Chapter 13
LOUIS
Sleep never came, so I spent the hours after Addison left staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment in the clock tower.
I keep seeing her face when she looked at my grandmother’s portrait.
I can’t shake the image of her on her knees, taking control like she’d been waiting her whole life to unravel me.
She left me wrecked with her words ringing in my ears.
“Step into your power.”
She said it like it was simple, like I could decide to be different and the world would rearrange itself around my choice. She doesn’t understand that I’ve been playing defense my entire life because offense was never an option. Or is it?
Around four in the morning, I give up and move to the window to watch the sky shift from black to gray to pale pink. The Mediterranean stretches out beneath the cliffs, and I think about my next move. Can I live the rest of my existence regretting my choices?
By the time dawn breaks through my curtains properly, I drag myself to the bathroom and stand under the shower until my skin turns red.
The hot water pounds against my shoulders, and I keep hoping it will ease the fog in my head.
I dry off and dress slowly, choosing a navy jacket and gray trousers.
I adjust my collar twice before I’m satisfied with what I see.
The man staring back at me looks like the crown prince of Montclaire, but I don’t feel like him anymore.
There is so much hiding behind tailored clothes and a clean-shaven face.
My eyes give nothing away. Right now, I look like a man who slept eight hours and woke up ready to charm a room full of women competing to marry me.
The performance begins before I even leave the room, and I’m already exhausted.
The breakfast hall is buzzing when I arrive.
It’s filled with the sounds of silver against porcelain and polite laughter.
Seven pretty women sit around the long table in clothes fit for the future queen.
Fresh flowers are arranged in the center in shades of white and blush pink.
Morning light catches the crystal glasses, making everything sparkle.
The smell of fresh bread and coffee fills the air, but my stomach is too knotted to feel hungry.
My mother sits at one end of the table in a pale blue dress, and she catches my eye the moment I walk in. Her expression says, be charming, don’t embarrass us, and this is your future, all at once.
My father sits at the far end with his newspaper raised, though I can feel him tracking my movements without looking up. He’s been doing that my whole life—watching me from behind something, there in case I fail. He means well.
“Your Royal Highness.”
Princess Cornelia rises first and curtsies low enough to give me a view of her cleavage, but I look away.
I’m a fucking gentleman. She’s blonde and tall, and her dress is cut to emphasize every curve.
While her smile is bright, her eyes are empty.
She has the royal stare … it’s almost as bad as a death rattle.
“Ladies.” I take my seat in the middle of the table, and a server appears with coffee before I can ask. The cup is warm in my hands, and I take a sip to buy myself time before I have to speak again. “I trust you all slept well?”
A chorus of responses rises around me. Each woman tries to make her response memorable.
Princess Monique mentions the thread count of her sheets, then the view from her window, and barely pauses for breath between topics. She’s dreamed of the palace gardens and woke up inspired to write a sonnet about the roses.
What follows is a forty-five-minute performance.
I ask questions, and they answer. I laugh at jokes that aren’t funny because that’s polite.
I give compliments and make eye contact for exactly the right amount of time with each woman.
I rotate my attention like a sprinkler system designed to water every flower equally.
My coffee goes cold because I forget to drink it, and once my eggs turn rubbery, I’m finished.
Princess Arabella describes her poetry collection at length, explaining how she finds inspiration in nature and heartbreak, and the way light falls through windows at certain times of day.
I nod and ask follow-up questions that make it sound like I’m interested, even if my mind keeps drifting to the clock tower.
Then I think about Addison’s gaze when she looked up at me.
She sees me in a way no one at this table does.
These women see the crown. Addison sees the man underneath it.
It terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
“And what about you, Princess Valentina?” I turn to her, forcing myself to focus. “What occupies your time when you’re not attending royal functions?”
She giggles. “Oh, I adore fashion, travel, and hosting parties. I threw the most wonderful masquerade last spring, and everyone said it was the event of the season.”
