Chapter 7
Valentina
I chew on a piece of toast topped with the creamiest scrambled eggs I’ve had in my life.
I run my eyes over the schedule I was sent yesterday after the meeting.
Prince Max’s day is packed, that’s for sure.
But then that's what you get when you're born into royalty.
Endless public engagements, parties, public adoration, and smiles for the cameras.
My heart bleeds for the guy.
Lots of chances to get both video footage and material for my next article.
I pop the final bite of my breakfast in my mouth and wash it down with barista-level coffee.
With all the breakfast options offered to me today, I’ll be leaving the palace in a month with tighter clothing, that’s for sure.
It all looks so good, and I've already planned what I'm having tomorrow: blueberry pancakes topped with maple syrup with a compote of raspberries and blueberries and a side order of clotted cream.
Today’s scrambled eggs on toast felt so restrained in comparison.
I pull on my blazer, scoop my hair up into a high ponytail, and slip on my glasses.
It's Fabiana go time.
Gathering my camera equipment, phone, and notebook, I check my watch.
It’s eight-forty, which is perfect timing to set up in the Blue Drawing Room before the Minister of Education arrives.
And who knows? I might even get a couple of moments alone with the prince before she arrives.
Not that our time together so far has been exactly great.
“Frosty” is probably the softest word I could use to describe it, although “outright hostile” would probably be more appropriate.
The prince has made no bones of the fact he thinks I’m a despicable human with no redeeming features.
It's not exactly the start of a beautiful relationship.
My heels click on the marble floors as I make my way to the meeting place. Arriving at the doors to the Blue Drawing Room, I wait and listen. With no sounds emanating from the room, I push inside to find it empty.
I’m the first one here.
I position myself near the large windows with my phone ready, my camera on its tripod, and my notebook turned to a fresh page.
I wait.
And I wait.
The time creeps along until it’s well after 9 AM and still no one else has arrived—not even the hyper enthusiastic and overly bouncy Pippa Chen.
I pull the doors open again and look up and down the corridor. It’s empty but for a couple of palace staff scurrying about their business.
Where are these people? The prince being late isn’t too much of a surprise. We’re all aware he can be an overgrown kid. But the Minister of Education? She’s a real go-getter type, right down to her power suits and sharp bob. Surely she should have been on time?
I slump down into my seat and stare out the window at the royal gardens, the greenery of the lawns stretching into the distance. I check and recheck the schedule. It clearly tells me I’m in the right place and here at the right time.
I'm beginning to suspect that both the prince and the minister have been kidnapped by extremists when my phone shows the time is 9:28. I spring to my feet. It’s clear no one is coming to this meeting, and time is ticking on me getting my material for the day.
I need to find the elusive Max, and I need to find him now.
I search the adjacent rooms, finding them empty but for the library, where I accidentally walk in on Princess Sofia reading papers. I back out as quickly as I can, apologizing to the future queen like it’s my job.
“Are you lost?” she asks.
“Just looking for your brother, Your Royal Highness.”
“Oh, he’s unlikely to be in here.” She gestures at the book-lined walls.
“You’re right. Sorry to disturb you.”
I end up in the office wing, where I ask a staff member to take me to Prince Max’s rooms, which he does with obvious reluctance.
His rooms are vacant.
Where is that man?
The problem is in a place as large as the royal palace in Villadorata, if a person doesn’t want to be found, they can virtually disappear.
Prince Max, it would seem, is good at this game.
Arriving at Ronan’s office, I’m told that he’s in a meeting with the King, so I ask to speak with Pippa Chen.
“Ms. Fontaine!” she says, her face alight as she greets me with an eager handshake that threatens to jiggle my arm right out of its socket.
I thrust the schedule at her. “Do you know why no one turned up to the meeting this morning? I waited for the prince and the minister for half an hour.”
She knits her brows as she scans the now dog-eared page. “Prince Maximilien and the Minister of Education completed their business last month. I posted about it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“And he wouldn’t have been there at 9 AM anyway. Not on a Wednesday.”
“Why not?”
“Because he has a personal trainer come to the palace at that time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.” She leans in, her dark eyes darting from left to right. “I know because I’ve met him and let me tell you, he is hot.”
I blink at her. Is she really referring to Prince Max as hot? “Who?”
“The personal trainer.”
