Chapter 9 #2
This is where my dad pleaded his case to deaf ears. Where I watched him leave with his head hung low.
It might have been a lifetime ago for me, but it’s as raw as though it were yesterday.
I make my way over to the table and pick up an old porcelain music box with a painted pheasant on the lid, the symbol of Ledonia.
I remember being fascinated by this music box as a child during those boring adult conversations, watching the ballerina inside spin, her porcelain arms raised elegantly above her head.
I lift the lid, and the ballerina springs to life as a melody sounds out around the room.
It’s something classical that makes my chest ache for my younger self.
And just like that, I’m transported back to a simpler life, a life where I didn’t need to pretend to be someone else, a life where I was just me, Valentina Romano, daughter of Lord Romano. Happy. Free.
I watch as the ballerina spins and spins, mesmerized.
“Finding your way around, I see, Fabiana,” a deep voice says, and instantly, I snap the box shut, the music coming to a sudden halt. With my heart hammering against my ribs, I spin around to see who it is.
Prince Max.
Of course it is.
He’s standing in the doorway, outdoing 007 himself in his perfectly tailored dinner suit and crisp white shirt. His dark hair is neatly styled, and he has a deeply unimpressed look on his face. His eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch—and it’s not just from the shock.
He looks... devastating. Yup. That’s the word. Devastating.
I grip the music box behind my back as though I’m hiding contraband in my prison cell, an appropriate metaphor for me in this palace.
“I-I think I’m lost,” I reply weakly, because let’s face it, we’re both aware I didn’t exactly walk into this room and make it all the way over to this chest thinking this is where tonight’s reception is.
The fact that there are no other people in the room might have been my first clue.
“Lost?” he asks as he moves closer to me, and his tone confirms my fear that he doesn’t believe a word.
I lift my chin and double down. What else can I do? “That’s right. I was lost, and I found myself here.”
“And you thought you might look at some priceless artifacts in an empty room to help you find your way?” His gaze travels over me, and something shifts in his expression, something that suggests he likes what he sees.
Although I might be misreading it.
I hope I’m misreading it.
Don’t I?
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “I figured I was early.”
Another bald-faced lie, and not a very convincing one.
I grip the music box tighter in my hands. “It’s a big palace. It’s easy to get turned around here for those of us not familiar.”
He’s now close enough that I could reach out and touch him, and the memory of how it felt to be so close to him earlier today has my breath hitching.
He narrows his eyes at me. “What have you got behind your back, Ms. Fontaine?”
I’ve got a choice here. I can either tell him to mind his own business, surreptitiously pocket the music box, and make a run for it.
Or I can fess up.
I fess up. I don’t want to add theft to my list of misdemeanors.
I pull the music box from behind my back and hold it out for him. “I was just looking at this.”
“A music box.” He takes it from me, and his fingers brush briefly against my palm. It sends a flutter of electricity through me, and I shift my weight, determined not to let him see the effect he has on me.
He opens the lid, and the room fills with the music once more, and my gaze zeroes in on the ballerina’s pirouettes.
“She’s so beautiful,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
Without warning, he snaps the lid shut, making me jump.
I shoot him a look. His lips are quirked in amusement, and it’s clear he did it on purpose.
What is with this guy?
“Why did you do that?” I ask, my hand over my heart.
“Because we need to leave.” He places the box gently down on the chest of drawers.
“Please allow me to escort you to the correct room for tonight’s dinner.
” He steps aside with exaggerated politeness, gesturing for me to move.
“I wouldn’t want you to take another wrong turn and end up in the dungeons. ”
I flick my gaze to his to see his lips quirked in a smile.
He’s toying with me. There’s no doubt about it.
“Are you admitting there are operational dungeons in the palace? Because I’m sure my readers would be fascinated to know.”
“We use them as wine cellars these days, but I’m certain to someone like you, they might as well be dungeons.”
I quirk a brow. “Someone like me?”
“Someone who can create a headline from next to nothing, like, say, a slide into a pond.”
“That was a headline, Your Royal Highness.”
“That depends on your point of view.”
“You’re right. From your point of view, it was just another Tuesday. Wasn’t it?”
He darts me a look that’s equal parts amused and annoyed.
Is it terrible that I enjoy getting under his skin?
Instead of biting, he replies, “We’re back to formal titles now, are we?”
“You’re the one who called me Ms. Fontaine. Your Royal Highness felt like the appropriate response.”
The temporary closeness we experienced during the impromptu archery lesson seems to have backtracked to snarky banter and one-upmanship.
So, business as usual.
We make our way down the wide, echo-y hallway.
“Did you see the archery video? I posted it not that long ago,” I say.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And you didn’t use the footage of me missing the target.”
“You asked me not to.”
He slides his eyes to mine. “Is that a sign of things to come?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I ask you not to use some footage or report on something I’ve done, will you agree?”
“Be careful. You're teetering on the edge of propaganda with that request.”
He raises his brows, his eyes sparkling. “And we wouldn't want that.”
“No, we wouldn’t.”
We reach the entrance to the Grand Hall, where a couple of royal guards flank the doorway, with the sound of voices chattering and soft music emanating through the doors.
“Here we are. Shall we go in?” he asks.
My body buzzes with anxiety. “That's what we're here for.”
He offers me his arm, and as I hook mine through, I have to fight not to shiver at the closeness.
Fail.
“Thank you for escorting me,” I say as the doors swing open, my heart thudding at the prospect of coming face to face with a roomful of people I’ve made a sport out of writing about. A roomful of people who have no clue I used to be one of them.
Will they turn their backs on me?
Abuse me to my face?
Or worse yet, will they work out who I really am?
He places his hand over mine. “I didn’t want you to get lost again,” he says, but there’s no sting in his words, and the quirk of his lips tells me he’s only teasing.
“It was a very beautiful music box,” I reply.
“If you say so,” he replies.
I open my mouth to respond, but there’s nothing I can say. In entering that room and looking at that music box, I was taking a stroll down memory lane to a time when life was simpler for me, but Prince Maximilien of the House of Canossa is the very last person I could ever tell.