“How lovely.” I keep my expression pleasant while mentally crossing her off my list. “And, Princess Henriette? What are your interests?”
The strawberry-blonde straightens in her chair and clears her throat.
“I’m passionate about horses, Your Highness.
My family breeds them, and I’ve won several dressage championships.
I also trained with the Olympic team in Vienna last summer, and I speak eight languages fluently, nine if you count my conversational Mandarin. ”
“Impressive.” I nod and take another sip of my cold coffee while she continues listing accomplishments I didn’t ask about, like this is a job interview.
Princess Cornelia catches my eye from across the table and gives me a look that says, This is exhausting, isn’t it? before returning her attention to her croissant. She’s barely spoken all morning, only sat there, looking bored and vaguely amused by the entire spectacle.
I find her indifference oddly refreshing.
Princess Katarina hasn’t said much either, but when our eyes meet, I notice something different in her expression.
Not competition or calculation or desperation.
A quiet understanding lingers, like she knows exactly how I feel and doesn’t judge me for it.
She gives me a small nod and returns to her tea.
“Your Highness?”
I blink and find Princess Tatiana watching me with sharp gray eyes. A small smile plays at her red lips. She’s been quiet through most of the breakfast, observing rather than competing for attention, and that alone sets her apart from the others.
“Forgive me,” I say. “Lost in thought.”
“I was asking about your thoughts on the Mediterranean trade alliance.” She tilts her head slightly. “But perhaps that’s too dull of a topic for breakfast.”
“Not at all.” I straighten in my chair and actually pay attention for the first time this morning. “The alliance has potential, but the fishing rights dispute needs resolution before any real progress can happen. I’m currently working on that.”
Her smile reaches her eyes, which is more than I can say for most of the ones I’ve received today.
“Exactly what I was thinking. The current framework prioritizes historical claims over economic viability, and it’s shortsighted.
The smaller nations end up squeezed out while France and Italy divide the spoils.
There has to be a solution to this mess. ”
I study her for a moment because she’s different from the others.
She’s beautiful in that polished way with her high cheekbones and perfect posture.
She’s dressed in cream silk, and her jewelry is understated but clearly expensive.
But it’s her eyes that catch my attention because there’s intelligence there, along with something else—calculation.
She’s not reciting facts to impress me, but she’s thought this conversation through.
“You’ve done your research,” I offer politely.
“I always do.” She sips her tea and holds my gaze over the rim of her cup. “I find it’s the only way to have a real conversation. Most people want to hear themselves talk.”
Several of the women tense up.
“I almost prefer it that way,” I tell her. “There’s a lot to be heard if you listen.”
My mother is practically glowing from across the table, and I can almost hear her mentally drafting the engagement announcement.
Tatiana would make sense on paper because she’s well-connected and clearly capable of navigating palace politics.
Our families have been circling an alliance for years.
She speaks five languages and understands duty and wouldn’t embarrass me at state dinners.
Maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could make it work. But I don’t want to.
Then a server reaches past her to refill her water glass, and his sleeve brushes her arm.
The change in her is instant and almost invisible.
Her gracious smile stays fixed in place, but I catch the slight shift in her expression.
I’ve spent my life reading people, and her eyes go icy cold for a fraction of a second.
Disgust flashes across her face before she smooths it away.
With her napkin, she wipes where he touched her.
The movement is so subtle that most people would miss it entirely.
I don’t.
“Clumsy,” she mutters while still smiling, and the server’s face goes red as he backs away with a stammered apology.
Part of me wants to address the disrespect immediately, but instead, I file that moment away. There is something about her I don’t trust. Sure, she may be able to hold intelligent conversations, but she wears a mask as practiced as mine.
“Louis.” My father’s voice cuts across the table, and I turn to find him folding his newspaper. He doesn’t look at me directly, but I can feel the weight of his attention like a hand on my shoulder. “A word after breakfast.”
“Of course, Father.”