Chapter 12
LOUIS
The clock tower has been my secret since the moment I found it when I was fourteen. That was twenty-two years ago.
I’d escaped and hidden in here during a state dinner that made me want to claw out my eyes. I climbed the narrow stairs, expecting dust and cobwebs and forgotten storage.
Instead, I found her.
The circular room is small, maybe fifteen feet across, with stone walls that have absorbed centuries of sea air and silence.
Three arched windows frame the moonlit Mediterranean, and the old clock mechanism still sits in the center.
Its brass gears are frozen in time, too beautiful to remove, but too broken to repair.
Wooden beams cross the domed ceiling, and the floorboards creak with every step.
It smells like old wood and salt and something faintly sweet, like the ghost of my grandmother’s perfume.
Her portrait hangs on the curved wall where the light from a full moon makes it glow.
In the painting, she’s young, maybe twenty-five, and she’s not wearing the crown or a formal gown.
The practiced smile I remember from my childhood is nowhere to be found.
She’s wearing a simple white dress, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, looking forward with a softness I’ve never seen.
This was before the scandal the Crown kept secret for fifty years. Before my grandfather found the love letters. Before the queen of Montclaire agreed to never see him again if he were free.
This painting stayed hidden in the clock tower until I found it that night, glowing in the darkness. At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
Weeks later, I asked my grandmother about it, in private, during our weekly teatime.
I expected her to be furious that I had been somewhere I shouldn’t have been.
Instead, she walked me to the tower and made me sit beside her on the old wooden bench that still rested beneath the portrait. That day, she told me everything.
“I loved two men in my life,” she explained. “I married one because I was supposed to. I loved the other because I couldn’t help it.”
“Why didn’t you choose love?” I asked.
She stayed quiet. “As queen, I knew my duty was to marry and rule Montclaire. But the truth is, I was afraid. Duty felt safer than desire, and my father would never have approved. I convinced myself that wanting something didn’t mean I deserved it.”
“Do you regret it?”
She studied the painting—of her own young face, full of hope and love and possibility. “Every single day.”
I’ve never told anyone about what I learned or the secrets I uncovered that were hidden around the palace in plain sight.
At 11:58 p.m., I check my watch, knowing Addison might not come. Considering how badly the odds are stacked against us, why would she?
Earlier, after I left her place, I returned to the party.
I laughed in the places I was supposed to, spoke to every single woman as if she were the most interesting creature to ever grace this planet, and played the part.
For now. Until I figure this out. While that was happening, I asked Delphine to deliver a letter to Addison.
The stairs creak, and it pulls me from my thoughts. Footsteps echo up the narrow spiral staircase. They’re steep and uneven, built centuries ago when this tower was home to a working clock that kept the palace on time.
A few seconds later, Addison appears, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with her hair down and messy. Her lips are pink from earlier, and the sight of her has my heart racing.
“You came,” I say.
“You didn’t think I would?”
She takes in the circular room, the frozen clock mechanism, the arched windows, and the candles I placed along the windowsills.
Her attention catches on the portrait, and she moves toward it like it’s pulling her forward.
She studies my grandmother’s youthful face with an artist’s eye, hands sliding into her pockets.
“Henri Beaumont.” She breathes. “I’d recognize his brushwork anywhere.”
“You know his style.”
“I’ve been studying it since I arrived. The way he captures light, the texture he creates.” She moves closer, examining the details. “But this is different. There’s something raw about it. Unguarded. Like he actually saw her, knew her maybe.”
“This was painted before he became the royal artist.”
“Who is this?” She glances over at me.
“She was the crown princess then, but it’s my grandmother, Queen Isabella II.” I move beside her, and we both face the painting. “Henri traveled to the palace to paint her debut portrait after she found her suitor.”
“And the two fell in love.” It’s not a question.
“They had an affair that lasted ten years. Secret meetings, letters hidden in books, and passed through trusted staff.” I study my grandmother’s face, the raw happiness captured in oil and canvas. “My grandfather caught them. He wanted to have Henri publicly executed.”
“But that didn’t happen, clearly. He painted until he passed away this year.”
“My grandmother begged for his life and agreed to never see him again. She had to keep her reputation because the world was a mess back then. The secret stayed hidden for decades, until I uncovered it.” I swallow hard.
Addison exhales. “Henri was allowed to keep his position as royal portrait artist. That’s cruel.”
“It was calculated. My grandfather knew the worst punishment wasn’t death.
It was forcing Henri to spend the rest of his life painting the woman he loved but couldn’t have.
It gave him power over them both. Henri watched the love of his life have children with another man, age, and eventually die while capturing every moment on canvas.
They were never allowed to speak to one another again or be in rooms alone. ”
“Sounds like a lifetime of torture.”
Addison’s attention stays fixed on the painting. I can see her processing it, feeling it deeper than most people allow themselves to go. When she finally turns to face me, I watch the pieces click together.
“This is why you wanted me to leave. If I win this contest, my destiny is to become Henri. I’ll paint your wedding, your wife, and your children. I’ll be forced to spend years watching you build a life with someone else while I hide in brushstrokes no one notices but you.”
Hearing her say it out loud makes it hurt.
“You were trying to protect me from this?” she asks.
“Yes.” I can’t look away from the painting, almost imagining their private conversations, the cruelty of being so close and so impossibly far. “Every portrait was a love letter my grandmother could never answer. I can’t do that to you.”
Sadness crosses her face. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought her here. Maybe I’ve shared too much, too soon.
“I’m not afraid of this,” Addison says and closes the distance between us.
We’re standing inches apart. Candlelight catches the gold in her hair and the sparkle in her eyes. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. It’s not fueled by frustration and want. It’s full of intention, like she’s making a choice, like she’s sealing a promise.
