CHAPTER 6
Archie
I was reviewing the morning intelligence reports in the Valdorian palace's secure briefing room when my phone buzzed with an encrypted call from Washington. The caller ID showed a number I recognized but rarely received calls from this early in the morning.
"Mr. Secretary," I answered, settling back in the uncomfortable chair while spreading the classified documents across the borrowed desk.
Even in a crisis, everything in this palace had to be unnecessarily ornate.
The chair alone probably cost more than most people's cars, and it was somehow still terrible for my back.
"Your Highness. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time, but we need to discuss the timeline for the Mediterranean alliance."
Secretary of State Richardson's voice carried the kind of tension that meant someone in Washington was breathing down his neck. Probably someone whose title started with "President."
"What's changed?"
"Our intelligence sources are reporting accelerated Russian naval activity in the Black Sea. They've moved up their timeline."
I pulled up the satellite photographs that had arrived an hour earlier, showing the submarine positions that had been keeping me awake at night. "I'm looking at twelve submarines as of yesterday morning. That's double their normal deployment."
"Fourteen as of six hours ago. And their so-called training exercises were supposed to end two days ago, but they've been extended indefinitely."
I rubbed my temples. "How long do we have?"
"Our analysts are saying forty-five days, maybe less. That's when the exercises end and they'll be in optimal position for Mediterranean action."
Forty-five days. The wedding was in five days, but that was just the beginning. The real challenge was making sure Betty could convincingly play the role of a princess in love long enough for Congress to approve the defense package.
My wife, I thought, testing the words in my mind. In five days, Betty Montclair would be my wife.
The thought should have filled me with dread. Instead, anticipation curled through my chest.
"What's the status on Congressional approval?" I asked, forcing my attention back to the crisis at hand.
"That's why I'm calling. The Senate fast-tracked the defense authorization bill last week. It passed with bipartisan support, contingent on the formal alliance treaty."
"And the alliance treaty requires..."
"A royal marriage that demonstrates permanent commitment between our nations," Richardson finished. "No marriage, no treaty. No treaty, no base rights. No base rights, and we're looking at a Mediterranean crisis within months instead of years."
I stared at the maps spread across my desk, each one showing how vulnerable European energy supply lines would be if Putin gained control of key shipping lanes.
Forty percent of European energy imports flowed through the Mediterranean, and most of those routes passed through waters that Solmarina could theoretically control.
Theoretically being the key word. We were a tiny nation with a respectable navy but nothing that could stand up to a coordinated Russian operation.
"The President wants to know if there are any concerns about the marriage proceeding as planned," Richardson continued.
"No concerns," I said, thinking of Betty's laugh, Betty's stubborn determination, Betty's complete inability to hide what she was thinking. "The princess is adapting remarkably well."
"Good. We need this alliance, Your Highness. More than you know."
After I ended the call, I sat there staring at the submarine photographs and thinking about Betty.
In a few hours, she'd arrive at the stables for her second riding lesson.
Where she'd look at Peter the riding instructor with trust and growing affection, completely unaware that he was the same prince she'd described as "probably stuffy and condescending" yesterday.
The irony was almost funny. Almost.
She'd also promised to bring me a latte. Her maple cinnamon specialty. The thought of Betty making me coffee, of having something that was just ours, made me smile like an idiot at classified military documents.
Get a grip, Archie. She's making you a beverage, not declaring her undying love.
But these morning intelligence briefings were becoming the hardest part of my day. Not because the strategic situation was deteriorating, but because they reminded me exactly how much I was asking Betty to sacrifice without her knowledge or consent.
Forty-five days until Putin would be in position to strangle European energy supplies. Five days until our wedding. And however many days it took for Betty to realize that the six-month marriage she'd agreed to was actually going to define the rest of her life.
I just hoped she'd forgive me when she figured out the truth.
* * *
Betty
CELESTE STOOD PATIENTLY while I brushed her coat, her dark eyes watching me with the kind of calm acceptance that suggested she understood I needed this mindless activity more than she needed grooming.
