Chapter 21
LOUIS
There’s less than a week until the competition that will change everything. We hold full conversations in stolen glances.
Each time I see Addison in the halls, I remind myself not to stare, or smile, or cross the room and pull her into my arms the way I want. We agreed to be careful until after the competition, and that means pretending she’s another artist competing for a position I don’t care about.
My father’s assistant has been shadowing me more than usual, appearing at odd moments with questions about my schedule or reminders about meetings I didn’t forget.
The council requested three separate briefings this week on topics that could have been handled in a single memo.
It tells me they’re watching and waiting, trying to figure out what I’m planning next.
Let them watch because they won’t see what I have coming.
The judging takes place in the grand gallery, the same room where Henri Beaumont’s work has hung for decades. Delphine’s been digging through archives for a week to help me locate everything he created, but I’ve not heard anything yet.
Ten easels are arranged in a semicircle, each draped in white cloth to conceal the paintings beneath.
The artists are nowhere to be seen because the royal family and a panel of judges will evaluate the work without knowing who created it.
Merit matters more than reputation, and talent matters more than connections.
I take my seat between my parents and Delphine while my father laughs with one of the judges about something that happened at last year’s regatta.
He looks healthy today, all fake happiness, and no one would guess he’s refusing treatments.
I notice how my mother keeps finding reasons to touch his arm, like she’s making sure he’s still here.
The head judge stands and welcomes everyone before launching into the history of the royal portrait artist position. I’ve never heard this speech or been through this process, so I take in every word while keeping my posture relaxed and my expression politely interested.
When the attendant reveals the first entry—two landscapes of the palace grounds—my mother makes a note on her scoring sheet. She doesn’t look impressed.
Entry after entry follows with portraits of dignitaries, the royal gardens, and the palace at different times of day.
They reach entry number seven.
The attendant removes the first cloth, and I stop breathing.
It’s me in the conservatory with late afternoon gold pouring through the tall windows and long shadows splashing across the marble floor.
I’m seated in the leather chair by the ferns with a book open in my lap.
My attention is caught, and though I look as though I was interrupted, there’s intrigue in my eyes.
She painted the exact moment our eyes met and somehow captured that invisible string that keeps us connected.
I swallow hard and try to keep my breathing even, but my blood is rushing through my veins.
The brushwork is loose in the background but precise in my hands, my jaw, and the tiny crease between my brows.
The light catches dust glittering in the air, making the whole scene feel suspended in time.
It’s private and unguarded. She painted me the way she sees me, like a man who forgets himself when she’s in the room.
My mother leans forward. “Extraordinary technique. Look at the way the light moves.”
My father nods. “Remarkable. Henri would be proud.”
The second cloth falls away.
It’s a first-person view of the chessboard, where I’m sitting across from the viewer and holding the white queen between my fingers.
It represents me holding Addison, protecting her.
There’s a smirk on my lips, and my posture is easy, comfortable, like I’m exactly where I want to be.
The perspective puts the viewer directly in her seat, so anyone looking at this painting sees what she sees when we play.
There’s an intimacy to how she focuses on me.
And there, tucked beneath the edge of the chessboard and barely visible, is a folded note.
She painted our secret into something that will hang in this palace long after we’re both gone. The note will still be there—our private language, hidden in plain sight for anyone who knows where to look. It’s so damn hard to hold back the smile that wants to form on my lips, but I manage.
I feel my sister focused on me, and when I glance at her, she mouths, Wow.
She knows Addison painted these. She’s known for weeks that the two of us have been sneaking around, and she keeps telling me that she’s helping. I believe her.
“The emotional depth here is striking,” one of the judges says. “You can feel the connection between the artist and the subject.”
“Intimate without being inappropriate,” another judge adds. “Whoever painted this understands how to reveal character without sacrificing dignity.”
Delphine squeezes my thigh when she hears that because we both know it’s Addison.
