Chapter 8
LOUIS
The conservatory is too bright.
I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes, adjusting the blinds, angling the slats to soften the afternoon light, then moving them again because nothing looks right.
This room is all glass and greenery, full of tropical plants my mother collected on diplomatic trips.
Leaves spill from terra-cotta pots, and the northern light fills the space with a diffused glow that photographers pay thousands to replicate.
It should be perfect. Instead, I’m rearranging furniture like a man who’s lost control.
I drag a leather armchair closer to the windows, then push it back, before pulling it forward again. The legs scrape against the tiles.
This morning, I moved the chessboard back to the nook in the east wing. I set up the pieces in their starting positions and left a note tucked under the white queen.
Show me your best.
She’ll find it eventually. And when she does, we’ll start again, one move at a time, passing each other in hallways and leaving notes that are our little secret.
The door opens at four fifty p.m., and Addison walks in, carrying a canvas bag over one shoulder and a wooden easel tucked under her arm.
Her hair is twisted up and held in place with what looks like a paintbrush.
There’s a smear of blue along her forearm.
She’s wearing a loose white shirt, tucked into high-waisted trousers.
She stops three steps into the room and surveys my furniture arrangement with raised eyebrows.
“Did you redecorate for me? This is perfect.” She puts down her easel. “You’re early. We’ll get started at five on the nose. I need to set up. I’ll be quick.”
“No rush,” I offer.
Her face breaks into a grin.
“You’re nervous,” she says, delighted.
“I’m not,” I say coolly.
“Whatever.” She walks past me and runs her hand along the back of the chair. “The crown prince of Montclaire is unsettled because I’m going to stare at his face for two hours. I’m flattered, truly.”
She starts unpacking her bag. “Sit down and relax before we start.”
I lower myself into the chair, and I try to conjure the neutral mask I’ve worn for portraits since I was old enough to understand.
Addison glances at me over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna make you look super hot.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say, playfully rolling my eyes. “Just what I need. To look hotter.”
She grins and walks toward me. “Who taught you how to sit like that?”
“Henri Beaumont. He painted me dozens of times, and our sessions were silent.”
“How long would you sit?”
“Hours. I lost track of time.”
“He sounds like a sadist.” She studies me with her head tilted. “Can you do something for me?”
“Maybe …”
“Forget whatever Henri asked of you and loosen up.” Her finger presses under my jaw, and she tilts my chin down from its formal angle. “Look at me. Actually see me.”
I let my eyes focus on her face and see the flecks of green in her irises. Tiny freckles spread across her cheeks and nose that I never noticed before.
“There you are.” She steps back, grinning. “Was that so hard?”
“Excruciating.”
“Future king? Pfft. More like drama king.” She returns to the table where she was unpacking her bag and picks up her camera. Seconds later, she’s snapping photos of me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Reference photos.” Click. Click. Click. “At three in the morning, when I’m working, and you’re not available, I’ll look at these to capture your brooding.”
“I’m absolutely not brooding.”
She points at my forehead, and I realize my brows are furrowed.
“Right there. Very tortured prince.”
“That’s concentration.”
She crouches for a lower angle, and I resist the urge to fix my hair.
“You don’t like being photographed?”
“Usually, when my photo is taken, it’s used against me,” I explain. “Please excuse me if I have an aversion.”
“That’s the price of being who you are.” She rises and moves to my other side. “How so very tragic for the future king of Montclaire.”
“Your sarcasm isn’t lost,” I tell her.
“Great.” She starts mixing paint on her palette, and it’s followed by the scrape of the knife against wood.
“Speak freely,” she says, waving her hand around.
“Do you get off on ordering me around?” I sit back in the chair, watching her.
“Do you get off on needing direction?” She loads her brush, then glances up at me. “Tell me something about you that I can’t find in the tabloids.” She starts painting.
The request catches me off guard because most people don’t bother asking or care. They assume they know everything about me, and that’s enough.
“I collect postcards,” I say.
Her brush pauses mid-stroke. “Really?”
“From everywhere I’ve traveled. I have hundreds of them in a box under my bed.”
“That’s unexpectedly sentimental.” She tilts her head, studying me, then returns to the canvas. “Do you write on them?”
