CHAPTER 14 #2
"Carmela?" I gathered my skirts and hurried toward the doorway. "What happened?"
She was standing frozen at the entrance to a small storage area where my other new formal pieces had been hanging. Her face had gone the color of old paper.
I looked past her and saw the destruction.
Every dress in the room had been slashed.
Silk, satin, velvet, reduced to ribbons.
Someone had taken scissors or a knife to my entire replacement wardrobe, cutting through each garment with deliberate, methodical strokes.
The destruction wasn't random or frenzied.
Each piece had been ruined beyond repair but left hanging in place, a message as much as an act of sabotage.
For a moment I just stood there, taking it in. The violated fabric. The precision of the cuts. The sheer malice required to do this.
Then the anger hit.
"Who did this?" My voice came out flat, controlled.
"I don't know, Your Highness. The room was secured. Only staff with clearance could have accessed it."
"Then someone with clearance is responsible."
I stared at the destroyed dresses, and something crystallized inside me. Whoever was doing this wanted me to panic. Wanted me to feel helpless and unwelcome and out of my depth. They wanted me to run back to Oregon with my tail between my legs.
Not a chance.
"Carmela, I need you to do two things. First, don't touch anything. This is a crime scene. Second, call Prince Archie and tell him we have another situation."
"Your Highness, the reception is in four hours. Perhaps we should focus on finding replacement."
"No." I turned to face her, and whatever she saw in my expression made her take a small step back. "We're done pretending these are accidents. Someone is targeting me, and they're escalating. Today it's dresses. Tomorrow it could be something worse. We handle this properly or not at all."
Carmela nodded slowly. "I'll call the Prince immediately."
"Good. And Carmela? Thank you. For being on my side through all of this."
"Always, Your Highness."
Archie arrived in under five minutes. His slightly elevated breathing and the way his shirt had come untucked on one side told me he'd run. The Crown Prince of Solmarina, sprinting through his own palace because someone had destroyed my dresses.
"Show me," he said, and his expression went cold as he surveyed the damage. "Questo è inaccettabile." He turned to Roberto, who'd arrived moments behind him. "I want this room sealed. Full forensic analysis. Every person who had access to this area interviewed within the hour."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"This is the third incident." His voice was tight, controlled, but I could see the anger banked beneath the surface. "First the luggage, then the speech, now this. Someone in this palace is waging a campaign against my wife, and I want to know who."
My wife. The words landed differently now than they had a week ago. Now they sounded like a claim. A promise.
"Archie." I touched his arm, felt the tension running through him. "I'm okay."
He looked at me, and the cold fury in his eyes gave way to something else, concern, and beneath that, a fierceness that made my breath catch. "You shouldn't have to deal with this."
"No, but I am dealing with it. And whoever's doing this is going to be very disappointed when I show up tonight looking fabulous anyway." I gestured at the midnight blue dress I was still wearing. "Besides, they missed this one. Amateur mistake."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "You're something else, you know that?"
"I've been told. Now, what do we need to do to figure out who's behind this?"
The investigation turned up frustratingly little. Four people had accessed the storage room that day, all long-serving staff with impeccable records. Security footage showed nothing unusual. Whoever was behind the sabotage knew exactly how to cover their tracks.
By the time I'd finished with hair and makeup, the sun was setting over the Mediterranean, painting the sky in shades of coral and amber that I could see from my dressing room windows.
The destroyed dresses had been removed, the room restored to its pristine state, but the memory of that violation lingered.
Someone in this palace wanted me gone. Someone was willing to go to considerable lengths to make that happen.
But when I descended the grand staircase and saw Archie waiting in the foyer below, sabotage was the last thing on my mind.
He was wearing his formal naval uniform, dark blue wool with gold epaulettes, medals gleaming on his chest, a ceremonial sword at his hip.
He looked like something out of a historical portrait, all sharp lines and restrained power.
The kind of man who commanded armies and shaped the fates of nations.
And he was looking up at me like I was the only person in the world.