“You don’t have to be either,” she says. “Moves are being made that you can’t see.”
“Nothing will change this.”
She presses a finger to my lips. “We’re not at checkmate yet. The game isn’t over.” Her attention flicks to the painting, then back to me, like she made a decision that will change everything. “Protect your queen.”
When she kisses my neck, I feel the determination in it.
Her hand slides down my chest, over my stomach, and rests above my belt.
I should stop her. I should tell her we shouldn’t do this, in this room that holds so much heartbreak.
But the way she’s watching me—the hunger, mixed with something deeper—makes it impossible to speak.
I exhale as she guides me back onto the wooden bench. My back presses against the cold stone wall, and the irony isn’t lost on me.
History doesn’t always repeat itself, but it echoes.
Addison stands in front of me, moonlight catching her features, the sea glittering through the window behind her. She’s pure beauty, art in human form.
“You’re staring,” she whispers.
“I can’t help it,” I admit, wanting to remember her—and us—like this.
She steps between my legs and runs her fingers through my hair, tilting my head back until I’m looking up at her. The position makes me feel vulnerable, and I’m not used to that. No one stands over me. No one ever takes control like this. But with her, I want this. I need her.
“You’ve spent your whole life with this burden,” she mutters. “I can’t imagine how exhausting that must be.”
“Addi—”
She leans down until her lips brush against my ear. “I see you, Louis.”
My hands grip the edge of the bench as she sinks down, her body sliding against mine as she lowers herself to her knees between my legs. The sight of her there, gazing up at me with those blue-green eyes, makes every coherent thought evaporate.
“I see the real you that you hide, and I don’t want that part of you to disappear,” she says while her fingers find my belt and open it.
The words go straight through me as she works open the button of my trousers, then the zipper. Each sound seems loud in the quiet tower.
She pulls me free and gasps.
I chuckle and close my eyes when she wraps her hand around me. The sensation of having her touch me is too much.
“Look at me,” she demands in a hushed tone.
I do exactly as she asked.
“There you are.”
She lowers her head, and the first touch of her tongue makes my hips jerk forward. A groan escapes me as she presses her fingertips into my thigh, holding me in place.
There’s no rushing. She takes the tip first, her tongue swirling around me, teasing, learning what makes me groan.
My head falls back against the stone wall as I let her set the pace.
The surrender feels foreign and necessary, all at once, like I’ve been holding my breath for years and she’s giving me permission to exhale.
The wet heat of her mouth is so fucking pleasurable that I already want more. It’s never felt like this, like we’re knowingly burning down the world.
“Fuck the consequences,” I manage.
She hums in response, and the vibration nearly undoes me. Her hand works the base in rhythm with her mouth, and I feel myself unraveling. Every wall I’ve built, every mask I wear, every version of myself I perform for the world—it’s all dissolving under her touch.
She pulls back and sits up to steal a kiss. Her lips are swollen and wet, and she tastes like me, and I’ve never wanted anyone this badly in my entire life.
“Don’t stop,” I say.
She takes me deep again, hitting the back of her throat. My hand fists in her hair, and she moans around me; the sound ripples through my entire body. I need to touch her, need to feel connected to her while she destroys me.
Addison sets a rhythm designed to break me apart. Slow and deep, then fast and shallow, keeping me on the edge without letting me fall. Every time I get close, she backs off, reading my body like she’s memorizing it.
“Please,” I hear myself say.
I don’t beg. I’ve never begged for anything in my life. But she’s reduced me to fragments.
She looks up at me. “Tell me what you need.”
“You.” The word comes out broken and desperate. “I need you.”
“You have me.”
Our gazes lock, and the air in the room disappears. This is more than physical. She’s offering me something I didn’t know I was starving for.
“I want to be yours too,” I say.
“You are.”
Her mouth takes me again, and this time, there’s no teasing. Lips and tongue and hand working together, pressure building at the base of my spine. A moan vibrates around me and pushes me over the edge.
A warning tries to form, but she’s already there, taking me deeper, throat working around me as I come hard. Vision blurs, and her name falls from my mouth like a confession. This release is everything I’ve been holding back, everything I’ve been afraid to feel, pouring out of me.
She swallows me down, her focus still locked on mine. The intimacy is overwhelming as I imagine spending a lifetime with her. A future flashes before me, and a chill runs over my skin.
When she finally releases me, I’m shaking. My whole body is trembling, and I can barely remember my own name. I’ve never let anyone have this much power over me. I’ve never wanted to.
Addison tucks me back into my clothes with gentle hands. After she stands, I wrap my arms around her, looking up at her.
“Now we’re even,” she says, giving me a satisfied smile.
I want to pull her onto my lap, return the favor, give her even half of what she gave me. “Let me—”
“Not tonight.” She shakes her head. “This was about you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, Your Highness.” She leans down and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. “You taught me that.”
Before I can respond, she turns and walks toward the stairs. I try to stand, but my legs won’t cooperate, so I watch her go.
“I’m winning that contest. You will never be able to stop that. But you have control of everything else. This isn’t the 1900s anymore.” She glances at the painting of my grandmother, taking it in one last time, then at me. “Step into your power.”
Then she’s gone. Her footsteps fade down the spiral staircase, leaving me alone with the echo of her words.
I sit there for a long time, letting my heartbeat slow down. The candle flames dance from the sea breeze coming through the windows. If these walls could talk …
When I finally stand, I face the portrait. My grandmother looks back at me, young and hopeful and trapped by her own fear.
“I won’t make your mistake,” I say quietly.
Then I take the stairs two at a time and leave.