A muffled thump sounds on my door, like someone’s body slamming into it, and I tear my mouth away from Saber’s, gasping for breath. I recognize the voice cursing on the other side of the rattling locked door, and I practically shove Saber away from me as the King enacts his royal privilege to override my locks. Something he’s been doing frequently of late, having convinced himself—admittedly, with my help—that I actually want to see him at any given hour of the day.
From the corner of my eye I see Saber melt into the shadows along the wall, and I flop on my stomach across the bed and grab my tablet just in time to make it look like I’m simply reading in my room. Nothing to see here.
“Danica,” the King says, bursting into my chamber as though he had any right at all.
I look at him wide-eyed. “You could have simply knocked, my lord.”
He shrugs. “I’m the King.”
My left eyelid twitches.
“Join me,” the King says, loosening his cravat and utterly oblivious to my displeasure. “We’re drinking.”
I suppress an eye roll. He looks as though he’s already had a few too many. After a long assembly, with dancing, he thinks I’d like to go drink with his friends at two in the morning? “I’m a bit weary, Your Highness,” I say stiffly.
“Justin. Come on!” He grins. A true, beaming smile. It’s odd how it lights up his whole face. He could be handsome if he weren’t such an asshole. “There’s been so much formality of late. This is just going to be fun.”
Fun? I have grave doubts.
He jogs over and wraps his hands around my thighs and drags me to the edge of my bed, where he pulls me up and sets me on my feet. I have to bite down on an alarmed squeal at his manhandling.
“Let’s go,” he says, twining his fingers through mine and yanking me forward. “Almost everyone in the palace has forgotten that you and I are still teenagers. And you’re the worst of them. Tonight I’m going to remind you.”
I open my mouth to protest again, but then I remember: he’s taking me to see the bots. This week. Before he leaves on his trip. I need that. Damnation.
I’ll go.
I look back at Saber, but His Impatience is dragging me along so rapidly I almost get flung against the doorframe. Tipsy Justin. My favorite. “Slower, Justin,” I say between clenched teeth. “I cannot run in these heels.”
“Kick them off,” he says, scarcely glancing back at me.
I’m beyond annoyed at this point, but I go ahead and ditch my five-thousand-euro custom-made jeweled slippers in the chamber outside my bedroom. M.A.R.I.E. will see them back to their rightful place.
Justin leads me through the darkened and empty Hall of Mirrors, then through the grand salons to his private dining room, but surprisingly, the entrance is barred and we’re subjected to retina scans before M.A.R.I.E. opens the door.
“Exclusive guest list,” Justin says at my questioning glance.
Inside is exactly the kind of party Lord Aaron and Lady Mei and I would have loved a year ago. No one over the age of twenty-five, food that doesn’t require a silk napkin, and liquor in every color and variety the Palace of Versailles has to offer. My allies are there—Ladies Nuala, Breya, Annaleigh, and Mei, and Mademoiselles Tamae and Simone—as well as almost a dozen younger guys who must be the ones His Royal Highness considers his friends. Exclusive? To some, I suppose.
I feel a sharp pang at the remembrance that Lord Aaron and Duke Spencer aren’t here, but have an equal and opposite reaction to Lady Cyn’s absence. Then I wonder how often this sort of gathering has been held previously, with the single variant of me not being invited and Lady Cyn on the King’s arm instead.
I let myself smile at that.
There are fewer than a score of us, and no dress code seems to be in force. No shoes for me or cravat for Justin, but others have slipped into nightwear and I even see a few T-shirts. Bots—only bots, no human servers—bring in food and drink. Bots don’t gossip belowstairs. Glasses are refilled so quickly one can hardly take a sip without being topped off, and the group swiftly becomes languid and jovial.
I take a moment to notice the sparkle of Glitter everywhere, and worry that with Reginald’s higher concentration, several of these young nobles could be on the brink of overdose. How much does it take? It’s so very irresponsible of me not to know…but surely that’s the least of my many sins.