“Only when I send them to friends, but the ones I purchase for myself, I keep them blank.”
“Why?”
“Because the image is enough to make me remember the day I purchased it, where I was standing, and what I was thinking.” I shift in the chair, and she doesn’t tell me to sit still.
She’s quiet for a moment, and I hear the soft drag of bristles against canvas. “I like that answer.”
“Your turn. Tell me something the art world doesn’t know about Addison Cross.”
She doesn’t respond right away, and I watch her load more paint onto her brush. The silence stretches long enough that I think she’s going to deflect with a joke or change the subject.
“I used to be shy,” she finally says. “Like, I barely spoke to anyone.”
I study her face for any sign she’s messing with me. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” She keeps her eyes on the canvas.
“I was the quiet one. Patterson and Jameson were loud and competitive and grabbed attention in every room they entered, and I … disappeared into the background. My parents forgot I was there. Kids at boarding school thought I was stuck up because I never talked, but really, I didn’t have anything to say. ”
I try to reconcile this with the woman who walked into Marcelo’s party and held the attention of every person in the room without trying.
“What changed?”
“I started painting.” She switches brushes and grins.
“My mom enrolled me in art classes when I was eight because she didn’t know what else to do with me.
I was terrible at sports and dance. Music was a failure.
Everyone expected me to be an athlete, but I didn’t have the natural abilities, and I hate group activities.
But the first time I put paint on canvas and learned how to express myself, it gave me the confidence I needed to come out of my shell. ”
“And now you command rooms.”
She glances up at me, surprised. “No, I don’t.”
“When you walk into a room, every head turns. When you speak, people listen. You’ve been bossing me around since you got here.” I hold her gaze. “That shy girl is gone.”
“No. I’m very good at pretending in public.” Addison looks back at the canvas. “One-on-one isn’t so bad. But I don’t think I could ever do what you do. I’d crumple. It’s admirable.”
The admission hangs in the air between us. I want to tell her I understand and that I’ve been performing a version of myself for so long that I sometimes forget which parts are real. But I keep it to myself.
“It takes practice, like anything else. To be honest, you could handle this,” I admit. “You aren’t afraid to take risks, you assess your options, and you’re willing to make sacrifices for the greater good.”
“How do you know that?”
I catch the small smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth before she hides it behind her canvas.
“Your chess skills. It’s not different from real life.”
“Ah. Speaking of, I noticed you moved the chessboard back in the hallway this morning. I made my move and left you a note.” Her brush pauses for half a second before resuming. “No getting pissy when I beat you again.”
“I’m winning. And when I do, I want a favor,” I say, enjoying the conversation.
She shifts her weight onto one hip. “You can’t ask me to leave, Louis.”
“I won’t. I’ve decided to let whatever happens, happen. I’m going with the flow,” I tell her.
A smile touches her lips.
“Tell me why that made you grin.”
She points her paintbrush at me. “I am too.”
“Going with the flow?”
“Mm-hmm.” She turns back to the canvas. “I’m a planner.
I like control. I make lists and schedules, and backup plans for my backup plans.
But I’m also a mood painter, so I’m constantly chasing inspiration, searching for that spark so I can paint.
This year, I decided to stop white-knuckling everything and see what happens. ”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Currently, I’m in a palace in Montclaire, painting a prince I met a little over two weeks ago. I’d say it’s going well.” She loads her brush with a deep blue. “So far.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Meeting you has been complicated.” She doesn’t look up. “I can’t explain it.”
The word sits between us. Complicated. It’s the most honest thing either of us has said about whatever this is.
“I know what you mean,” I say.
She looks up from the canvas.
“I wasn’t expecting you either.”
Her brush freezes. The afternoon light has shifted, casting long shadows through the leaves of my mother’s plants. I’m suddenly aware of how quiet the conservatory is. It’s the two of us, enclosed by the glass walls.
“You’re staring,” she whispers.
“So are you,” I quip.
“I’m working.” She loads more paint onto her brush, her movements quicker than before. “It’s a requirement.”
The silence stretches on.
“Relax, Louis.” She gestures at me with the brush. “You went from relaxed to whatever this is.”
