Chapter 18
LOUIS
Iwake up with Addison’s hair in my face and her body pressed against mine. This is the only way I want to start every day from here on out.
She’s still asleep, her breath even, with one hand curled against my chest. The early morning light catches the curve of her shoulder, and I trace my fingers down her arm.
She stirs, but doesn’t wake, so I let myself have this moment of watching her, existing with her before the world outside gets too loud.
I stayed the whole night, which is also a first for me. Usually, I’m out the door within the hour because bodyguards follow me everywhere I go outside the palace, unless I sneak away. But they somehow always find me.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and I grab it.
Delphine
Mother is searching for you. Something about morning tea? She’s asking too many questions.
I text back with one hand while Addison mumbles something unintelligible and scoots closer to me.
Louis
I went for a run.
Delphine
Oh, so you started running again. Are you sure you want to put that on your schedule going forward?
Louis
Then tell her I’m currently at the chapel, asking the Lord about who I should marry.
Delphine
HA-HA-HA! She’ll NEVER believe that. Also, you’re going to hell for that.
Louis
You’re smart. Make up something. I’ll be there within an hour.
I set the phone down and take her in one last time before I leave. Her lips are slightly parted, and her curled lashes are dark against her cheeks. In this light, she looks at peace. I press a soft kiss against her forehead, and her eyes flutter open.
“You’re still here.” Her morning voice is so fucking adorable.
“Yes, but I need to leave. I’ll come see you as soon as I can,” I promise. “Go back to sleep.”
She’s already more awake, pushing up on her elbow to steal another kiss.
“I have to go. My mother’s asking questions. I’m missing tea.” I capture her lips, tasting her until I hear that little sound in the back of her throat that drives me insane. “But I’ll see you tonight. As long as you don’t have any plans.”
“I’ll check my schedule.” She pulls me back down for another kiss. “Don’t be late. Don’t get caught.”
“Oh, babe. As the crown prince, I’m never late. Everyone else is early.”
Addison shakes her head. “Asshole.”
“Maybe a tad.”
I press my lips against hers, and things grow more heated, but I stop.
“Oh, is that your painting?” I ask.
Before I say anything else, she’s standing on her feet with the sheet wrapped around her. “You’ll have to wait until the reveal.”
I playfully pout. “What if I demand it?”
“It’s tradition. I never show my subject until it’s complete. Your bratty, princely little demands don’t work on me.”
I wrap my arms around her. “Maybe one day.”
As I get dressed, she moves to the bathroom. “Think about me.”
“Always,” I say, then force myself to leave.
On the walk back to the palace, I realize my clothes are wrinkled. I pray no one runs into me because I look like a man who spent the night somewhere he shouldn’t have. Thankfully, I make it to my quarters without being seen.
After I’m showered and dressed in fresh clothes, I find my mother in her private sitting room. Today, I feel like I’ve gotten rest, sleep that I haven’t been able to find in my adult life. For the first ten minutes, I pretend I care about what she’s saying.
“… and the ambassador has requested a private audience about the trade negotiations, which I’ve scheduled for next Tuesday, but if the timing doesn’t work with your—” She stops and tilts her head at me. “Louis, are you listening?”
“Ambassador. Trade negotiations. Tuesday.” I take a sip of tea. “I’m riveted.”
“You’re distracted.” She studies me with those eyes that miss nothing. “You seem different today.”
I keep my expression neutral. “I slept well, and I’m ready to conquer the day.”
“Maybe that’s what it is. I can tell. Do that every night.” She sets down her teacup.
I smirk. “I’d love to.”
“I wanted to discuss something with you. I’ve been observing Miss Cross.”
Every muscle in my body tenses, but I don’t show it. “The painter?”
“Yes. She’s quite talented. Her work is extraordinary. Henri would have been impressed.”
“High praise, coming from you and your tastes.”
My mother chuckles but doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Of course, we’ll choose who will become the portrait artist in one week, but I thought I’d commission her to paint me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You hate sitting for portraits.”
She picks up her tea again. “Delphine showed me different artwork Addison has created. I’m impressed. Miss Cross is different, and I’d like to get to know her.”
The way she says it makes me uneasy, like she knows more than what she lets on. My mother has always been perceptive, but this is intentional.
“I’m sure she’ll be honored,” I say. “To be asked to paint the queen of Montclaire is one of the greatest privileges.”
“I hope.” My mother smiles. “I’d like you to stop by. I know how much you appreciate art.”
