Royal Treatment

  “Because fine is a ridiculous word in the context of what you’ve been through. It means nothing. Says nothing.” He shifts, then leans forward. And though I want to look anywhere but at him, my pride won’t let me. I meet his eyes and wait, because I know he’s got more to say. “Unless you take it for an acronym: fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional. In which case…”

  “In the old days you’d be beheaded for calling a prince fucked up.”

  “Good thing we believe in speaking truth to power these days, then, isn’t it?”

  “Truth, huh? You just said I’m doing well and now you’re saying I’m fucked up? Which one is it?” There’s a part of me that can’t believe how calmly we’re discussing this, as if my mental health is no more or no less consequential than the day’s weather.

  “After what you went through, I’d be worried if you weren’t fucked up.”

  “Nice to know I’m right on schedule. If that’s all…”

  “It’s not, but nice try. You need to have a little empathy for yourself, Garrett—”

  “The whole fucking world feels sorry for me. The last thing I’m going to do is feel sorry for myself. It doesn’t make me feel better, it doesn’t make me any healthier, and it sure as shit doesn’t get me closer to the throne.”

  “And that’s still what you want more than anything? The throne?”

  “You know that. We’ve been talking about it for months.”

  He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide how far he wants to push. The knowledge just infuriates me more—that he’s one more person pulling his punches because he doesn’t know if I’m strong enough to take it.

  “Just say it, damn it.”

  An eyebrow arch. “Say what?”

  “Whatever it is you aren’t sure you should say. I promise I won’t have you chained up in the palace dungeon.”

  “The palace doesn’t have a dungeon. I checked before I started working with you.”

  “Damn it, Michael—”

  “Why do you think it is that you want the throne so badly?”

  “It’s not that I want it. I’m not some power-hungry egomaniac.”

  “So you don’t want it? You’ve been pretty focused on it ever since your father told you that he was taking you out of the line of succession.”

  “Of course I’m focused on it. My whole life has been about preparing to sit on that throne.”

  “You say that like it’s fact, but not everything is about the throne.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “It is easy for me to say, because it’s the truth. I know it’s not easy for you to hear that there’s more to life than being king—”

  “Not my life! My life has always been about being king!” I shove to my feet and start to pace. “It’s not about what I want.”

  I spit out the words, sharp as glass. “It’s never been about something as simple as want. Being king is my duty. It’s my obligation. My whole education, my entire life, has been about being worthy enough to wear that crown.”

  For long seconds, Michael doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pours a cup of coffee while he lets my words—and the emotions that generated them—hang in the air around us. And hang they do, until I can feel them crawling across my skin, hear them echoing deep inside of myself.

  “You were abducted because of that crown.”

  I roll the statement around in my head, looking for pitfalls. For land mines. “Yes.”

  “You were tortured because of that crown.”

  “I was tortured because my captors were sadistic fucks who wanted to see if they could break me.”

  “But they didn’t.”

  “No.” Even if most of the time it feels like they did.

  “What they did to you was because of who they were, but the fact that it was you they did it to? That was because of who you are.” He leans forward and picks up his coffee cup. “That was because of the crown. Because of a seven-minute accident of birth.”

  “Are you trying to make me hate myself? Or my brother?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how you feel about yourself and how you feel about being king.”

  “I already told you how I feel about it.”

  “You told me why you think you should be king—”

  “Why I know I should be king.”

  He inclines his head. “Okay. Why you know you should be king. But how does that make you feel?”

  Rage slams through me. “Are you fucking kidding me with this? How does it make me feel? Should we all hold hands now and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

  “Interesting that that’s the image that comes to you when I ask about your feelings.”

  “Would you prefer I throw a temper tantrum like some bad-mannered child?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “What?” I shake my head, trying to figure out if I heard wrong. “You want me to throw a fit?”

  “I’d say you’re about nine months overdue. Despite everything you’ve been through, despite all the pain you’ve suffered and everything you’ve lost, you’ve never thrown a temper tantrum. Never slammed your fist into a wall. You’ve barely even raised your voice.”

  “What good would it do? Me being out of control isn’t going to help Wildemar and it sure as hell isn’t going to convince my father that I’m capable of ruling, so what’s the point?”

  “The point is that walling up your anger isn’t healthy.”

  “Who says I’m angry?”

  Michael looks pointedly at the fists I wasn’t even aware of clenching. Slowly, I force my hands to relax, my fingers to uncurl.

  “The past is the past,” I tell him when I’ve finally got my body back under control. “Dwelling on it isn’t going to help me move forward.”

  “In normal circumstances, that’s absolutely true. But there’s nothing normal about what you’ve been through. Especially since the past is having such a profound impact on your present.”

  “The nightmares aren’t as bad.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But I’m not talking about the nightmares.”

  I fight the urge to shove him out the door. All he’s doing is talking in riddles and after two sleepless nights, I have no patience for it.

