the master bedroom and head towards the grand staircase. We reach the top of the staircase. At the bottom step is a man dressed in a Mondorra uniform. The man silences the whispered conversations of the guests below.
“His Royal Highness, the Prince of Mondorra and his escort Madam Rousessau of the United States,” the man announces to the crowd.
I hear live trumpets boom below. The Prince takes my hand and begins to walk down the stairs. We have done this before. However, the last time we were announced, the crowd below were raucous party goers, ready to embrace the Prince. This time, we are walking towards people who could be planning our demise.
The Prince descends with a grace that most men - and women - could only wish they could master. The royal leader’s posture is impeccable. His eyes pierce through every guest as he reaches the final step. When the Prince reaches the bottom step, every single guest bows their head in reverence. The Prince returns the bow. Then he smiles wide and welcomes the guests with a rather casual declaration, “Excellent to see everyone this evening. I don’t think we’ve done this since New Year’s.”
I look over the crowd. There are about eighteen attendees in all - eight couples and two men. Half of the group appear genuinely happy. The other half of the invited guests look terrified and uncomfortable. From my vantage point, it is rather easy to see who amongst them have been speaking out against the Prince. The royal leader turns his attention to me and says, “I do not think everyone here has been introduced to Madame Rousseau. I hope you can extend her every courtesy,” the Prince says to which every member of the crowd smiles and nods. I can only imagine what some of the more conservative guests think of my short skirt and plunging neckline.
The Prince directs the guests to a nearby bar. I begin to mix amongst them. Many of them seem excited to meet me. Some of the others - the ones who seem terrified to be here - ignore me and attack the open bar like drunks who have recently fallen off the wagon. Some of the guests ask me many questions about how the Prince and I met. One particular woman, Vanessa, is an American. She whispers into my ear, “My husband swept me off of my feet and took me to Mondorra. It looks like your dream is coming true.” Well, she is certainly on our side. I look at some of the men at the bar. The ones who have fear and hate and confusion in their eyes. They seem like wounded lions. Though these men are in the inner sanctum of the Prince, I do not regard them as any less dangerous.
A bell announces the commencement of dinner. The Prince and I walk to the grand dining room where a massive table has been laid out for the Prince, myself and all eighteen guests. I notice placards in front of each chair. Assigned seating! It looks like the Prince is ready to control every aspect of this evening. The guests make their way to their respective chairs. The Prince, naturally sits at the head of the table. I find myself seated on the right side of the table, right next to my royal lover.
The Prince sits down first. We follow suit. The many servers are quick to provide wine and other libations to the guests. The Prince is presented with an ancient bottle of wine that looks to be at least 300 years old. I can only imagine the significance and importance of that particular bottle of wine. He is poured a glass into a golden chalice. The Prince then directs the head wine server to pour me a glass from that ancient bottle. No one else is allowed to sip this coveted bottle.
Just as the Prince is ready to have the chalice touch his lips, one of the older gentlemen stands up. He was one of the men, at the bar, who had been leering his disapproving eye at me. The older gentleman looks at the Prince with the glass of wine in his right hand. “Long live the Prince!” The other guests stand up and repeat that same toast to loyalty.
“His Royal Highness, the Prince of Mondorra and his escort Madam Rousessau of the United States,” the man announces to the crowd.
I hear live trumpets boom below. The Prince takes my hand and begins to walk down the stairs. We have done this before. However, the last time we were announced, the crowd below were raucous party goers, ready to embrace the Prince. This time, we are walking towards people who could be planning our demise.
The Prince descends with a grace that most men - and women - could only wish they could master. The royal leader’s posture is impeccable. His eyes pierce through every guest as he reaches the final step. When the Prince reaches the bottom step, every single guest bows their head in reverence. The Prince returns the bow. Then he smiles wide and welcomes the guests with a rather casual declaration, “Excellent to see everyone this evening. I don’t think we’ve done this since New Year’s.”
I look over the crowd. There are about eighteen attendees in all - eight couples and two men. Half of the group appear genuinely happy. The other half of the invited guests look terrified and uncomfortable. From my vantage point, it is rather easy to see who amongst them have been speaking out against the Prince. The royal leader turns his attention to me and says, “I do not think everyone here has been introduced to Madame Rousseau. I hope you can extend her every courtesy,” the Prince says to which every member of the crowd smiles and nods. I can only imagine what some of the more conservative guests think of my short skirt and plunging neckline.
The Prince directs the guests to a nearby bar. I begin to mix amongst them. Many of them seem excited to meet me. Some of the others - the ones who seem terrified to be here - ignore me and attack the open bar like drunks who have recently fallen off the wagon. Some of the guests ask me many questions about how the Prince and I met. One particular woman, Vanessa, is an American. She whispers into my ear, “My husband swept me off of my feet and took me to Mondorra. It looks like your dream is coming true.” Well, she is certainly on our side. I look at some of the men at the bar. The ones who have fear and hate and confusion in their eyes. They seem like wounded lions. Though these men are in the inner sanctum of the Prince, I do not regard them as any less dangerous.
A bell announces the commencement of dinner. The Prince and I walk to the grand dining room where a massive table has been laid out for the Prince, myself and all eighteen guests. I notice placards in front of each chair. Assigned seating! It looks like the Prince is ready to control every aspect of this evening. The guests make their way to their respective chairs. The Prince, naturally sits at the head of the table. I find myself seated on the right side of the table, right next to my royal lover.
The Prince sits down first. We follow suit. The many servers are quick to provide wine and other libations to the guests. The Prince is presented with an ancient bottle of wine that looks to be at least 300 years old. I can only imagine the significance and importance of that particular bottle of wine. He is poured a glass into a golden chalice. The Prince then directs the head wine server to pour me a glass from that ancient bottle. No one else is allowed to sip this coveted bottle.
Just as the Prince is ready to have the chalice touch his lips, one of the older gentlemen stands up. He was one of the men, at the bar, who had been leering his disapproving eye at me. The older gentleman looks at the Prince with the glass of wine in his right hand. “Long live the Prince!” The other guests stand up and repeat that same toast to loyalty.
Similar Books
