Chapter 14
ADDISON
Imake my way to the palace before the sun rises. When I arrive at the chessboard to restart the game, I freeze. Every piece is exactly where they were. Our entire game has been restored. Every move and position are intact. Louis remembered.
His handwriting waits beneath my queen.
The game continues …
A soft laugh escapes my lips as I study the hook of his G and how fancy his S looks. I pull out my pen and write beneath his words.
May we both win.
After making my move, I tuck the note under the board. The first time I found this board, I moved a piece as a joke to see if anyone would notice. Him being my secret opponent still doesn’t seem real.
The morning sun warms my arms as I head toward the portrait gallery instead of back to my cottage. I saw his grandmother’s portrait by moonlight, but now I have the urge to find all of Henri’s paintings of Queen Isabella II.
The gallery is empty, as it usually is this early. The air is dehumidified to help protect all the priceless, irreplaceable paintings inside. Henri painted the queen nearly three hundred times over the decades, documenting her from a young bride to an aging monarch.
I stop in front of the first one, painted when she was in her twenties, and see it with fresh eyes.
She’s wearing a formal gown with her hair down.
On top of her head is a modest crown, but on her lips is the ghost of a smile.
It’s a standard royal portrait that’s dignified, but I see the twinkle in her gaze. Her eyes are soft and full of life.
I move around the room, not able to scan each portrait fast enough.
There’s one where she’s seated at a desk, and on top of it in the background is a stack of letters next to a book of poetry.
I lean closer until my breath fogs the protective glass.
The book appears in two other paintings I passed this week in the main atrium.
The expression on her face is mischievous, like she’s learned to hide her love.
The next one hurts my heart to see.
In her hair is a flower, blush pink against the muted composition, and she looks so happy.
I can almost imagine them meeting for paintings because Louis said Henri refused to take reference photos.
Maybe that was his way of spending as much time with Isabella.
The technology existed, especially for a royal.
I move faster now, hunting for more, trying to decode it all.
In the background of one is a chessboard that looks similar to the one Louis and I play on.
Maybe it’s the same one. But the positioning is stalemate; neither can win.
Her expression is regal and untouchable.
She’d learned to perform contentment so well that most looking at this would never know the reality.
The final portrait hangs at the end of the gallery, and it’s the one that breaks me.
She’s maybe seventy, white-haired and lined, but her eyes sparkle.
In her lap, almost lost in the folds of her dress, she’s holding a letter that’s unsealed and unread.
The happiness is back. The flame kept burning, even after everything.
I note the date on the bottom of the painting and commit it to memory so I can do some internet sleuthing later. I study the scene and realize it was painted in the queen’s quarters. Behind her is a beautiful vanity—on top of it, more letters.
“You rekindled,” I whisper, staring at the painting.
I’m about to leave when a small landscape near the service entrance catches my eye. The composition is off because the focal point isn’t centered. I step closer and trace the brushstrokes down to the shoreline. There, in the rocks, barely visible, is a figure standing in a white dress.
It’s Isabella, hidden in a painting that isn’t of her at all.
I spend another hour searching. I find six more tucked into forest scenes, reflected in sparkling water, and crossing frozen lakes. Henri scattered her across decades of landscape portraits, and no one noticed.
I mentally map the locations, noticing that each hidden Isabella faces a specific direction, pointing toward the next. It’s a trail that I follow. The final one faces a wall in the queen’s private sitting room, where a faded rectangle shows something was removed.
The painting is gone. The trail goes cold.
I let out a disappointed sigh as I walk back through the gallery, slower this time, looking not at her, but at the way she was rendered.
The early portraits are confident, each stroke precise and alive.
By her fifties, the brushwork is tighter, more controlled, as if he were holding himself back.
By her sixties, he was masterful and found his flow.
Found her again.
I stare at the ceiling and blink hard because I refuse to cry in the middle of the palace over this. But I understand now why Louis wanted me to leave. I don’t think I’d be able to survive it.
“The painter, right?”
One of the princesses stands a few feet away in a dress that screams imported designer. She’s tall, blonde, and beautiful, with a pretty smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I suck in a deep breath and give her a polite smile.