  He must see it in my eyes—how close I am to done—because he abruptly gets to the point. “Are you afraid that being abducted and tortured makes you less worthy of wearing the crown?”

  It’s a quiet question, unassuming, but it feels like an attack. Suddenly the riddles don’t seem so bad.

  “Garrett?” he prompts when I don’t answer.

  “My father thinks it makes me less worthy.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s still the reality.”

  “But is it your reality?”

  “My reality doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Right now, your reality is the only one that matters.”

  “I owe it to my people to do what’s best for them.”

  “Even if what’s best is stepping aside?”

  “It’s not.”

  “You owe it to yourself to do what’s best for you.”

  “No.” My rejection is instantaneous, absolute. “That’s not how it works.”

  “Why? Because you owe it to Wildemar?”

  “You make it sound like being king is a game. It’s not. I owe the people of Wildemar…”

  “What do you owe them? Your blood? You gave it to them. Your life? You almost gave that, too.”

  “My life comes with a lot of privileges. But it comes with a lot of responsibilities, too.”

  “Of course it does. But it’s been less than a year since you were abducted, beaten, tortured, and starved. Less than a year since you saw your security
detail—who also happened to be your friends—murdered in front of you. Less than a year since you sustained injuries that took months to heal and that changed your life forever.”

  His tone is matter-of-fact and I appreciate it. I’m so fucking sick of the cloying sympathy, so fucking sick of being poor Garrett. I just want to be me again, just want to have a conversation where the person I’m talking to isn’t thinking about what happened to me, isn’t feeling sorry for me.

  Maybe that’s why Lola intrigued me so much. Even after it became obvious that she knew who I was, she didn’t give me sympathy and she didn’t act like I was a head case. I appreciate that more than I can say.

  “I know you want to go back to being the old you,” Michael continues. “But I’d be remiss as your therapist if I let you believe that there’s even a chance that that’s going to happen. What you went through changed you in deep and lasting ways, and you’ll never be the man you were before the abduction.”

  Helplessness explodes deep inside me at his words, along with a panic that enrages me even as it terrifies me. “What the hell does that even mean? It’s your job to fucking fix me—”

  “It’s my job to help you cope with what happened to you and come out healthy on the other side. You’re not broken, Garrett. You’re hurt and you have every right to be hurt. You suffered unimaginable things.”

  “I survived.”

  “Yes,” he says as he leans forward and stares directly into my eyes. “Yes, you did. Without breaking and without giving your captors anything to use against Wildemar. You have more than done your duty to your country. Now it’s time to give yourself a little of the same consideration you have always given Wildermar.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “I know you don’t. Maybe it’s time you found out.”

  I sink back onto the sofa, my mind racing with everything he’s thrown at me this week. “How?”

  “Only you can answer that, but I can help you start. What’s one thing you want—besides the throne?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It doesn’t have to be big. It can be me getting the hell out of this room and leaving you alone. Don’t think too hard about it. Just spit it out. Name one thing you want, right now. Just one—”

  “Lola.” Her name comes out of nowhere and I’m not sure who’s more surprised—Michael or me.

  “Who’s Lola?” he asks.

  “A woman I met a couple of days ago.”

  “And you’re interested in her?” He sounds cautious, but more optimistic than he was a couple of minutes ago.

  “I’m intrigued by her.”

  Michael lifts a brow. “Intrigued sounds like a good place to start.”

  I think about his words for a second, then think about how Lola had me smiling on the phone this morning before she had to take her work call. “It really does, doesn’t it?”

  Chapter 7

  Lola

  “How much is this Yves Saint Laurent dress?” the blond woman in front of me asks.

  “The Yves Saint Laurent is marked at two hundred euros,” the executor of the estate sale responds, without looking up from the computer in front of him.

  “And the matching coat? How much is that?”

  “Three hundred and fifty euros.”

  “I’ll take it,” she tells him, reaching into her purse, and I feel my head about to explode. It’s one thing to find a deal because the person selling is too stupid to know what he’s got on his hands. It’s another thing to lie about it altogether.

  “That isn’t Yves Saint Laurent,” I say as I crowd closer to the antique table he’s working from. “And neither is the coat. Both pieces are vintage Chanel, and you’ve got them marked at four-fifty and six-fifty respectively. Which is a steal.”

  “She’s wrong. They’re definitely YSL,” the woman trills at him. Then she turns to me and hisses under her breath, “Shut up! You’re ruining everything!”

  “No shit,” I answer, shaking my head incredulously. “I’m trying to ruin everything. You’re trying to pass off vintage Chanel as ready-to-wear Yves Saint Laurent and that gives all of us a bad name, so…”

  “Why is it your business anyway?” she demands, looking me up and down in a way that’s meant to convey just how unimpressed she is with my ripped jeans and faded Aerosmith T-shirt.

  “It’s my business because I hate liars almost as much as I hate cheats. And because I’m a big fan of vintage Chanel.” I turn to the man and slap a pile of cash down on the table in front of him. “I’ll give you seven thousand euros for everything in the closet.”

