way his chestnut eyes bore into me as though he can see into my soul.
I clear my throat.
Prince Max can be as charismatic and handsome as he likes, but I'm absolutely determined to remain impervious to his charms.
He might not have been the one to force my parents to flee Ledonia, but he's guilty by association.
I check my roots. A few more minutes should do it.
Drumming my fingers on the windowpane, I gaze out at the royal gardens, the very gardens where I remember playing hide-and-seek with children at garden parties.
I remember racing through these very gardens with Prince Max when I was about eight or nine.
I was only a year older than him, although he was always taller.
Sofia had organized games for us younger children, already taking charge, even back then.
She was always meant to be queen. Alex had slunk off with a friend, not enjoying being bossed around by his sister, and Amelia, with her infectious giggle, was so friendly and fun.
Back then, my biggest concern was whether I would get to sneak an extra helping of dessert.
Now? Well, let's just say extra helpings of dessert sit way down my priority list.
I didn’t come here often, perhaps only a handful of times, but the times I did are seared into my memory. The royal children. The formality of the events. The way my father was always so confident and capable, and knowing everyone.
I push out a breath. It’s not the least bit helpful to take a walk down memory lane right now, not while I’m literally behind enemy lines. I need to focus on the project, aka Prince Maximilien and his less than stellar choices.
The palace must be gambling on me finding more than a man-child in Prince Max. That all his antics that have provided such marvelous fodder for my articles for the last five or more years aren't the real man.
Only time will tell on that front.
I return to the window that looks out at the gardens. A couple of dogs come into sight, trailed by a woman in a pretty summer dress, her long dark hair falling down her back. My heart leaps at the sight of her, the woman who will one day be queen.
Princess Sofia.
She picks up a tennis ball and throws it with an impressive arm, the ball sailing toward the palace, pursued by two labs, determined to capture it.
She looks in my direction, and instinctively, I pull back from the window. It's an old habit, trying to keep my distance from the very people I write about, quietly using my network of sources to get the inside scoop.
I pick up my phone again and send a message to Nona.
Me:
I'm all settled in at the palace. It's so strange to be back here again after all this time.
Nona:
Hold your head up high. You've done nothing wrong.
Me:
I know, but I'm not me, am I?
Nona:
You're always you, no matter whether you're Fabiana or Valentina.
I smile at the phone. My grandmother always knows what to say. I'm going to miss seeing her smiling face each day.
Me:
I’m being taken on a tour of the palace soon, and I’m having a meeting with the PR team tomorrow. How are you? I hope the tap in the kitchen isn't leaking again. I followed the YouTube clip frame by frame, and it seemed to be working fine before I left.
Nona:
Stop fussing over your old grandmother. I will be just fine.
Me:
Call me anytime. I'm only twenty minutes away. Promise me?
Nona:
You forget I have Rudolf to help. Between you and me, he's rather a good tea maker.
So, Mr. Beckman has already been over to see my grandmother, and I've only been gone for an hour and a half.
Me:
Don't you dislike our neighbor?
Nona:
He's not as bad as I'd thought.
Me:
High praise.
Nona:
Go. Learn all about your prince. And don't forget to enjoy yourself while you do so.
Enjoy myself? Has Mr. Beckman's tea gone to her head? There’s going to be nothing enjoyable about the next thirty days.
But I don’t want Nona worrying about me, so I tap out a reply.
Me:
I'll do my best. Love you XOXO
Nona:
Love you too, Val XOXO
I fire off a quick message to our neighbor, Rudolf Beckman. He surprised me with his eagerness to check in on my grandmother, his face positively glowing when I told him I'd be away for a while, only able to come back every now and then.
Me:
Thanks again for being there for my nona, Mr. Beckman. Please message me if there are any issues. I'm not far away.
Rudolf Beckman:
It's my pleasure. Violetta is doing well and says to tell you the roses are blooming beautifully.
I arch a brow. First tea and now he's calling her Violetta. He's always called her Lady Romano.
Me:
It's good to hear the roses are winning the battle against the weeds. Thanks again.
Twenty minutes later, my roots are successfully blonde again, I've dried my hair and scooped it up in my Fabiana ponytail, and I unpack my pitiful belongings in rooms that could probably house a Vegas casino.
There's a knock at the door, and I make my way across the expensive Persian rug in my bare feet. Swinging it open, I expect to see some uniformed member of the palace staff to take me on the tour of the palace the King insisted I take on my arrival.
Instead, it's Prince Maximilien himself, looking both handsome and about as enthusiastic to see me as someone attending their own tax audit.
He's changed from his puppy-wrestling attire of yesterday into trousers and a crisp white shirt that shows off his tan skin and dark eyes—and does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he's attractive in a way that should probably be illegal under international law.
And then I remember that he's the entitled prince who demanded I hand over his puppy yesterday like I was some sort of dog-napping criminal mastermind, and wham! His good looks instantly reduce to a minor irritation I can readily ignore.
Instinct kicks in and I bust out a curtsy, which probably looks rather ridiculous, dressed as I am in a pair of light cotton shorts and the once blue T-shirt I always wear to dye my hair, complete with peroxide patches and a frayed collar. "Your Royal Highness."