Chapter 27 Andrea
Andrea
James: So, breakfast with a billionaire on a private jet. Tell me EVERYTHING. Was it champagne on takeoff or caviar first?
Me: Coffee, juice, brioche, croissants. No caviar, though. I felt cheated.
James: Croissants?! God, I hate you. I’m still at my desk eating a Tesco wrap.
Me: Want me to mail you the crusts?
James: Sorry, GTG. My Uber Eats is here. Chat soon? Love u! x
Takeout on top of his Tesco lunch? James was going to get chubby if he wasn’t careful. Must have been the third time this week he’d ordered Uber.
I looked out through the tinted window of the chauffeur-driven Mercedes as it carried us away from the private airstrip and into the French countryside.
It could’ve been the backroads around Datchet, except the houses weren’t pebble-dash semis, they were shuttered stone cottages that looked like they belonged on shortbread tins.
I pressed my forehead lightly to the window.
It felt cool despite the bright sunlight outside.
My phone pinged again in my hand—Monish had got back to me.
Monish: Hi, Andy. No, still nothing official. Two weeks, apparently.
Me: I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?
Monish: Fine. Updating the CV. Speaking to a few people.
Me: And … how are you doing really?
Monish: School fees just went up 20% and recruiter said the market’s soft. Timing isn’t ideal.
Me: Shit, Monish.
Monish: I know. I just don’t want Priya to see me panic.
Fuck. This was not okay.
And here I was in a Mercedes heading to a chateau wedding with the man responsible. I felt faintly sick.
I flicked a message to Kelly and dropped my phone into my bag.
Behind me, there was a rustle of paper. Bonnie leaned forward just enough for the edge of a leather-bound folder to graze my arm. “Andrea.” Her voice was pitched low and private. “I thought you might appreciate this. It’s a little guide. For the wedding.”
I glanced down. It was about a centimeter thick, crammed with tabs and color-coded Post-its. Across the cover, it said For Andrea. Conduct & Etiquette: Nobility & Modern Aristocracy.
“Don’t feel you have to read it all at once,” she added, hand on my shoulder. “The sections on table settings and suitable conversation topics are the most urgent. Especially for someone new to this kind of circle.”
I forced a smile, and she turned back to Dex and Ben, laughing.
Wow, she really had a low opinion of me. But after what I’d seen at Oxford, I wasn’t so sure she was wrong. It seemed like Liam’s world was full of rules I’d never understand.
“She doesn’t need that, Bonnie,” Liam said, a hint of irritation in his voice as he reached for the guide, but I’d already slipped it into my bag before he could stop me.
A black-and-gold sign whizzed past on our left, and I glimpsed a word—Chateau.
We turned to the right, the tires crunching over a narrow lane that cut straight into the forest. The outside world vanished, swallowed by towering beeches and oaks rising on either side.
Were we almost there? I needed to breathe without Bonnie checking to see if I’d done it right.
What exactly was her problem with me, anyway? I hadn’t done anything wrong yet, had I? Apart from the thing at Novexia when Liam had shown up, and that was hardly my fault. Maybe it was something to do with Kai, but that had been a while ago now. I had no idea. And that was the problem.
At least I could handle myself in France, though. I’d aced my French GCSE roleplay exam on booking a campsite—getting by at the InterContinental would be no bother at all. I was confident in my French.
Liam’s CV hadn’t mentioned a single foreign language, so maybe this was an opportunity to show Bonnie I could do something properly?
New to this kind of circle.
Whatever.
The path wound upward, then the trees broke apart. Cream-colored stone spread out in front of us, massive arched windows, balconies dripping with flowers—the kind of place you saw in period dramas. I was sure Liam’s agenda had us going to the hotel first, but perhaps things had changed.
“Chateau de Chantilly,” I whispered, only to hear Bonnie’s little laugh from the back seat.
“Andrea. This is just the hotel.”
I felt my face get hot. How could this be a hotel?
“No. The sign back there. It said chateau …”
“I can assure you it’s not,” she said.
She was right. The neat brass plaque by the gate said: InterContinental Chantilly Chateau Mont Royal.
“I made the same mistake myself when I first visited.” Liam turned to me and smiled as the car pulled up outside the entry. “In fact, I think Bonnie did too. They put ‘chateau’ on everything over here, even if it’s just a shed.”
He placed his palm on my knee, the weight of it solid and calming. Maybe I wasn’t the world’s biggest moron after all.
Inside the hotel, the lobby smelled like roses and beeswax. Everything was made of marble. Velvet armchairs were dotted around, and chandeliers the size of my Corolla hung from the high ceilings. An actual pianist was playing in the corner. I felt like I’d walked onto a film set.