The sun is rising and I’m completely exhausted before the drunken young nobles finally call it a night and begin walking—weaving—back to their rooms. Several head off together, though I happen to know that their residences are not actually in the same direction. What happens in the palace…
Without waiting for the room to clear, Justin bids his remaining comrades adieu and holds out an arm. “Walk with me,” he requests. But with the King, nothing is truly a request, only a nicely worded demand. It’s a habit I utterly despise and wish I could emulate.
“Bien sûr,” I murmur, wishing for nothing but my bed with its downy-soft comforter. My head aches and I feel like I left things with Saber in a bad place. That seems to be happening more and more of late, and I’ve got to do something about it. I just don’t know what.
I’m so close. More than halfway through the woods, surely.
Justin heads, not toward my rooms, but toward his own, and a prickle of intuition makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. The King is vivacious with drink, and I don’t trust that. I’m not even fuzzy, having realized on that pivotal night three weeks ago that, brainless courtier façade or not, I could no longer afford to be anything but clear-minded. Tonight, with the liquor flowing so freely, I suspect Justin is hoping I’m a little tipsy. A little more malleable. But I faked most of my sips, only letting the liquid wet my closed lips. Whatever my husband has in mind, there’s no reason for me to make it easier.
His only slightly unsteady path leads us into his private bedchamber. I work hard not to meet his gaze, standing less than a meter from his huge royal bed, but I fail to see his arm move until it snakes around me, pulling me close. Not roughly, sensually. Which is worse.
“I want you,” he whispers in my ear, one arm twined about my waist and the other lowering to clasp my backside. Thank goodness for panniers and petticoats; I can hardly feel a thing and I imagine he can’t either. “I’m certain you know that. But perhaps you don’t realize how much.”
“My lord—Justin—I—”
“No, no,” he says, cutting me off. “Not tonight. You’re tired and I’m drunk. But think about it,” he says, rubbing his cheek along mine. “The more you say yes to me, the more I’m inclined to say yes to you.”
“Justin, I don’t—”
“Not like that,” he says, his hand along the back of my neck, tilting my face up. “Not a transaction. Just the both of us working together. Being nice to each other. Mutual.”
My jaw shakes with the desire to scream at him that nothing could ever induce me to come to him willingly.
Then I think of Saber. If Saber’s freedom were on this sacrificial altar, would I let myself be more pliable? And with a sinking heart, I realize, I would. So Danica 2.0 files away the suggestion for potential use.
Even though I hate myself for doing it, I lift my gloved hands to frame the sides of the King’s face and I kiss him, slow and deep, until his fingers dig desperately into my waist. I bring him right to the edge. Make him want me. Make him want to please me.
Then I turn away, sweeping my shawl from the floor where it fell when His Highness pulled me close.
“I need sleep,” I say, taking a large step backward.
“You could stay here.”
“Don’t push it,” I whisper, though my eyes must betray my levity, because he backs off.
“Until tomorrow.”
“Don’t even think about comming me until after noon,” I say as a parting shot over my shoulder.
His chuckle
echoes down the hallway after me.
HIS HIGHNESS SENDS me a com about our “date” at 12:01, complete with a cheeky comment about it being after noon. It’s happening today. Tonight. I have no idea how drunk King Justin put this all together so quickly. The itinerary suggests that in addition to inspecting a company warehouse, we’ll be dining in Paris, visiting the theater, and taking a moonlight boat ride on the Seine.
“Dating,” I mutter to myself. “We’re dating.” Though truly, it’s more about PR than romance. Such a public outing means being seen, and being seen means the King is image-crafting—something he’s been doing more or less nonstop since Lady Cyn’s full-frontal faux pas.
He’s using me. Which will hopefully distract him from the fact that I’m using him. I find myself pleased; this is what I’ve been working toward since the night I threw down Lady Cyn. I’ll be the King’s most reliable weapon in whatever battle he cares to fight, but for every victory I bring him, I’ll set my own price.