The rhythmic motion of the brush should have been soothing, but my mind was churning with the memory of yesterday's almost-kiss and the growing certainty that I was royally screwing up everything.
"I really like her," I told the mare, the words falling into the stable air like a confession. "My own fiancée, and she has no idea who I am."
Celeste turned her head to nuzzle my shoulder, offering the kind of non-judgmental comfort that only horses seemed capable of providing.
"The worst part is, she thinks she's betraying me. Her future husband." I set down the brush and leaned against the stall door. "She's beating herself up for having feelings for someone who isn't Prince Archibald, and I'm standing right there letting her torture herself over it."
The irony was so twisted it would have been hilarious if it wasn't also making me want to bang my head against the nearest wall.
Betty was falling for me while thinking she was being unfaithful to me.
She was wracked with guilt over a betrayal that didn't exist, while I was committing an actual betrayal by lying to her about who I was.
"What kind of person does that make me?" I asked Celeste. "She's been nothing but honest with me. Completely authentic. And I've been lying to her face every single day."
Yesterday's almost-kiss played on repeat in my mind.
The way she'd looked at me, the way she'd risen up on her toes to meet me, the way her breath had caught when our faces were inches apart.
She'd wanted to kiss Peter, the riding instructor.
The man who treated her like a normal person instead of a political necessity.
Would she have wanted to kiss Prince Archibald?
The answer to that question kept me up at night, because I was starting to suspect it was no. She was attracted to the person I was when I wasn't being royal. When I wasn't weighed down by titles and expectations and the constant performance of being a prince.
"She asked me what I thought Prince Archibald was like," I continued to Celeste, running my hand along her neck. "And I told her he wasn't what she expected. But what if he is? What if the real me, the prince me, is exactly the kind of entitled, condescending aristocrat she's dreading?"
Celeste snorted, which I chose to interpret as disagreement.
"You're right. I'm not like that. At least, I don't think I am. But how would she know? All she knows about Prince Archibald is what other people have told her. She's never had a real conversation with him." I paused, realizing the absurdity. "Except she has. She just doesn't know it."
This was getting complicated. This was getting very, very complicated.
The sound of footsteps on cobblestone made me look up.
Through the stable window, I could see Betty crossing the courtyard with Madame Delacroix, and even from a distance, I could tell the lesson wasn't going well.
Betty's shoulders were rigid with tension, and Madame Delacroix was gesturing in the sharp, impatient way that meant she was correcting yet another breach of protocol.
I moved closer to the window to get a better view.
They'd stopped near the fountain, and Madame Delacroix was demonstrating something, probably the proper way to acknowledge dignitaries or some equally ridiculous bit of choreographed courtesy.
Betty attempted to mimic the motion and immediately earned a sharp correction.
"Non, non, Your Highness. You must glide, not march. This is not a military parade."
Even from here, I could see Betty's whole body stiffen at the criticism. She tried again, her movements more controlled but somehow less natural. Madame Delacroix shook her head with the kind of theatrical disappointment that was clearly designed to shame rather than instruct.
"Perhaps we should focus on simpler movements first. Walking without looking like a farmer, for instance."
My hands clenched into fists. The urge to march out there and tell Madame Delacroix exactly what she could do with her etiquette lessons was almost overwhelming.
Betty was trying so hard, putting herself through this torture because she believed it was necessary, and all she was getting in return was condescension and cruelty disguised as instruction.
"Your posture suggests defiance, Your Highness. Royal bearing requires submission to the proper forms."
Submission. As if Betty's spirit was something that needed to be broken rather than channeled. As if her authenticity was a flaw rather than the most valuable thing about her.
I watched as she straightened her spine and lifted her chin, clearly fighting the urge to tell Madame Delacroix what she thought of her submission comment. The small act of defiance made me want to cheer, but I could see the cost of it in the tight line of her shoulders.
That's my girl, I thought, then caught myself. My girl. My wife. When had I started thinking of her that way?