Chapter 15
Ricard
I'd taken to having my morning coffee outside on the back patio, watching the light from the morning sun reflect off the pool, a simple pleasure I rarely afforded myself back home.
In Avaline, mornings meant briefings, correspondence, and the constant, subtle pressure of duty pressing against my temples like a crown too heavy for comfort.
Here, there was only the whisper of a gentle breeze, the calls of nearby birds, and the absolute luxury of having nowhere to be and nothing pressing to accomplish.
I stretched my legs out on the lounge chair, feeling the cool morning air against my skin, a pleasant contrast to the warmth that would soon blanket the Texas landscape.
My thoughts drifted to Theo. The memory of his body against mine in the darkness of the bathhouse still lingered, a phantom touch that made my skin tingle even now, hours later.
There had been something primal about our encounter there, something raw and honest. When he'd recognized me, when I'd recognized him, it was as though everything else had fallen away, leaving only the two of us and the electric connection between us.
What are you doing, Ricard?
The voice of reason in my head sounded suspiciously like Sébastien's—practical, concerned, and irritatingly correct. This infatuation was dangerous. Theo was employed to fulfill my desires, to create the illusion of connection and intimacy.
And yet...
A sharp electronic chime from inside the villa interrupted my thoughts. I opened my eyes, momentarily disoriented as I was pulled from my reverie back to the present. The sound came again, an incoming message alert from the tablet I'd left on the kitchen counter.
With a sigh, I set my coffee cup down and rose from the lounge chair and made my way inside, picking up the tablet from the counter. A message notification flashed on the screen from Vincent Stone.
My pulse quickened. In my experience, unexpected communications from authority figures rarely brought good news.
I tapped the screen to open the message.
Good morning, Your Grace. I apologize for the intrusion on your morning. I have some information that requires your attention. Would you be available for a brief conversation at your villa, at your convenience?
The formality of the message did nothing to alleviate my concern. Vincent was unfailingly polite, but there was an urgency beneath his words that set my nerves on edge. I typed a quick response.
Good morning, Vincent. I'm available now, if that works for you.
I sent the message, then set the tablet down on the counter, my mind racing with possibilities. Had I somehow violated one of the resort's policies? Or was it something else entirely, something I couldn't even anticipate?
I moved back outside to retrieve my coffee cup, my peaceful morning now tainted with apprehension.
As I stepped back inside, I caught sight of my reflection in one of the villa's many windows—hair tousled from sleep, wearing only a pair of linen pants slung low on my hips.
Looking like the decadent royal I'd worked hard on becoming this past week, I smiled to myself as I headed to my room to change into more suitable clothes.
I had just poured myself a fresh cup of coffee when a knock sounded at the door. Setting the carafe back on the warming plate, I made my way to the entrance, preparing myself for whatever news awaited me.
Vincent stood on the threshold, impeccably dressed as always in a tailored white suit that somehow looked perfectly comfortable despite the Texas heat. His expression was composed, professional, but I caught the slight tightness around his eyes that betrayed concern.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” he said with a small bow of his head. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Of course,” I replied, stepping aside to let him enter. “Would you care for some coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Vincent declined politely as he stepped into the villa. “I won't take up too much of your time.”
I gestured toward the living area, and we settled into the comfortable seating arrangement, Vincent perching on the edge of a sleek armchair while I took a seat on the sofa opposite him.
“What can I do for you, Vincent?” I asked, deciding to dispense with pleasantries and get straight to the matter at hand.
Vincent's expression shifted subtly, a flash of sympathy crossing his features before his professional mask returned. “I'm afraid I come with some potentially unwelcome news, Your Grace. We've received a message from your assistant, Sébastien.”
My stomach tightened. Seb wouldn't contact the emergency number that I'd given him unless it was important—we'd agreed on that when I'd made the arrangements for my stay. “What did he say?”
“It appears your brother, Crown Prince Remy, has arrived in the United States and is requesting to speak with you immediately,” Vincent said, his tone carefully neutral.