“This is special,” my father continues, almost to himself. “Exactly how I see my son.”
That almost makes me crack, but I stay strong. “Thank you, Father.”
The remaining entries blur past with a seascape and a portrait of my mother that makes her look severe. Nothing comes close to what Addison created, and when the deliberation begins, it takes less than ten minutes.
My father studies the chess painting for a long moment with his head tilted to one side. “I’d like to personally meet this artist. I’d like to have tea with them next week.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” I offer.
“Maybe you could join?” my father asks me.
“Whatever you’d like,” I say.
He doesn’t realize I know who painted these portraits, and this suggestion is a welcome surprise.
When he looked at her paintings, my father saw someone worth knowing, and that made me happy.
Maybe she can reach him. Maybe she can say something that gets through his thick skull because my mother and I haven’t been successful.
We cast our votes, writing our choices on an official card and sliding it into a golden box. Once all entries have been placed, an official takes them. Ten minutes later, he returns.
“Your Majesty, entry number seven is your winner,” he announces. “Unanimous decision.”
He signals to an attendant, who disappears to retrieve the winner.
Voices fill the room as we wait. My mother sets down her pen, and I can feel everyone preparing themselves as the door opens at the far end of the room.
A second later, Addison slips inside. The gallery falls silent because for the past three hundred years, the winner has always been a man.
She’s wearing a navy dress that makes her eyes pop, and half of her hair is pulled back out of her face. She keeps her hands clasped in front of her, but holds her head high, like she belongs here. Like she belongs to me.
I want to cross the room, pull her into my arms, and announce to everyone that we’re together, but it would cause drama. Once she’s close, she curtsies deeply to the royal family.
Then Delphine stands from her chair and starts clapping.
One of the judges joins in, then another, and suddenly the whole room is on its feet, giving her a standing ovation. Addison’s cheeks heat, and she smiles wide, glancing around. A few seconds later, tears drip from her eyes, and Delphine hands her tissues to wipe them away.
“Thank you,” Addison says.
I catch Delphine’s eye, and she gives me the smallest nod.
“Miss Cross,” my father says warmly as he rises to take her hand.
“You are the first woman to ever win this position. It comes with the highest honors in the art world. These paintings you’ve created of His Highness are extraordinary.
I haven’t been this moved by a painting since Henri Beaumont’s early portraits. ”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Her voice is confident but kind. “That means more than I can express.”
My mother stands as well. “The perspectives were creative. What inspired them?”
“I adore the first-person point of view. Portraits that allow the viewer to become part of a moment instead of being forced to observe it from the outside,” Addison says carefully.
“You succeeded.” My mother tilts her head. “I can’t wait to see the painting you’re finishing of me.”
“It’s going to be beautiful, Your Majesty.”
My mother tilts her head. “I do have one question, however. You stated before that you like for your subject to sit for your paintings. Did—”
My father claps his hands together. “I’d like to schedule some time with you next week, Miss Cross. Tea perhaps? I want to discuss an upcoming project I’d like painted while getting to know the artist behind the art.”
I want to know what my mother was going to ask … if Addison and I have been secretly seeing one another? Addison’s eyes flick to me for a second before returning to my father.
“I would be honored,” Addison says.
“Excellent. My assistant will arrange the details.” He smiles at her with warmth. “Welcome to the palace, Miss Cross. I have a feeling you’re going to make history here.”
“I hope so,” she says politely.
My parents are pulled away, and we’re all escorted to a formal reception to celebrate the new artist. It’s agony.
I have to stand beside my parents and make polite conversation with judges and dignitaries while Addison accepts congratulations across the room.
Each time I glance at her, she’s chatting with someone else.
We’re performing for the same audience, playing the same game, pretending we don’t know each other in any way that matters.
Delphine appears at my elbow with two glasses of champagne. “South corridor. Third door on the left. Fifteen minutes max.”
I don’t ask how she knows what I need. I set down my glass and slip out of the gallery.