Saber and I sneak up to Lord Aaron’s office in the early afternoon, ostensibly to borrow some tech equipment—which I actually do need—but also to carefully transport the almost five million euros I’ve been storing there. Thank goodness for my new office—I was out of truly believable excuses to be seen in the business wing of the palace at all, much less in an absent voting shareholder’s office. Not to mention good disguises for the large bundles of cash.
The CFO, Duke Florentine, raised the credit/euro exchange rate for the second time just last week. The king was in a mood at dinner that night and ranted about the sudden recent instability of the Sonoman-Versailles economy. For months I’ve been pulling millions of euros from the kingdom. Which wouldn’t be so significant if that didn’t represent over a billion in Sonoman credits. In my mind it serves them right for running such an unequal system of currency.
It can’t go on much longer. It’s like a tower of blocks that I keep stacking higher and higher. It’s going to topple. Almost certainly sooner rather than later. I suspect I’m down to weeks. I’ve got to get away.
Saber had the idea of loading up a cart with various tech and office supplies disguising the bricks of cash in the middle. We even summoned a bot to come push the cart. Everything appeared remarkably aboveboard. I almost wished we would run into the King. He’d never suspect a thing.
We didn’t, of course. He’s never around when I’d actually like him to be. Instead, I’m greeted by three rather small boxes on my bed with a note to “be ready for photographs.”
“Photographs?” I say to Saber as he closes the doors to my bedchamber.
He rolls his eyes. It makes Saber uneasy, I think, that the King has been putting actual effort into our marriage, perhaps because Saber wasn’t raised to see such separation between personal and professional relationships. The King desires me, true, makes use of me, but he doesn’t love me, and I could certainly never love him.
I lay the boxes on the bed. None is large enough to hold a gown, but all are too large for jewelry. So what—
I’m not sure what to think of the chic Parisian evening dress that slithers from the first box. It weighs almost nothing in my hands and is hardly more than a satin shift with chiffon overlay as light as spider silk. The deep blue dress is sleeveless, and the hem and neckline are edged with hundreds of tiny, glittering beads; a thin band just higher than the waist is a braid of metallic silver threads that wink with the sparkle of what must be true sapphires. It’s pretty, and the fabric is clearly very fine, but compared to the clothing I’m accustomed to wearing, it’s…ephemeral.
In the second box I find a beautiful matching shawl—which anyone wearing so little clothing would surely need—and in the third, stunning, formal heeled sandals.
“High fashion?” Saber asks, eyeing the dress suspiciously.
“It’s branding,” I say, scrutinizing the strappy sandals, wondering how long I could possibly walk upright in them. “To the world, we’re the privileged elite in permanent cosplay. But the King is expanding his business. Suddenly he cares what the world thinks of us, and—”
“And that means being a nice, fashionable Parisian. So he dresses you. Like a doll.”
“No, you get to dress me like a doll,” I say to Saber, before the tension can take root. It works. He grins and unfastens my bodice when I turn my back. I shed my gown in pieces, allowing M.A.R.I.E.’s little helpers to carry each layer back to its proper place.
“I don’t think this will fit over your corset,” Saber says, frowning at the tiny blue dress.
“It might,” I say, but realize that over such thin fabric, the boning and the hooks on the busk will show—at minimum.
Saber smiles with more than a touch of smugness. “Then I think it’s a good thing you’ve been doing so many planks.”
The realization of what he’s suggesting gives me a rush of nerves sufficient to induce nausea. Saber must see the emotion sketched across my face, because he moves a few steps closer and grasps both my hands, rubbing my fingers gently.
“You’re ready. It’s one evening without a corset. You’ve been sleeping without it anyway; think of it as simply a few hours more.”
I shake my head. “Sleeping is one thing. Standing and walking and sitting? And with him! I’m not ready.”
“You are ready. You can do it.”