The coffee turned bitter in my mouth. Remy. Here. The implications cascaded through my mind like dominoes falling in rapid succession. If Remy had left Avaline with the anniversary celebrations approaching, something was seriously wrong.
“The Crown Prince was under the impression you were staying with friends in Dallas,” Vincent continued. “He's currently at a hotel there with a small entourage.”
I set my coffee cup down with more force than intended, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“I see.” The words emerged strangely calm while inside, alarm bells pealed through my consciousness.
Remy here, in America, seeking me out. It violated the most basic understanding between us.
The unspoken agreement that my rare moments of privacy were sacrosanct.
“We've taken the liberty of making arrangements, should you wish to meet with him,” Vincent said. “The resort's private jet can have you in Dallas within the hour from takeoff.”
The offer was generous, but my mind was still struggling to process the situation. Why would Remy come all the way to America? Why now, with the anniversary celebrations mere days away?
“There's more, isn't there?” I asked, meeting Vincent's gaze directly. My voice had acquired the particular resonance I reserved for moments of crisis—lower, steadier, with the faintest edge that those who knew me well recognized as controlled apprehension.
In response, Vincent reached into his jacket and produced a small tablet. “This might provide some context,” he said, handing it to me.
I took the device, my fingers feeling numb. The screen displayed a news article from one of Avaline's prominent publications, the headline causing my stomach to drop:
ROYAL SCANDAL DEEPENS: CROWN PRINCESS HELENE DEPARTS FOR HOMELAND AMID INFIDELITY RUMORS
The accompanying photo showed my sister-in-law, elegant as always despite the obvious strain on her face, boarding a private jet with the royal children in tow. The timestamp indicated the image was from yesterday.
I forced myself to read the article, each word landing like a blow.
Crown Princess Helene of Avaline has reportedly departed for her native Lichtenstein with the royal children, just days before the planned celebrations marking King Philippe's thirty years on the throne.
Palace sources describe the trip as a “planned family visit,” but the timing has fueled speculation about the state of the royal marriage following recent allegations of Crown Prince Remy's infidelity.
This latest development comes on the heels of claims by American model Jasmine LaRue that the Crown Prince fathered her child during a state visit to New York last year.
The palace has denied these allegations, but sources close to the royal family suggest the relationship between the Crown Prince and Crown Princess has been strained for some time.
The departure of the Crown Princess and her children casts further doubt on the stability of the monarchy at a crucial moment in Avaline's history...
I couldn't read any more. I handed the tablet back to Vincent, my hand steadier than I would have expected given the turmoil inside me.
“You can keep it if you'd like,” Vincent offered, but I shook my head.
“Thank you, but no,” I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. “I've seen enough.”
“I understand this is difficult news, Your Grace.” His eyes, typically bright with charismatic energy, had softened with genuine concern.
“Many of our clients come here to escape complications in their public lives.
It's... unfortunate when those complications find their way to us.” There was something in his tone—a particular emphasis that suggested personal understanding rather than merely professional sympathy.
“Please know that the resort is at your disposal.
Whatever you need, we're here to assist.” He gestured toward the grounds.
“We've dealt with sensitive departures before. Should you wish it, we can ensure complete privacy and discretion.”
I drew a deep breath, forcing myself to think clearly despite the chaos in my mind. Remy was in Dallas. Helene had taken the children and left. The anniversary celebrations were days away. The press was circling like vultures, eager to tear apart what remained of the royal family's dignity.
And I was here, hiding in a luxury sex resort, playing at freedom while my family's legacy crumbled.
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Vincent,” I said finally.
“And for your offer of assistance. I would like to take you up on the use of the resort's jet.
I'll need to speak with my brother, but—”
I paused, the words “this afternoon” hovering unspoken on my lips.
A lifetime of conditioning pushed me toward immediate action, toward sacrificing my needs for royal obligation.
The familiar burden of responsibility settled over me, the expectation that I would, as always, drop everything to address Remy's latest crisis.