Chapter 33
ADDISON
When I check the window, I see that the three paparazzi who were camped outside my building this morning are still in place. Two of them have lawn chairs and a cooler, like they’re tailgating on the sidewalk. The third is pacing, talking on his phone while his camera dangles around his neck.
I let the curtain drop and let out a deep breath. Right now, I almost feel helpless.
I still can’t believe I was banished from Montclaire by palace guards while Louis screamed my name.
Now I’m a prisoner in my loft because I can’t even walk to the bodega without someone shoving a lens in my face and asking how it feels to be the royal home-wrecker.
The irony of escaping one cage, just to be placed in another, isn’t lost on me.
My phone buzzes for the hundredth time, and I don’t bother looking at it.
I stopped answering calls yesterday after the third reporter somehow got my number.
My inbox is full of interview requests, media inquiries, and messages from people I went to art school with, who suddenly want to reconnect.
Thirteen galleries have reached out about “exclusive painting opportunities,” and two lawyers left voicemails about defamation suits I never asked for.
The queen loves to use humiliation, and this time, she’s done a spectacular job.
I slide her letter from the kitchen counter and read it again, not because I’m sad, but because I want every word to fuel me.
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.
Patterson left four voicemails yesterday before I finally picked up a new phone.
As soon as I got his call, I answered. The conversation lasted twelve minutes, during which he yelled at me for getting involved with his friend.
I got a big fat “I told you so,” and then I told him to fuck off and hung up.
Kendall called right after to do damage control.
Don’t get me wrong. I completely understand that he’s upset because he found out about it through a tabloid headline. When I painted the portrait, I didn’t think about my brother getting bombarded by paps after practice.
That’s not how anyone should find out about their little sister sleeping with his friend. I let him rage because he needed to get it out, and I felt like I deserved a heavy dosage of reality.
My laptop is open on my coffee table, and I have too many news article tabs on the screen.
Each one tells a different version of the same story.
Some say I seduced the prince, and others say he seduced me.
A few have dug up old photos from gallery openings and dissected my body language, along with most of my exes, like they’re looking for evidence that I’m a man stealer.
One particularly vile gossip site is running a poll, asking readers to rate whether I’m pretty enough to be his wife, and I bookmarked it so I can remember their name when this is over.
His mother thinks she’s won, thinks she shipped me back to New York, and that’s the end of it, problem solved, scandal contained.
She has no idea who she’s dealing with because I’m a Cross, and my family has survived worse than a passive-aggressive letter from a woman who’s terrified of losing control.
I’m drafting a Notes document, outlining exactly what happened.
Just as I start taking pictures of the letter, my phone vibrates with Kendall’s name.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Whatcha doing?” she asks, and I can tell she’s smiling.
“Building a case,” I tell her.
“Ah. Can you go on LuxLeaks and look at the last article posted?”
I sigh. “I don’t want to read what LadyLux has to say.”
“Yes, you do,” she says.
I open up another window and go to the gossip blog. There’s one thing about LuxLeaks: she’s honest, and she tells things like it is. She’s the only truthful one out there.
As soon as the page loads, the first headline pops up.
Prince Louis Adrian of Montclaire is here for Addison Cross: CONFIRMED
I click on the article and quickly read over the text.
Hi Luxers,
Well, well, well. Pour yourself a drink because this one is MESSY.
Crown Prince Louis Adrian of Montclaire touched down in New York City right at lunch, and before you ask, no, this is not a scheduled diplomatic visit. No, he is not here for UN meetings. And, no, the palace did not announce this trip because I suspect they didn’t know he was leaving.
Sources close to the royal family confirm that Prince Louis was under palace security watch following the now-infamous ball on Saturday night, where American painter Addison Cross’s portrait sent shock waves through European high society.
For those living under a rock: Cross painted herself as the future queen of Montclaire, sitting next to Prince Louis.
This was supposed to be the official engagement portrait that featured Princess Tatiana of Belcova, the woman the crowned prince was rumored to marry.
What followed afterward was chaos. Allegedly, Cross was forcibly removed from the palace grounds and is banned from ever visiting Montclaire.