"You look stunning," he said as I reached him. Not beautiful, stunning. Like the sight of me had actually stopped something inside him.
"You already complimented me this morning."
"That was before I saw you in that dress." His voice dropped. "It's doing things to me that I'm not going to describe in a public hallway."
Heat crept up my neck. "Maybe you can describe them later. In a more private setting."
"Is that an invitation?"
"It's an acknowledgment that private settings have certain advantages."
He offered his arm, and I slipped my hand through. The contact sent a current through me, and I saw his eyes go dark slightly, he'd felt it too.
"Ready to charm some Danish trade representatives?" he asked.
"Ready to wing it and hope for the best."
"That's my girl."
The reception hall glittered with crystal chandeliers and the soft glow of hundreds of candles.
Tall windows overlooked the harbor, where the last light of sunset was fading into violet dusk.
About fifty people mingled across the marble floor, champagne flutes catching the light, conversations flowing in a half-dozen languages.
The Danish delegation was easy to spot, a cluster of well-dressed professionals near the windows, studying the view with genuine appreciation.
Minister Larsen, the Trade Minister, turned out to be a sharp woman in her fifties who appreciated that I'd actually researched sustainable fishing practices before the reception.
"Princess Bettina, your insights on marine conservation are impressive," she said after we'd been talking for twenty minutes. "Have you considered visiting our research facilities in Copenhagen?"
"I'd love that. Solmarina has so much potential for sustainable development, and learning from Denmark's experience would be invaluable."
"Then consider it an official invitation. I'll have my office coordinate with yours."
Across the room, I caught Archie watching me. The pride in his expression was unmistakable, not the condescending pride of someone impressed that I'd managed not to embarrass myself, but genuine admiration. Like he was seeing something in me that I was only beginning to see in myself.
The reception continued smoothly, and I found myself genuinely enjoying the work of diplomatic small talk. These were interesting people with interesting ideas, and the conversations mattered in ways that coffee orders never had.
"You're good at this," Archie murmured when we had a moment alone near the refreshment table.
"I'm faking it extremely well."
"You're not faking anything. You actually care about the topics you're discussing. People respond to that."
"I care about not embarrassing myself or causing an international incident."
"Same thing."
By the end of the evening, I'd collected business cards, discussed potential collaborations, and impressed enough people that multiple follow-up meetings had been scheduled.
Minister Larsen shook my hand warmly as she left, promising to send information about Copenhagen's sustainability research centers.
"You handled that beautifully," Archie said as we walked back toward my rooms, our footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors. "The way you engaged with Minister Larsen, the questions you asked, you have real instincts for this work."
"I was shaking the entire time."
"You didn't show it."
"Years of practice. Customer service teaches you to smile through anything."
We'd reached my bedroom door, and the memory of last night rose up between us, standing in this same hallway, the same soft lighting, the same electricity in the air. Except now we both knew where this could lead. Now we'd already crossed that first threshold.
"So," I said. "Here we are again."
"Here we are."
"Last night you walked away like a gentleman."
"I did."
"Any plans to repeat that performance?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you want me to."
I thought about the sabotage, the uncertainty, the dozen reasons this was complicated. I thought about the person who wanted me gone, the political implications of everything we did, the fact that this marriage had an expiration date I was still trying not to think about.
And then I thought about the way he'd looked at me when I'd come down those stairs. The way he'd said "my wife" like it was a vow. The way he'd spent the entire evening watching me with an expression that made me feel like I mattered.
"I don't want you to walk away," I said.
"Then I won't."
He kissed me, and there was nothing tentative about it. His arms came around me immediately, pulling me flush against him, one hand sliding into my hair while the other pressed against the small of my back. I gripped the lapels of his uniform jacket and kissed him back with everything I had.
"Inside," I managed against his mouth.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He reached past me and opened the door, and we stumbled through together, still kissing. He kicked it shut, and suddenly we were alone in my sitting room with no more audiences, no more interruptions, no more reasons to hold back.
Except he did pause. He pulled back just enough to look at me, breathing hard, his hands still framing my face.