I am loath to admit he’s right. But he is. In this moment, in this place, there is too much magic in the air to wallow fully in my resentment.
Thankfully, dinner itself isn’t traumatic. There isn’t too much chatter about the RMM, as this intro into the Decennial Summit is all about friends and colleagues reacquainting themselves. At least, that is my hope when my father spends most of his time discussing family matters and local politics with his fellow sovereigns at the table.
Right when the main course is placed before me, I spot the prince from the hallway at a table on the other side of the pool. He is with his mother, the Grand Duchess of Aiboland, an elegant woman whose poise and ability to masterfully enrapture crowds with her speeches has often sent my mother into jealous fits. He is also with a man I assume to be his brother, thanks to similar features. They are dining with the Swedish and Luxembourgian contingencies, and while his mother listens in rapt attention to the Grand Duke sitting at her side, Christian and his brother are far more reserved with the heirs and spares at their table.
I try not to stare, but goodness, if he isn’t the most striking man present in a room full of handsome people. And I hate myself for allowing such a shallow opinion, because beauty is nothing, not when there are so many other traits for a person to be attracted to.
“What’s captured your attention?”
I glance away from the enigmatic prince, back toward my sister. “Just having a look around to see who is here.”
She nods knowingly. Her attention flits about meaningfully, too. Who present might be our (un)lucky future spouses? It’s a nasty business, curiosity and bitterness mingling so closely together.
Neither the Norwegian or Lichtenstein heirs are present; all are safely married with children too young to yet go through the RMM. Rumor has it there is a Lichtenstein cousin upstairs somewhere, but he supposedly fell prey to the stomach flu on the flight over. There is a relief that it’s just Isabelle and I alongside the sovereigns at the table. Small talk is all that is expected of us, which is fine by me.
It’s maddening how my attention returns repeatedly to the future Grand Duke of Aiboland, though. Each time I take in his stiff countenance, the ugly words that fell out of my mouth ring in my ears.
He wasn’t propositioning me at all. Distracted by his phone, and trapped in the same, slim corridor, he simply failed to take note of my presence until too late.
Articulate. Intelligent. Thoughtful . These are all words used by others to describe me, and hours after arriving, I allowed the RMM to wipe them clean away from my personality.
It just will not do. I must apologize to him.
chapter 10
Christian
The mercenary charade known as the RMM officially kicks into high gear shortly after an exquisite, gourmet dinner, as only a macabre event like this can: amidst glamour and ghastly intentions. The stars twinkle in the ombré sky, the sights around us are beyond compare, and light chatter and laughter float through the cool air. To an outsider, the scene I’m ensnared within would appear the event of the century. Nothing could be more glamorous than a gathering consisting entirely of royalty.
How wrong they would be.
We’re all still gathered around the admittedly awe-inspiring Neptune pool that seamlessly meshes Hollywood opulence and Greco-Roman architecture and art. Lit up, like it is now, all hints of turquoise, shimmering liquid against the black velvet of the hilltop and the faint roar of waves nearby, it’s mesmerizing. I don’t consider myself romantic in the least, but I have enough common sense to admit it’s a pretty damn perfect sight.
“One of the Brits says we’re not allowed in unless some park ranger or the like is present.” Lukas passes over a glass of champagne. “I guess California has its knickers in a bunch over that.”
It’s a pity. I sigh
Thankfully, dinner itself isn’t traumatic. There isn’t too much chatter about the RMM, as this intro into the Decennial Summit is all about friends and colleagues reacquainting themselves. At least, that is my hope when my father spends most of his time discussing family matters and local politics with his fellow sovereigns at the table.
Right when the main course is placed before me, I spot the prince from the hallway at a table on the other side of the pool. He is with his mother, the Grand Duchess of Aiboland, an elegant woman whose poise and ability to masterfully enrapture crowds with her speeches has often sent my mother into jealous fits. He is also with a man I assume to be his brother, thanks to similar features. They are dining with the Swedish and Luxembourgian contingencies, and while his mother listens in rapt attention to the Grand Duke sitting at her side, Christian and his brother are far more reserved with the heirs and spares at their table.
I try not to stare, but goodness, if he isn’t the most striking man present in a room full of handsome people. And I hate myself for allowing such a shallow opinion, because beauty is nothing, not when there are so many other traits for a person to be attracted to.
“What’s captured your attention?”
I glance away from the enigmatic prince, back toward my sister. “Just having a look around to see who is here.”
She nods knowingly. Her attention flits about meaningfully, too. Who present might be our (un)lucky future spouses? It’s a nasty business, curiosity and bitterness mingling so closely together.
Neither the Norwegian or Lichtenstein heirs are present; all are safely married with children too young to yet go through the RMM. Rumor has it there is a Lichtenstein cousin upstairs somewhere, but he supposedly fell prey to the stomach flu on the flight over. There is a relief that it’s just Isabelle and I alongside the sovereigns at the table. Small talk is all that is expected of us, which is fine by me.
It’s maddening how my attention returns repeatedly to the future Grand Duke of Aiboland, though. Each time I take in his stiff countenance, the ugly words that fell out of my mouth ring in my ears.
He wasn’t propositioning me at all. Distracted by his phone, and trapped in the same, slim corridor, he simply failed to take note of my presence until too late.
Articulate. Intelligent. Thoughtful . These are all words used by others to describe me, and hours after arriving, I allowed the RMM to wipe them clean away from my personality.
It just will not do. I must apologize to him.
chapter 10
Christian
The mercenary charade known as the RMM officially kicks into high gear shortly after an exquisite, gourmet dinner, as only a macabre event like this can: amidst glamour and ghastly intentions. The stars twinkle in the ombré sky, the sights around us are beyond compare, and light chatter and laughter float through the cool air. To an outsider, the scene I’m ensnared within would appear the event of the century. Nothing could be more glamorous than a gathering consisting entirely of royalty.
How wrong they would be.
We’re all still gathered around the admittedly awe-inspiring Neptune pool that seamlessly meshes Hollywood opulence and Greco-Roman architecture and art. Lit up, like it is now, all hints of turquoise, shimmering liquid against the black velvet of the hilltop and the faint roar of waves nearby, it’s mesmerizing. I don’t consider myself romantic in the least, but I have enough common sense to admit it’s a pretty damn perfect sight.
“One of the Brits says we’re not allowed in unless some park ranger or the like is present.” Lukas passes over a glass of champagne. “I guess California has its knickers in a bunch over that.”
It’s a pity. I sigh
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