Chapter 10
Max
Stepping into the room, I glance around at the sea of familiar faces, dressed up to the nines in their finery and sparkling jewels. As the doors are closed behind us, heads turn like a Mexican wave, and words are whispered throughout the room.
Fabiana and I are the talk of the town.
By now, every person in the room will be aware that she’s here to report on me, to show the country “the real Prince Max”.
What they don’t know is, standing here with her on my arm, I swell with pride to have this gorgeous woman on my arm—despite the fact I know she's only here because my father’s paying her.
When I came across her in the Red Salon, it was hard not to notice how utterly stunning she looks tonight in that deep blue dress. What was she doing in there though? Prying for her articles? But why? What interest can a music box hold for a journalist?
I gaze at her. In the soft lighting of the Grand Hall, without her blazer and with her hair styled differently, there's something almost familiar about her profile. Something beyond her official photo. Something I can’t quite pinpoint, but it’s familiar.
I shake the thought away. I've met thousands of people at events like this over the years. They all start to blur together.
I smile at the sea of faces watching us, and Fabiana stiffens at my side.
My instinct is to give her a reassuring squeeze, but she’d probably see it as a declaration of war. So instead, I capture her gaze with mine. “You’ve got this,” I tell her, surprising even myself at how protective I sound.
“Thank you,” she replies softly, and something shifts in my chest.
She might be the woman I’ve despised all these years. She might be a journalist here to do a job. But right now, she’s a lot like a deer in headlights.
I get it. Being in this room may be second nature to me, but to her, it’s probably pretty intimidating.
A waiter offers us drinks on a silver tray, and I snag two flutes of champagne, offering her one.
She takes it with a tense smile.
“Go on. Take a decent slug. You’ll feel better when you do. Take it from a professional champagne drinker.”
She takes one sip, and then another. “You’re right. Much better.” Her shoulders relax a notch. “Why are you suddenly being nice to me?”
I almost choke on my drink. “What do you mean?”
“One minute you’re acting all suspicious about me looking at a music box, and then next you’re offering me a tip on how to get through tonight.” She holds her glass aloft. “It was a good tip, by the way.”
The thing is I’m not sure how to handle this woman. On the one hand, she’s clever and witty and utterly gorgeous, the kind of woman I want to get to know a whole lot better. On the other hand, she’s my enemy.
A man whose dinner jacket is straining at the seams approaches us and bows to me.
It’s Lord Blackwood. The universe has a twisted sense of humor, presenting me with one of Father's most groveling hangers-on just when I'm trying to navigate my complicated feelings for Fabiana.
"Good evening, Your Royal Highness," he simpers in a reedy voice that doesn’t match his frame.
"It's nice to see you, Cyril," I reply. As a member of the royal family, lying gracefully is part of my job description.
His beady eyes swivel to Fabiana, like a predator spotting fresh prey. “And who is this gorgeous creature on your arm tonight, sir?” he asks, his eyes roving over her in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
“Allow me to introduce Ms. Fabiana Fontaine. Ms. Fontaine, this is Lord Blackwood,” I say.
She unhooks her arm from mine, extending her hand with the kind of confidence that, despite her obvious nervousness of being in this room, tells me she's capable of handling leering aristocrats. “It's nice to meet you, Lord Blackwood.”
Blackwood blinks like an owl. "Fabiana Fontaine? As in the Fabiana Fontaine? The gossip columnist?"
“I prefer the term 'royal correspondent,' Lord Blackwood,” she replies with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I have to admire her composure.
“I'm sure you do,” he says. He’s still gawking at her as though he could eat her right up. He pulls on my sleeve, and I turn to him. “Granted, she’s a pretty young thing, but why, pray tell, are you entertaining this woman, sir? Don’t you know who she is?”
Something hot flares in my chest. He’s speaking about her as if she's an object, not standing right here, listening to every word he says.
“Ms. Fontaine is here to document my life for the next month, Cyril. She’s a guest here.” I hear the edge in my own voice. I've just publicly defended the woman who's spent years making my life difficult.
If someone had told me last week that I would be defending Fabiana Fontaine to a member of the aristocracy, I would have laughed in their face.
That’s not something I ever thought I would "But she's—" Blackwood starts, and I already know I don't want to hear the rest.
I open my mouth to respond when Fabiana jumps in. “The enemy?” she offers, and as her eyes flash to mine, my lips twitch.
This gorgeous woman at my side has got more backbone than half the people in this room, Cyril Blackwood included.