  “You can’t do that!” the woman squawks, but I ignore her as I quirk a brow and wait for the sale executor to make up his mind.

  “The contents of the closet are currently priced at four times that,” he says, scrolling through what I assume is an itemized list of all the goodies in the big, beautiful wardrobe.

  “True,” I acknowledge. “But the estate sale is set to end in an hour. We’re the only people still here and the closest you’ve come to selling any of this stuff is to Barbie over here, who just tried to cheat you.”

  “What do you call what you’re doing?” she demands angrily. “What’s in that closet is worth way more than seven thousand euros.”

  “Maybe, but at least I’m honest about it. It’s called making a deal versus stealing, honey. You should try it sometime.”

  “Maybe I should.” She turns back to the executor with narrowed eyes. “I’ll give you five hundred euros for the Chanel pieces.”

  “I’ll give you eight thousand euros for it all—as long as you don’t sell her anything.” I cross my arms over my chest and prop a hip against the table as I wait for him to decide which of us he wants to appease.

  It’s obvious he wants to sell to both of us—give her the vintage Chanel and then get the money from me for the rest of it. But that’s not going to happen and, as his eyes meet mine, I make sure he knows it. Then I glance at my watch in an I’m waiting kind of way.

  He gets the message.

  Reaching for the money I’d dropped in front of him, he says, “Eighty-five hundred euros and it’s yours.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” I all but crow. Then I turn to the woman—excuse me, the very, very, extremely pissed-off woman—and carefully divest her of the dress before her tightly squeezed fists can cause any damage to the fragile material.

  “You can’t just do that!” she screeches, and I’m not sure if she’s talking to him or to me.

  Probably both of us, I decide, so I respond, “We already did. Maybe if you hadn’t tried to cheat him, you’d be walking away with this gorgeous piece of vintage couture. But I guess we’ll never know now, will we?”

  “There are some lovely antique perfume bottles displayed in the master bath. Perhaps you’ll find something there that suits your needs,” the executor tells her, tongue firmly in cheek. Have I mentioned yet that I’m really starting to like this guy? He drives a decent bargain and has just enough bitchiness in him to put a person in her place.

  “Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t buy from you now if you begged me to!” The woman whirls around and starts to leave, making sure to knock her purse into my side as she does.

  “Madam!” The word fairly bristles with indignation as he climbs to his feet. He isn’t very tall, but the three-piece suit and barely contained outrage that he’s wearing make him look more intimidating than he is. Or at least as intimidating as he can be—think baby tiger versus house cat. “You are no longer welcome here—or at any other DuBois events.”

  “Like I would ever come to one of your events again,” she says as she storms off, all sour grapes and overripe indignation.

  We both watch her go. Then he turns to me and asks, “Are you all right?”

  “It’ll take a
lot more than a knock-off Coach bag to hurt me,” I tell him.

  He snorts. “Hideous, wasn’t it?”

  “Completely.”

  “But not as bad as the wannabe Manolos.”

  I lift a brow. “You do know your fashion, after all.”

  “I do. And there wasn’t a chance she was getting out the door with those Chanel pieces at the YSL price, but I appreciate you stepping in, anyway.”

  “No, you don’t,” I answer as I study him.

  He laughs. “No, I don’t. She comes to every sale and tries that shit. Normally, I have to put up with it as I’ve never been in charge of a sale before. But now that I’ve been promoted, I was really looking forward to kicking her bony ass out of here.”

  “Sorry to steal your thunder.”

  “No worries.” He fans the cash at me. “Honestly, your way was even better. Though you owe me fifteen hundred euros.”

  “Count it,” I tell him with a grin and a little wiggle of my brows. “It’s all there.”

  “I thought you put down seven thousand?”

  “I offered seven thousand, but I let you drive me up to eighty-five hundred.”

  “Tricky girl.” He narrows his eyes. “I like that in an adversary. And a partner in crime.”

  “Lucky me.”

  He extends his hand. “I’m Willem.”

  “And I’m Lola. It’s nice to meet you.” I start back toward the front door. “I’ve got a few wardrobe bags in my car. I’ll go get them, so I can pack up the clothes and get out of your way.”

  “To the victor go the spoils.”

  “That’s what they say,” I answer with a laugh.

  “I have another sale scheduled for Monday,” Willem calls after me. “Just in case you’re interested.”

  “I’ve already got it on my calendar. My last event before I blow this pop stand.”

  “I’m honored.” He bats his eyes to make sure I know he’s playing with me.

  “As you should be. I don’t stick around for just anybody, you know.”

  An hour and a half later, I pull up to my rented cottage with seven wardrobe bags filled with amazing clothes in the trunk and the makings of a light picnic supper on the passenger seat beside me. Add that to the fact that a real live prince asked me out this morning—even though I said no—and I made an amazing auction contact this afternoon, and I’d say that, so far, the weekend has been a complete and total success.