Tears well at the corners of my eyes and I can’t blink them away before they’re falling on my cheeks. Not crying so much as simply leaking. “I’m so nervous,” I confess in a whisper. “It seemed a better idea in theory.”
“Think of it this way,” Saber says, picking up the dress. “This, with no corset on underneath? It’s going to be sexy as hell.”
“I don’t want to have to be sexy for him.”
“Then be sexy for me.”
I meet his eyes and what I see there gives me courage. While I find a guy in a formfitting set of breeches and a well-cut jacket incredibly appealing, this dress is surely the kind of outfit Saber most prefers. Considering their different backgrounds, in this dress I’ll likely be more appealing to Saber than to His Majesty. I grasp tightly on to that concept.
“I’ll try it,” I say, blinking my damp lashes and trying to draw more than a shallow breath. My Lens shows me that it’s almost time to go. My husband certainly didn’t give me much prep time.
For Saber, I remind myself as he loosens my laces and my corset falls away. Without my usual many layers of underclothes, I find myself feeling oddly shy, and I quickly shimmy into the dress. The satin whispers over my skin, sliding into place with the perfection of a simple cut.
I turn at Saber’s intake of breath. “It’s not that I ever didn’t think you were beautiful,” Saber says, looking me over like a parched man at a cool stream. “From the first moment I met you, you’ve…sparkled. But this—” He gestures at me. “You look absolutely amazing.”
“Wish I could stay in with you tonight.”
“Oh, me too,” he says with a smirk.
All too soon, there’s a familiar pounding at the door, and I’m as ready as I’m going to be.
At Saber’s suggestion, I’ve forgone my ordinarily elaborate hairstyles, opting instead to let my wavy tresses cascade down my back, tied at the nape of my neck with a blue velvet ribbon. The girl in the mirror is a stranger to me, dressed not in the dramatic excess of the Baroque court, but in the understated elegance of the outside world.
“Oh, good, you’re ready,” the King says, closing my bedroom door behind him. “I’d hoped the modern mode of dress wouldn’t be too difficult for you; you seem to have managed.”
I see Saber’s silent scoff in the dressing table mirror and raise my eyebrow a fraction of a centimeter in response. Managed indeed.
The King is also dressed modernly, in a sharply cut tuxedo, though his bow tie still dangles down either side of his neck. I hope he doesn’t expect me to know how to tie such a thing. He?
??s carrying another small box, and as he approaches he waves for me to remain sitting. “I have something special for you.”
“You don’t want to bring in an audience to witness you bestowing it on me?” I ask sweetly.
He waves away my suggestion as though it weren’t a mockery. “No need. This necklace will speak for itself.”
He’s not wrong. I can’t stop a gasp from escaping my mouth as he pulls from the box the largest piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen—and my collection in the vaults includes pieces from the crown jewels of France. Multiple strands of diamonds, falling in layers of scallops, meet in the center of the piece, where three square-cut diamonds the size of my thumb are mounted in a vaguely heart-shaped setting of white gold.
“This isn’t from the vault,” I say.
“No. I commissioned it for you. It’s over five hundred carats of flawless diamonds. Some taken from outdated pieces, and some new. Two of the three in the middle,” he says, pointing excitedly, “were bought by my grandfather almost fifty years ago. He always intended to commission a necklace that would challenge the Mouawad L’Incomparable.” He scoffs at the name of the famous necklace. “No one on earth is ever going to find a center diamond that big again, but the three in the middle of this one are over a hundred carats by themselves.”
He lifts the ornate chain from the box and lays it across my collarbones. The weight is almost choking.
“Had a devil of a time purchasing them. Smithsonian, of course, refused all my offers for the Hope, so I did have to settle a bit on the biggest stone, but I’m pleased enough with the finished piece.”
“Sapphires?” I ask, raising my fingertips to the center trio, but stopping before touching the gems when I remember I’m not wearing gloves.