“The enemy. Indeed. I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Blackwood sniffs, his little eyes practically disappearing into his face.
“The king felt I would be best suited to the job,” Fabiana adds.
“Lucky you, getting intimate access to Prince Maximilien,” Blackwood drawls, and there’s something in the way he says "intimate access" that turns my stomach.
“He taught me how to shoot an arrow today,” she says as she places a hand on my forearm. “Didn’t you, Max?”
“I would have thought in your line of work you were quite adept at shooting. Or am I thinking of mudslinging?” Blackwood says.
“Come now, Lord Blackwood. This is an elegant evening for visiting dignitaries. Let’s keep it friendly, shall we?” she replies, not missing a beat.
There’s one thing I’ll say for Fabiana: she can hold her own.
“I’m quite certain I can. Can you?” he replies.
“As a matter of fact, I can,” she says. “Although I've only been here for a couple of days, I suspect I'll learn a lot more once His Royal Highness and I travel north together," she says, and then looks at me and adds, “Isn't that right, Max?”
The way she says my name does something to my belly. “That's right.”
Blackwood's eyebrows make an impressive migration toward what remains of his hairline, which is no small feat, considering it’s situated halfway down the back of his head. "You're taking her to the summer palace, sir?"
I nod. "Correct."
"Good luck with that.” He harrumphs like a disgruntled walrus before excusing himself, and I watch him waddle away with a mixture of relief and irritation.
"Tell me something," I say once he's out of earshot. "Do you make friends wherever you go?"
She drains her glass, the only sign she was rattled. "In my line of work, it's hard to be everybody's favorite."
Something about her matter-of-fact tone bothers me more than it should, and I find myself saying, "I'm sorry he was rude to you."
The words surprise her as much as they surprise me.
She lifts a shoulder. “I have thick skin.”
“I imagine you need it,” I reply, and realize I mean it more kindly than critically.
A woman with a razor-sharp bob and calculating eyes approaches us. Unlike the other guests, who've been stealing glances at Fabiana all evening, this one has been openly staring, even when she spoke briefly with Blackwood as their paths crossed on her way to us.
She greets me with a curtsy and then turns to Fabiana. “I'm Miranda Thorne from The Post,” the woman says, extending a manicured hand toward Fabiana.
Recognition flashes across Fabiana’s face as her lips tighten. "Nice to meet you. I’m Fabiana Fontaine.”
"Oh, I know exactly who you are," Miranda says, her smile as sharp as cut glass. "I've been following your work for years. You’re very... insightful. You seem to have quite the inside track on royal protocol."
"Thank you," Fabiana replies tightly. “I was reading some of your comments on TikTok only today.”
“Were you indeed? In that case, you’ll know I’m a big fan.
Huge.” Miranda's eyes dart between us. "I have to say, I'm fascinated by this new arrangement. A journalist getting such unprecedented access to a member of the royal family. It makes one wonder.” She pauses for a beat before she adds, “No. I’m being silly.”
I narrow my eyes at her. "Wonder what?" I ask, aware I’m walking right into her trap.
“Oh, nothing inappropriate or anything,” she says, clearly thinking something inappropriate is going on here. “I’m simply curious about the selection process. There are so many qualified journalists who would love this opportunity, and yet you chose a beautiful young woman.”
“My father chose her, actually,” I reply.
What’s this woman’s beef? Is she annoyed she didn’t get the job herself?
“I'm sure Ms. Fontaine's background was thoroughly vetted."
There's something about the way she emphasizes the word “background" that has my eyes sliding to Fabiana. Her back is as straight as a rod, her jaw tense.
Miranda Thorne is clearly bothering her.
“Well, I should let you get back to your evening, sir. Ms. Fontaine, I do hope we'll have a chance to chat more. I'd love to compare notes sometime,” she simpers.
As she moves away, I say, "You’ve got a fan.”
“You think?” she asks with a sardonic smile as her eyes follow Miranda retreating through the crowd.
We’re called to dinner, and I don’t analyze my disappointment too deeply when I note I’m not sitting beside Fabiana. She’s across the table from me and a couple of chairs down.
Lady Pemberton, seated to my left, is regaling me with stories about her prize-winning roses, and I nod at appropriate intervals, all the while keeping one eye on Fabiana.
She’s talking with Carrington Belvedere, a philanthropist who seems to have forgotten the "anonymous" part of giving, and Lord Busoni, whose hearing aid I know from experience is more decorative than functional.