Chapter 30
ADDISON
The morning light is golden as we slip through the hidden door and back into the palace corridors.
Louis keeps my hand in his, not bothering to hide it anymore.
I’m still wearing last night’s ball gown with my heels dangling from my other hand.
My hair’s a disaster, and I’m wearing old makeup, but I don’t care.
For the first time in weeks, I can breathe without feeling that weight on my chest.
“What have you been doing all night?” Louis asks, glancing over at me, grinning.
I haven’t seen him this happy—maybe ever.
“You.”
“Fair point.” He pulls me closer and presses a kiss to my temple. “After you change clothes, we’ll return to my loft, then figure out breakfast. Afterward, we will deal with my parents.”
“I have a very uneasy feeling.”
He stops walking and turns to face me, tucking a strand of tangled hair behind my ear. “Hiding isn’t an option, babe. We have to face the fire.”
“And what if we get burned?”
“Suppose we’ll be ash together.”
Louis rubs his thumb against mine as we take the long path to the artists’ quarters.
The air smells like summer and salt from the sea.
I admire the soft pinks and oranges of the sky and how gorgeous the sun looks as it rises over the horizon.
The palace is quiet this early on a Sunday morning.
Most of the ball guests left last night, or they’re sleeping off champagne hangovers.
I spot my cottage ahead with its blue door and overflowing window boxes, and for one perfect moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to live this life with him. Waking up with him beside me every morning would be a fairy tale.
“What are you thinking about?”
“You. Us. What it would be like to build a life with you.”
He grins. “Beautiful thought, isn’t it?”
We turn the corner, and that’s when I see the four guards waiting. They’re on both sides of the cottage, standing on the gravel path. Louis’s hand tightens on mine, and he moves me closer to him.
“What is this?” His voice changes completely. The softness is replaced by something more demanding. “Why are you here?”
None of them answer or even look at him. They’re focused on me.
“Stay here.” He drops my hand and strides toward them. “I asked you a question, and I’m ordering you to answer me immediately.”
The cottage door opens, and a guard steps out, carrying boxes. Another staffer hauls my painting supplies.
“Hey!” I move forward. “Those are my things. What are—”
A guard steps into my path and grabs my arm. His fingers dig into my biceps, and I can smell his sweat.
“Miss Cross, you’re being removed from the premises.”
“What? No. I need to—”
“Let go of her.” Louis’s voice is lethal. “Take your hands off her. Now.”
He’s full of rage, ready to fight, but the guard doesn’t release me.
Another one moves in on my other side and secures my other arm, and suddenly, I’m being walked toward a car idling on the driveway.
How did this day turn so ugly?
“Please,” I say. “Please, let’s discuss this. I need to—”
“There is nothing to discuss. You no longer have clearance to be on the property, Miss Cross.”
“I said, let her go!” Louis lunges forward and shoves the guard on my right, breaking his grip on my arm. “That’s an order!”
For one second, I’m free. Louis pulls me behind him, positioning himself between the guards and me, and I clutch the back of his jacket.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper behind him. “This is my fault.”
He doesn’t get a chance to respond because more guards round the corner and come up from behind us.
We’re surrounded by five, six, maybe ten men.
The queen sent an army of men, and I lose count.
They’re moving fast, faces blank, and I understand this was planned.
His mother knew exactly where we’d go this morning, and she was waiting for this.
“Your Highness”—one of the new guards steps forward—“please step away from Miss Cross.”
“No.”
“Sir, we don’t want to use force. But we have orders to do so if neces—”
“I don’t give a damn about your orders. She’s not going anywhere.”
“This is your final chance to please step away, Your Highness.”
“Fuck you,” he says, and they rush us.
Two of them grab Louis from behind and jerk him away from me. He throws an elbow that connects with someone’s jaw, but there are too many of them. Four more pile on, forcing his arms behind his back, driving him to his knees on the gravel as they rip me away from him.
“Louis!” I try to go to him, but hands clasp around me. They’re much rougher this time, not caring. One steps on my dress, and the material of the skirt rips. “Get off me! Let him go!” I’m screaming at the top of my lungs as tears stream down my face.
“Addison!” He’s struggling against the guards pinning him, his face twisted with anger. “Get your fucking hands off her!”
“Away you go.” One of the guards shoves me toward the car, and I stumble.
“This is bullshit. You’re hurting me—” I try to turn around, try to see Louis, but they’re pushing me forward. “Please, just let me say good—”
“Get in the car, Miss Cross.”
“I’m not—”
A hand on the back of my head forces me down, and my shoulder hits the door. I’m shoved inside, and the door is slammed shut. I reach for the handle, but the door is locked. Louis is on the ground with four guards holding him down.
He’s still fighting, still screaming.
I bang my fist on the window. “Let me out! Louis! Don’t you hurt him! Don’t you fucking hurt him!”
For one frozen second, our eyes meet. I see terror and love. I see him trying to tell me everything he can’t say out loud.
I press my palm flat against the window and mouth the words I need him to know. I love you. This isn’t over.
“Addison!” he screams. His wrists are locked behind his back, like they’re arresting him. “I will come for you.”