Louis was essentially placed under house arrest, and sometime in the early hours of this morning, Prince Louis vanished from the palace.
How he got past security is anyone’s guess, but the man landed at a private airfield in New Jersey and was photographed entering The Park on Billionaires’ Row.
When paparazzi asked if he was in New York to find Addison, Louis looked directly into the camera, smiled, and said, “You know it. Make sure these photos are everywhere. Charge a lot for these. It’s front-page material.”
HISTORIC. That is the word that came out of his mouth.
This man escaped a palace, committed what could technically be considered treason, flew across an ocean, and then told the paparazzi to get their bag as he posed for photos. I’m OBSESSED.
It seems as if Prince Louis Adrian just torched his relationship with the Crown for love.
The palace has not released a statement as of right now.
However, there have been whispers that Queen Margaux is reportedly “furious” about this, which shocks no one.
And Princess Tatiana was seen boarding a private jet back to Belcova this morning, looking like she’d rather be literally anywhere else.
If the previous rumors were true, it was an arranged marriage that neither wanted.
Meanwhile, Addison is busy dodging paparazzi and ignoring every interview request. Smart girl. Looks like your prince has come for you.
I’ve been covering royals and elite circles for a decade, and I have never seen anything like this. Louis Adrian was the playboy prince and is called Prince Charming by many. Now he’s in New York City, looking like he hasn’t slept in days, telling the world exactly who he wants.
This is either the greatest love story of our generation or the most spectacular royal implosion in modern history. When’s the last time we witnessed a real royal love story that wasn’t a PR stunt? I’m waiting.
I’m here for it. The #FreedomForLouis crowd must be very happy.
Stay tuned. This is far from over.
—LadyLux
Video below. You’re welcome. Addison Cross is a lucky lady.
The footage cuts to the paps asking Louis questions, and all I can do is smile. They record him walking through the lobby, wearing dark clothes, with someone by his side. He’s smiling at the cameras like he’s having the time of his life.
“Are you still there?” Kendall asks.
“He’s in New York right now?” The words barely make it out because nothing about this makes sense.
“I need to find him,” I say.
“When Louis comes to town, he always stays at Dyson Banks’s place.”
“Do you know which floor his penthouse is on?”
“I don’t, but I’ll find out. I’ll text Patterson.”
I’m already in my bedroom, yanking open drawers and searching for something to wear. “Is my brother still pissed?”
“Yeah. But he’ll come around. I’m starting to realize this wasn’t just some summer fling.”
“It was never a fling.”
“I know that. I think after what Louis risked, Patterson will come around,” she says. “This is beyond a summer hookup.”
“Yes, it is,” I say, moving into my closet.
“Anyway, I’ll find out. Head to The Park. I should have the number before you arrive. I have a few more people I can contact if needed.”
“Thank you so much,” I tell her.
“What are best friends for?” she asks.
“Exactly this.”
“I’ll text you,” she says and ends the call.
I slide different sundresses past me on hangers and stop on one that’s the same Cinderella blue as my ball gown.
I pull it out, realizing it has pearl buttons all the way down the front.
It’s perfect. I pin my hair back and put on some makeup, but I keep it natural because I will be photographed whether I like it or not.
The elevator ride to the lobby feels endless, and I spend it bouncing on the balls of my feet, wanting the numbers to pass faster. The AC blasts down on me, and goose bumps rise on my arms.
I pull out my phone and text my driver.
Addison
I need a pickup. Back entrance, please.
His response comes in seconds.
Nolan
Give me 3 minutes.
The elevator doors open, and the lobby is empty, except for security, who spots me immediately.
His eyes flick toward the front entrance, where I can see the paps through the glass, still camped on the sidewalk with their cameras ready.
I move out of their view, knowing that if they can see me, they can still capture me.
“Miss Cross.” He nods toward the service hallway. “Through the back?”
“That would be wonderful.”
He moves quickly, and I follow him past the mailroom and through a door marked Staff Only. We pass the maintenance office and the recycling room before he looks out the window of a heavy metal door just as a slick black car pulls up. He pushes open the door, which leads to the back alley.