A man in white gloves and a navy uniform whisked our bags onto a trolley, and Liam made to move toward the front desk, his hand on the small of my back like he was guiding me there. He raised his chin toward the woman behind it, about to speak.
“It’s okay, I’ve got this, thank you,” I said.
I turned to the lady at the desk, who was smiling expectantly.
“Bonjour. Je m’appelle Andrea Jones.” Bonnie and Ben were a few feet behind us, Dex hanging back by the entry. “Les chambres pour Monsieur von Roth, s’il vous pla?t.” I enunciated every word clearly, then glanced to the right and raised a brow at Liam.
Nailed it.
The woman behind the desk looked at me and smiled.
“Bonjour, Madame. Oui, bien s?r …” A string of rapid-fire French followed. I had no idea what she’d said. The odd word popped out that I could just about recognize, but … crap. It was nothing like my Year 11 roleplay. Had she even understood me?
Liam looked at me. “Should I—?”
I shook my head. “I’m okay, thank you. I speak French.”
Maybe chambres didn’t mean rooms anymore. Maybe it was slang now, like pants? The best option would be to introduce Liam. If she found his name, we should be good.
“Ah … oui,” I said. “Je voudrais m’introduire Monsieur von Roth.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up.
“Vous voulez … vous introduire … Monsieur von Roth?” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, eyes darting toward a bellhop walking past.
“Oui, Monsieur von Roth.” I pointed at Liam. “S’il vous pla?t.” I raised my voice a hair and said it more slowly this time, leaning into the French vowels as hard as I could.
The lobby was eerily quiet. Liam cleared his throat. “Andrea, perhaps I should just—”
“It’s fine, thanks, Liam.”
I racked my brain for other ways to say it. I knew my accent wasn’t that bad … Maybe she was just one of those French people who found British people trying to speak their language really annoying.
She stared at me. I stared back. Liam cleared his throat and stood there, motionless.
I reached for my phone to be sure and began to type. Please, Google Translate, don’t let me down.
“Madame,” she said carefully, “ce n’est pas … approprié.”
I frowned. “Mais—oui. Je voudrais m’introduire … avec Monsieur von Roth.”
The silence thickened.
“Do you mean … you’re the party with Mr. Roth, ma’am?”
“Oui … bien s?r. Monsieur Roth.” At last. How had that been so confusing to her?
“Oh! My apologies, ma’am.” She breathed out heavily, putting a hand on her chest. “The group reservation, correct? We’ve had a few last-minute adjustments regarding the suite configuration. I’ll just pull up the details for you.”
So we were back to English then. Oh well. At least I was respectful enough to try. Perhaps now Bonnie would adjust what she thought of me.
The woman behind the desk began tapping on her keyboard. Liam shifted on his feet next to me and coughed lightly, his eyes seemingly fixed on a rather unremarkable framed certificate about hygiene standards behind the desk.
“Right, thank you.” That was weird. I glanced down at my phone, still open on the Translate app. The screen blinked up helpfully:
introduire (verb):
1. to insert
2. to put inside
— usage: introduire quelque chose en soi
My stomach dropped.
Oh God. No.
No, no, no.
I’d just told her—and anyone else who was listening—I wanted to insert Liam Roth.
Inside me.
Liam was still staring at the hygiene certificate.
I locked the screen and shoved the phone in my bag quickly, wishing I’d never been born. Had Ben heard what I’d said? Had Dex? Oh no, had Bonnie? From the look on her face, it was hard to tell. Hopefully, none of them could speak French either.
Liam hadn’t even blinked. Hopefully, he thought “introduire” really did have something to do with introductions. Or maybe a wine region.
“Ah, here it is, Madame, Monsieur.” The receptionist lifted her chin, smiling as if guests loudly declared their intimate intentions at check-in every day.
“We’re fully booked, of course, with the Stewart wedding at the chateau, but we’ve moved some things around and …
” She clasped her hands in front of her.
“We are very pleased to offer you one of our royal suites. It’s on the top floor of the historic wing, with a private salon and views across the Chantilly Forest. Our signature king bed—not a twin configuration.
We assumed this would be preferable for a party such as yours.
And I’ve already had a late lunch sent up, Monsieur Roth, as you requested. ”
One bed?
My stomach clenched. This had to be a mistake. We hadn’t discussed anything like this. Even the adjoining suites at the Radcliffe had felt dangerously close, so much so that for a few reckless moments I’d managed to forget entirely what Liam was doing back in London.
Sharing a room with him wasn’t possible—not a wardrobe, not a bathroom, and certainly not a duvet, no matter how distractingly well his shoulders filled that jacket.