“Right.” I’m not here to discuss the alleged hotness of some PT. “So, this meeting at 9 AM—”
“Could never have been on the schedule for today,” she finishes for me, shaking her head. “As I said, hot personal trainer time.”
I’m not sure what to think of this. Did the prince have an old schedule sent to me by accident? And if it was on purpose, why would he do something like that? It makes no sense.
Unless…? No. It can’t be. The prince wouldn’t have intentionally had an out-of-date schedule sent to me to avoid having to see me. Would he?
The label “man-child” never felt so appropriate.
Heat climbs my neck. “What about this?” I say, pointing at the next scheduled appointment of the day. “Will he be in the library at 11 AM?”
“The library? I don’t think so. His PT session lasts an hour in the palace gym, and then he goes for a run through the grounds.” She lowers her voice, her eyes darting around. “There’s a group of us girls who watch out of the windows on the top floor.”
“You watch the prince run?”
“The PT. Chase is his name. Chase Johansen. He’s from South Africa.”
I’m not thinking about some South African called Chase. There’s only one conclusion here. Max somehow got a false schedule sent to me with no intention of being at any of the day’s events. He deliberately sent me on a royal goose chase—and Prince Max is that royal goose.
Preferably cooked.
The conniving, manipulative, absolutely infuriating—
I twist my mouth and scrunch the schedule up in a fit of frustration, flinging it into a nearby rubbish bin. “Where does he run?”
Pippa’s eyes light up. “Come with me.”
I follow her up to the third floor, where three female members of the palace staff are already staring out the window at the garden below, coffee cups in hand. Some are even munching on chocolate cookies.
“Everyone, this is Fabiana Fontaine,” Pippa announces, and the three women turn to look at me.
“As in the journalist?” asks one of them, a pretty young woman in a black and white uniform that tells me she's likely a lady’s maid.
I open my mouth to respond when Pippa replies for me. “The very same. But don't worry, she doesn't bite. She’s terrific!”
Three sets of eyes assess me.
“I only bite if something really annoys me,” I say.
“Hmmm,” replies the lady’s maid, her eyes scanning my outfit.
“No, really. Fabiana’s great!” Pippa insists. “She’s come to watch Chase and the prince.” She indicates between the four of them. “This is the Chase-slash-Max Fan Club. We’re here religiously, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Right, ladies?”
“We are,” another of the women replies. She’s probably a year or two older than me, and by her jeans and T-shirt, smeared with dirt, my guess would be she’s on the gardening team. “But don’t tell anyone. This isn’t exactly our jobs. Got it?”
“Got it,” I reply.
“This is Theresa, Hetty, and Isadora,” Pippa says as she gestures from one of the women to the next.
“Hi, everyone. You do this three times a week, every week?” I ask.
“We sure do!” Pippa replies.
“Only when I can,” Theresa replies. “I work for Princess Amelia and sometimes have to travel, so I miss this.”
“We video those times for her,” Isadora explains.
“And I so appreciate it,” Theresa replies.
“And you’re all here to watch the PT?” I ask, wondering whether some of them have a thing for Max. For purely research reasons only, of course.
“I’m here for Prince Max,” Hetty says, her cheeks blushing. “Chase is too perfect for me.”
“And Prince Max isn’t?” Isadora guffaws. “Face it, Hetty, they’re both gods among men.”
“Preach it,” Theresa agrees.
Gods among men? Wow. This really is a fan club.
“Ooh, look. I can see them!” Pippa declares, and everyone clamors around her, peering out the tall window.
There are two male figures rounding the rose garden in the distance, moving with speed and impressive athleticism. They’re both in shorts and sneakers, their shirtless torso’s glistening with sweat.
Wait. Shirtless?
Oh, come on! No wonder there’s a fan club for these guys. They’re out there flaunting their ripped bodies as though the palace has no windows through which people can see them.
They may as well have a gigantic neon sign above their heads yelling Half naked men right here!
I watch as they stride towards us, their long, athletic legs pounding the ground. I’m not going to lie, they’re both good looking men. Strong. Muscular. In great shape.
The women are enraptured, never pulling their eyes from them.
I click on my phone and begin to film. For content only, you understand.
“It’s like they’re two Greek statues that have come to life to do cardio together,” Isadora says.
“A slow-mo montage of male perfection,” Theresa says on a sigh.
Greek statues? Male perfection? Please.