“One of the artists competing for the portrait commission,” I say, still studying the painting. “I’m Addison.”
I try to give her my hand, and she looks down at it.
“Princess Cornelia,” she states.
I give her a curtsy because she expects it, and it’s the polite thing to do. “Honored to meet you.”
She moves closer, studying the frame I was examining. “Must be an incredible opportunity to be able to spend this time in the palace and watch everything unfold from the servants’ quarters.”
“I’m at the cottages actually.” I try to be as friendly as possible, even though she’s throwing as many jabs as she can.
“Is there a difference?” She laughs at her own joke. “I’ve seen your work before. It’s very … American.”
My brows crease, and I realize she’s trying to insult me.
“I’m sure that aesthetic appeals to certain crowds, but royal portraiture requires an understanding of refinement.” Her gaze travels down my black slacks.
Movement catches my eye at the far end of the foyer, and my pulse kicks up before my brain even registers why.
Louis walks through the archway. He hasn’t seen me yet, but he’s close enough that he will.
I keep my expression neutral and continue my uneventful conversation with Cornelia because I cannot look at him right now.
She clears her throat. “Some of us were raised for this life, while others wander through it.”
“I agree. Or at least, that’s what we were taught when I attended Le Rosey.” I let my voice stay pleasant, conversational. “And before that, Miss Porter’s. My mother was very particular about refinement.”
Cornelia’s smile falters for a fraction of a second because she knows those names.
Everyone in her world does. Le Rosey is where royalty sends their children to be educated alongside other royalty.
Miss Porter’s has produced refined women since 1843.
My credentials are impeccable, and she wasn’t expecting that.
No one in this palace knows, except for Louis, because he did a background check on me.
“How nice for you,” she manages.
“It was.” I let my smile tighten. “Some of us were raised for this life. Some of us were given the choice to choose a different path.”
Her eyes narrow, and I watch her recalculate, trying to figure out who I actually am beneath the slacks, silky blouse, and messy ponytail.
I could tell her that my trust fund alone makes Montclaire’s GDP look like pocket change, or that I’ve turned down twelve marriage proposals from men with titles longer than her full name, but that would be petty.
The boarding schools were enough to make my point without spelling it out.
“I’m sure your little paintings are very fulfilling,” she says, recovering. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do with myself if I had no expectations to meet. No duty. No legacy to uphold. Just … self-expression.” She makes it sound like a disease. “Sounds boring.”
Louis is closer now, maybe thirty feet away, and I can feel his presence like a low hum beneath my skin. I don’t look at him.
“Only for the small-minded,” I say sweetly.
Cornelia’s brows furrow, and she’s searching for a response, something to put me in my place, but before she can, Louis’s voice cuts through the silence.
“Princess Cornelia. Miss Cross.” He nods to each of us, and we both curtsy, mine deeper because protocol demands it. “I hope I’m not interrupting what looked like an intriguing conversation.”
“Not at all, Your Highness.” Cornelia transforms instantly, warmth flooding her voice as she angles her body toward him. “Miss Cross was admiring the portraits, and I was offering some guidance on royal traditions.”
Louis studies me, and I see the slight flare of his nostrils. “Was she being disrespectful toward you?”
Cornelia’s smile freezes.
“Oh, no, Your Highness. Absolutely not.” I hold his gaze, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Princess Cornelia was perfectly gracious. Exactly how I’d expected her to be.”
He knows I’m lying, but he lets it go. The look he gives Cornelia is cold.
“My mother was asking about you,” he tells her. “Something about the garden party arrangements. Please meet her.”
“Of course.” She beams at him. “I’ll find her right away.”
“Thank you,” Louis offers.
She curtsies again, shoots me a fuck you look, then rushes out of the gallery. Louis watches her go, and when the click of her heels fades, and we’re alone, his shoulders loosen.
“She was being a bitch,” he says. “I could tell.”
“She was being a princess.”
“There is no difference.”
He turns to face me, and I see how tired he looks.
“You’re exhausted,” I say to him.
“Fuck, I am,” he whispers, grinning. Standing in front of me is the version of him I adore, not the one who performs for crowds. “You’ve been studying the paintings.”