I scream his name when the car pulls forward as he yells something I can’t hear.
Then the path curves, and I can’t see him anymore.
My entire body is shaking, and I’m hysterical.
“You can’t do this,” I say to the driver, who ignores me.
The tires crunch over gravel as I wipe tears from my face.
I close my eyes, trying to ground myself before I spiral. This is too much and completely unexpected. Now I’m sitting in a ripped ball gown, barefoot, in the back of a car. My arms throb where the guards grabbed me, and I can already see bruises blooming on my skin.
The only sound is the engine and my own ragged breathing.
We pass the rose gardens and a fountain, where Louis kissed me for the first time. The scene fades by the window like a movie about someone else’s life.
My vision blurs, and my throat closes, and for one terrible second, I think I’m going to break. I feel a sob climbing, and I might choke on it. The adrenaline rush makes me sick, and the weight of what just happened has me dry-heaving in the back, but I force it down.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I count the trees passing outside the window. I dig my fingernails into my palms, hard enough to leave marks.
I will not give the queen the satisfaction of knowing this made me physically ill.
The drive takes forever and no time at all. When the car finally stops, I glance out the window and realize we’re at a private airport. On the runway, there’s a private jet waiting with its stairs lowered.
The guard opens my door and stands there, waiting.
“Where am I going?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Can you at least tell me—”
His face stays emotionless, like I’m not even a person. Like I’m a package being shipped.
I step out of the car, and the wind off the sea whips my ruined dress around my legs. My feet ache as the guards move me toward the stairs.
I turn and look at the men. “One day, you’ll regret doing this. His Highness will not forget.”
After a deep breath, I climb the stairs with shaking legs, gripping the railing so I don’t fall.
The interior of the plane is cream leather and polished wood.
The royal crest is embroidered on the seats.
A pretty flight attendant in a pressed uniform looks at my torn dress, bruised arms, mascara streaked down my face, and she frowns.
“Miss Cross, are you okay?”
“No,” I tell her.
“Apologies. Can I get you anything?”
“No,” I say, bursting into tears.
She doesn’t say anything else as I find a seat. Fighting is useless. I sink into the leather, wishing I had my phone so I could at least call Kendall.
“Can you tell me where I’m going?” I ask.
“New York,” she says, and I know by her reaction that she has no idea what I just went through.
A bitter laugh escapes me. Of course, the queen is shipping me back home.
The engines start, and the plane begins to taxi. I stare out the window as Montclaire slides past. I memorize the cliffs, the blue water, the lavender fields, and see the palace gleaming white on the hill. Somewhere down there, Louis is probably being escorted to the queen’s quarters.
The land shrinks beneath me until it’s just a green smudge against the endless blue.
Twelve hours ago, I was lying in his arms while he told me he loved me.
Now, I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, barefoot and bleeding in a torn ball gown, looking like a survivor of something terrible. Once we’re at cruising altitude, the flight attendant delivers a letter.
“Miss Cross, Her Majesty requested this be delivered to you,” she says, handing me a cream envelope with a wax seal stamping it closed.
I break the wax with trembling fingers and unfold the heavy cream paper with gold embellishments. The queen’s handwriting is elegant, and every letter is perfectly formed.
Miss Cross,
By the time you read this, you will be en route to New York. Your belongings have been packed and are with you. They will be unloaded and delivered to your loft in Tribeca.
I must confess, I underestimated you. The portrait was a bold move—one most wouldn’t have taken.
I had been convinced you wouldn’t do something so risky.
However, you had seen an opportunity, a weakness, and you exploited and seized it without hesitation.
It’s admirable. In another life, I think we might have enjoyed becoming friends.
You played the game better than I’d have ever expected from an American.
But the game always ends, Miss Cross, and this one is over.
You are hereby banned from the sovereign territory of Montclaire. Permanently. Any attempt to return here will result in your immediate arrest and detention. Please understand that this is not a threat, and the order has already been signed.
I understand you believe my son loves you.
Perhaps he does in his own way. Louis has always had a weakness for beautiful things that don’t belong to him.
Let me remind you that this is not a fairy tale, and a crush is not enough to run a kingdom.
It never has been. Louis will marry someone appropriate for him.
He will immediately produce heirs. He will fulfill the duties he was born to fulfill.
And eventually, you will forget each other.
You gave him a lovely summer with memories I’m sure he’ll think of fondly. But you were a temporary distraction, and that’s all you can be.
Don’t contact him. Do not write to him. Do not attempt to reach him through Delphine or anyone else in this family. If you do, I will make things very unpleasant for you. I trust we understand each other.
Go home, Miss Cross. Paint your gorgeous portraits. Please find a nice American who can give you a luxurious American life. Leave my son to his future.
You fought well, but you were never going to win.
I read it until the words blur. She banned me, like loving Louis is a crime.
I fold the letter carefully, matching the creases exactly, and slide it back into the envelope. My hands have stopped shaking. My tears have dried.
The queen thinks this is checkmate. She thinks she’s won, but she has no idea who she’s dealing with.