It’s a test. I can feel it deep in my bones, but I don’t know what she’s testing. Maybe how we interact with one another?
“Perhaps I will,” I say, matching her casual tone. “If my schedule allows.”
“Actually, that’s an order. Be here after lunch.”
I stare at her. “Yes, Mother.”
The rest of the morning is a blur of meetings, paperwork, and diplomatic correspondence. My mind keeps drifting to Addison sleeping in my arms. Then I remember how she rode me last night with her hands on my chest. Her head was thrown back as she took exactly what she wanted from me.
Fuck. I need to focus.
By one o’clock, I’ve given up pretending to work. I head to my mother’s private chambers, telling myself to act normal and pretend like we’re strangers. After last night, that might be impossible.
The guards outside my mother’s door nod as I approach.
“Your Highness. She’s waiting for you.”
I push open the door and step inside.
The scene that greets me makes me stop in my tracks.
My mother is seated in her favorite chair by the window, afternoon light falling across her face, while Addison stands at an easel a few feet away.
They’re both laughing. Not the polite, rehearsed laugh my mother uses at diplomatic functions. A real one.
Addison glances over her shoulder when she hears the door, and our eyes meet. She’s wearing a simple blue dress, her hair pulled back in a messy knot with a paintbrush stuck through it. She looks beautiful as she tries to fight a smile.
Immediately, she bows to me.
“Louis.” My mother notices me in the doorway and waves me in. “Come, join us. I think you’d greatly enjoy speaking with Miss Cross.”
“And what makes you say that?” I ask, already walking toward them.
“She sees art the way you do. It’s refreshing,” my mom says.
“Is that so?” I lower myself into the chair beside my mother and stretch my legs out, making myself comfortable. “And what exactly has Miss Cross said that’s so impressive?”
Addison’s eyes flash with amusement, but she keeps her expression professional. “I was only explaining my process to Her Majesty. How I prefer live sessions to working from photographs.”
“Photographs flatten people,” my mother adds, clearly pleased to share what she’s learned. “Miss Cross needs to see how someone moves, how they hold themselves when they think no one’s watching.”
“Interesting theory.” I tilt my head at Addison. “But couldn’t you argue that photographs capture a truth that live sessions miss? A frozen moment, unguarded, before the subject has time to compose themselves?”
Addison sets down her brush and crosses her arms. “Photographs capture a fraction of a second. That’s not the truth. That’s an accident.”
“Some would call it spontaneity.”
“Some would be wrong.” She meets my gaze directly, not backing down. “A photograph catches someone mid-blink or mid-word, and suddenly, that’s who they are forever. That’s not fair to the subject. Painting allows for context. For the full picture.”
“So, you’re saying photography is inferior to painting?”
“I’m saying they serve different purposes.” She picks up her brush again and turns back to the canvas. “Photography documents. Painting interprets. One shows you what someone looks like. The other shows you who they are.”
My mother watches our exchange with barely concealed delight. I can practically see her cataloging every word, every glance.
“And who is my mother, Miss Cross?” I gesture toward the canvas. “What have you interpreted so far?”
“That’s between me and my subject.” She doesn’t even look at me. “You’ll see the finished piece when it’s ready.”
“She already tried that line on me,” my mother says with a laugh. “I asked to see the preliminary sketches, and she refused.”
“It’s not personal, Your Majesty. I never show unfinished work.” Addison mixes colors on her palette with care. “Half-formed ideas lead to half-formed opinions. I’d rather people see the complete vision.”
“A woman who knows her worth,” my mother observes. “I admire that.”
“Or a woman who’s stubborn,” I counter.
Addison’s lips twitch. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, Your Highness.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, and my mother’s eyebrows rise slightly. I rarely laugh like that in front of her.
“Tell me, Miss Cross,” I say, leaning forward, “do you believe art should comfort or challenge?”
“Both. Neither.” She considers the question while adding a stroke of color to the canvas. “Art should make you feel something. Whether that feeling is comfortable or challenging depends on the viewer, not the artist.”
“A diplomatic answer.”
“A true answer.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “Though I suppose diplomacy and truth are mutually exclusive in your world.”
My mother actually snorts. It’s the most undignified sound I’ve ever heard from her.
“She has you there,” she says, taking a sip of tea. “Most people are far too careful with their words around us. Miss Cross seems unbothered by titles.”
“I meant no disrespect, Your Majesty.”