24. Royal Rumble
Royal Rumble
Camille
The invitation is printed on card stock that is thick and unyielding, the ink an unoriginal black, but the font more than makes up for it, the words written in a flamboyant, almost indecipherable, calligraphy.
“I can barely read my name.” I hand the invitation back to Jackson, my brand-new personal assistant, since all princesses-to-be need a personal assistant.
“The prefect approved it.” Jackson tucks it back into the leather portfolio, stamped with the crest of the royal family.
The portfolio has been fused onto his hand since we stepped off the plane yesterday, full of my daily schedules and menus for the next week—all printed on regular eight-by-ten recycled paper with normal, legible font— as well as correspondence from well-wishers and maps of Battle Harbour, the capital of Laandia.
I wish they sent along a map of the castle.
Because in Laandia, princesses live in castles, and I’m about to become a princess.
The realization clenches my stomach into an unpleasant spasm.
“Of course he did.” My father has approved everything about my upcoming wedding, except for asking me what I think about the whole thing.
He’s been working at marrying me off since I was eighteen. Six broken engagements later, my father is positive this one will stick.
I’m not sure what I think. A great many things can result in a broken engagement, such as disagreements about living arrangements, wedding plans, and confusion about who exactly you’re marrying.
Marriages of convenience can often be for the wrong reason and if you’re supposed to keep a secret, it’s common courtesy to tell you the secret that you’re supposed to be keeping rather than making you figure it out on your own.
That break-up led to an overworked publicist instructing me to sign an NDA legally forbidding me to discuss the events that led up to the parting of ways.
And then there’s the media’s twist on everything because being in the public eye means everyone has an opinion.
Sometimes, that does work in your favour. Poor Lady Camille gets a great deal of sympathy and not much blame.
Six engagements later, I’d almost given up hope of ever finding a marriage that works for me and Saint Pierre and Miquelon, and whatever country the husband-to-be may be from.
Also, the husband-to-be himself. He should benefit from the union as well.
Because there are so many pieces that need to fit into place, the whole concept of marrying for love has been off the table for—well, forever. I’ve always known a love match wasn’t in the cards for me.
But then…
Tonight is the official announcement of my engagement to Prince Odin of Laandia. My schedule says I’m to arrive in the Great Room downstairs in thirty-eight minutes for a meet and greet with the press.
It seems like only thirty-eight minutes ago that Lord Arnaud and King Magnus approved the union.
The official story is that Prince Odin and I knew each other from years past, and recently rekindled our friendship after his stint as a contestant on the reality TV show, The Suitorette.
He didn’t get the girl on the show, but in a happy coincidence, it culminated in a whirlwind romance with me, resulting in an engagement full of all the happy romantic moments the world is looking for.
The reality is not nearly as swoony: Odin + Camille is an arranged marriage between Laandia and the French territory of Saint Pierre.
I need a husband.
Prince Odin needs a wife.
Love and romance not required.
What no one has explained to me yet, though, is why Prince Odin of Laandia was a contestant on a reality show at all. I mean…?
The second son of King Magnus, Odin is a prince.
And he looks like the Prince Charming kind of prince as well.
It kind of blows my mind that, instead of looking for an established princess, or even a nice Laandian girl to settle down with, Prince Odin appeared as a contestant on a reality dating show to find love.
Only two episodes of the show have aired so I don’t know all the details but obviously, things didn’t work out with Odin and the Suitorette, despite Odin receiving the coveted First Date Rose.
But Odin is still looking for a wife and so has gone from reality romance to arranged love in less time than one of those reality romances last.
I’m not sure where I was on the list of potentials, but after the king’s people and Lord Arnaud spoke, it was a done deal. Instant fiancée. Wedding scheduled in six weeks, on Valentine’s Day.
It seems like a lot of time and no time at all.
But what no one knows, and what I’m trying not to dwell on, is that I’ve agreed to marry a man I was in love with ten years ago.
Notice the past tense.
“Will she be ready in time?” Jackson asks no one in particular.
We’ve been holed up in my assigned suite of rooms in Battle Castle all day, getting me prepped for tonight. It seems fitting that this is the castle Raggar the Red built to protect the Viking land from invaders across the sea because it feels, somehow, that I’m going into battle.
Isla, who has been provided by the royal family to do my hair and makeup, fluffs powder across my T-zone. “Five minutes more, and then she can put on the dress.”
I close my eyes, enjoying the odd sensation. I’ve been to enough state dinners to have the prep time of getting ready down to a science, so it threw me when my “team” arrived three hours ago.
My father doesn’t bring in stylists and makeup artists because one—why? And two, because he knows they won’t last.
It takes a special person to work for Lord Arnaud. We’ve had many a staff leave from the prefect’s residence in the middle of the night.
I always wonder where they go. Saint Pierre is an island, part of the archipelago in the Bay of St. Lawrence nestled between Newfoundland and Nova Scotia. Being an island means it’s surrounded by water and impossible to run from.
I know. I’ve tried.
The tippy-tap of Betty White’s nails on the floor distracts me and she whines for my attention. Bonus points for Jackson because he picks up my dog and puts her in my lap.
Having help to get ready isn’t that bad. I lean back and close my eyes, hoping this night will be over soon.
Someone touches my foot and I kick out. “What are you doing?”
Crouched before me, Hugo raises his hands. “Just a foot rub, my lady. King Magnus swears by his reflexology before a competition.”
“This isn’t a competition, it’s a press conference.”
“Same thing for the king.”
Even though it sounds strange, I motion for Hugo to continue. He presses firm thumbs into the arch of my foot, and immediately, a moan of pleasure escapes before I can stop it.
Kudos to the House of Erickson for doing all they can to help me relax. Because it’s difficult to relax when you’re about to be sold off like a prize heifer to a man you don’t know.
Technically, I won’t be sold, since dowries are frowned upon in today’s society. And I did know Odin—at least I thought I did.
Odin Maximillian Patrick Henri Erickson.
The facts are that Odin is the second oldest, the third tallest, and the fourth member of the royal family to appear in People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive edition.
I know he’s an advocate for Indigenous causes, outspoken about his desire to have the first Viking settlements in Laandia added to the UNESCO list and the only one of King Magnus’s sons who is part of his council of advisors.
His book club rivals Reese’s, but only for non-fiction.
What I don’t know is why Prince Odin wants to marry me because, ten years ago, he made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with me.
You know you want to find out why!
Read Royal Rumble!