I hold her gaze. She’s not as unaffected as she wants me to believe, and the realization sends heat across my skin.
“You should keep painting,” I say.
“You should stop eye-fucking me.”
This makes me chuckle. “Please.”
She points the brush at me. “Behave.”
“And if I don’t?”
She’s fighting a smile, and that small crack in her composure undoes me. “You know what I appreciate about you the most?”
“Tell me.”
“You’re the epitome of controlled chaos. You balance both so well.”
A brow lifts. “I’m well practiced.”
“Fuckboy, heartbreaker bullshit,” she mutters.
“Oh, please. Like you’re any different, Little Miss Was Proposed to Twelve Times.”
She drops the paintbrush, quickly picks it up, then grabs a rag to clean up the mess. “Who told you that?”
I smirk. “I’ve learned a lot about you, Addison. Did you forget who I am?”
She scoffs. “Un-fucking-believable. But also, I’d love to see the file you were able to get pulled on me.”
“On paper, you’re perfect.” Almost, I think to myself.
“And in person?”
“That’s a conversation for another day.” I stop where this is going, knowing I have to take back control of this situation because we’re tumbling into dangerous territory.
She watches me for a moment, then returns to the canvas without pushing. The session continues in silence, but it’s not comfortable anymore. It’s full of tension, soft and gazing eyes, and patience.
“Regal,” she whispers with a side smile, focusing on her canvas.
I think I could sit here for the rest of the night, watching her work. When she concentrates, she bites the corner of her lip. Every brushstroke feels personal, like she is stealing my soul.
When the light shifts to gold, she steps back and stretches on her tiptoes.
“Okay, we’re done for today.”
I stand and move toward the easel. She sidesteps to block me, and suddenly, we’re close enough that I can see the faint sheen of sweat at her temples.
“No peeking.” She shakes her head. “Not until it’s finished.”
“And if I demand it?”
“Too damn bad.” She tilts her chin up. “Your princely rules end at the edge of my canvas, Your Highness.”
I narrow my eyes. “When will you show me?”
“During the reveal to your parents. I hope you’ll be there to watch me win this.”
My heart is racing. “Addison, please believe me when I say you don’t want this position.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Stop saying that. I hope you know that when anyone tells me I don’t want something, I have the overwhelming urge to have that thing.
Sometimes, following rules is difficult for me, and so is listening to those in authority.
Each time you tell me I can’t or I shouldn’t … ”
“You want to do it. So, does it work the other way as well? For example, if you’re doing something and I tell you to keep doing it, then you’ll want to stop?”
“Sometimes, yes,” she says.
“That must be a mindfuck.”
“You are a mindfuck.”
“You are as well,” I say.
“Tell me why you want me to go away.”
I swallow hard. “I can’t. The crown won’t allow me to discuss it with anyone. Unfortunately, duty calls.”
Her brows furrow. “Sometimes, I don’t understand you.”
“You’re not meant to. At all. So, I’ll take it as a win. Anyway, I must get going. I’ve got prior engagements.”
“A date?” she asks.
“Actually, yes,” I tell her, knowing I won’t be able to lie. “But also a requirement.”
“You’re being forced?” she asks.
Our eyes meet, and even though I don’t say a word, she knows the answer.
“Louis, this isn’t the 1800s anymore,” she says, meeting my eyes, like she sees me, like she understands what I’m going through.
“Good night, Addison. Good luck.” I move toward the door, knowing I need to escape her before I do something that I absolutely shouldn’t.
“Good night,” she says. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you.”
I make it halfway down the corridor before I let myself breathe.
She might not know the fine details about the marriage arrangement, but she’s aware that something is happening.
Addison looked at me like she had put the pieces together.
I should’ve told her it was a dinner with a diplomat or any of the hundred excuses I’d used before.
Instead, I told her the truth and watched her face transform from teasing to something sadder.
It was pity, or maybe it was understanding. I’m not sure which one I hate more.
When I reach the east wing, I see her knight has moved. The note she left reads:
Condolences. You’re going down!
A smile touches my lips. With her handwriting staring back at me, I’m not sure I want to keep playing it safe anymore.
I move a pawn, then write beneath her words.
Have dinner with me.