His to Princess Page 11

  “Ah, a proper American breakfast,” Nelly murmurs appreciatively. Then she gestures Talia’s attention to the final plate.

  Talia’s mouth waters as she eyes the most amazing-looking French toast: thick slices of brioche, rich with egg and cream, sliced caramelized bananas, a tiny pitcher of maple syrup, and a side of sausage links.

  On Terre d’Or, Talia had become accustomed to rice porridge and black coffee in the mornings. But this, well…

  She looks up at Nelly and the other people standing at attention nearby. Nelly seems worried.

  “If none of it is to your liking, I will call for Loïc and have him remove it,” she says.

  “No. No! It’s wonderful. It’s just…” Talia breaks off, a troubled look crossing her face. “Are all of you really supposed to do everything I say? Fulfill my every wish, like in the movies?”

  Nelly nods, even though her “keep a straight face at all times” training isn’t enough to hide her confused expression. “Of course! We are here to fulfill your needs. If something is not to your liking, please let us know.”

  Talia nods slowly. “Well, something’s definitely not to my liking,” she says, her voice taking on a serious tone. “See, I really hate eating alone. So maybe I could convince you all to join me for breakfast?”

  She looks over at the woman in the business suit. “You, too. And…well, maybe we can get the guards in here? I mean, this is seriously so much freaking food! And I don’t want any of it to go to waste.”

  Which is how Talia ends up having her first palace breakfast with Nelly, the woman with the clothes rack, Pascal, a half-Vickee like her who was just assigned to her personal detail this morning, and Valnara, a mainlander who introduces herself as the royal family’s legal secretary.

  She hands Talia a clipboard and a Montblanc pen before plucking a croissant from the cart.

  Talia sets down her white china cup. “What is this?”

  “Ah, of course. This is a non-disclosure agreement we’d like you to sign with regards to your stay here. And a document that states you agree to be seen by the royal medical team for the duration of your pregnancy. And—” She pauses, looking at Talia in polite dismay. “May I ask why are you laughing, Madame?”

  Talia covers her mouth with a perfectly laundered cloth napkin.

  “This place is really nice. And everyone has been so kind. But...I am being held here against my will. Are you all aware of this? I’m a prisoner here,” she says this very slowly so everyone is forced to acknowledge her words.

  Talia knows she’s hit a home run because an uncomfortable silence settles over the room. She continues, “Both my parents are lawyers, and I’m going to law school, too.” She looks pointedly at the legal secretary. “I know you’re just doing your job. And I don’t mean to be rude, but you can absolutely forget about me signing any papers, any agreements, anything at all. Is that clear?”

  The woman looks stricken.

  “I am sorry…” Talia says. “But my parents would kill me if I were to sign anything—especially if they had any idea about the situation I’m in.”

  The legal secretary quietly arranges her documents, placing them back in a folder, and stands. “I shall inform the prince. Thank you for your time,” she says. She quietly walks out of the room before Talia can invite her to at least finish her breakfast. No hard feelings…

  But once the woman is gone and the door has closed quietly behind her, Nelly and the other Vickee woman with the clothes rack exchange wide grins.

  “That was crazy, right?” Talia asks, reaching for the decaffeinated tea. “I mean, am I supposed to pretend this whole situation isn’t crazy?”

  “Non, Madame. It is crazy,” Nelly agrees with a sympathetic smile. “But I must confess, when we heard about you…you know, all of us who work here,” she gestures at the other woman, “we are thrilled! A Vickee, here in the castle! It is the first time. And you don’t let those mainlanders boss you around, nuh!”

  Talia smiles back, liking how Nelly’s Terre d’Or accent has slowly crept out now that it’s just the three women and Pascal in the room. But she feels compelled to point out, “Yes, I am a Vickee. Half-Vickee, half-African American. But…well, I’m not exactly a guest. And I have a life of my own that I really need to get back to in America.”

  “Of course you do. I forget myself.” Nelly looks down.

  “Shall we tackle your wardrobe, Madame?” the other woman asks, jumping up from the table.

  And now they’re back to servants and servee. Talia seriously hates all the hierarchy, but the young woman with the clothes rack looks at her so hopefully, she replies, “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got,” and claps her hands together in an effort to lighten the mood.

  Nelly smiles again.

  “Miss Talia, this is Aleeza. She’s in charge of dressing you. Sebastian will be in afterwards to touch you up once he’s finished with Her Majesty.”

  Aleeza steps back to reveal two wheeled garment racks filled with the most amazing clothes Talia has ever seen. Each item appears to have been specifically tailored to compliment a pregnant woman’s figure. Talia leaves her seat and walks over to the racks, fingering through hangers draped in soft fabrics, silks and charmeuse, summer blouses, suits and dresses, and luxury maternity lingerie. After some careful deliberation, she chooses soft cotton Eberjey loungewear. If she’s being kept prisoner in her bedroom, she might as well be comfortable! Next she selects an Alexander Wang shirt dress, a few Missoni maxi dresses, and a tailored Emilia Wickstead floor-length garment that Aleeza refers to as a gown.

  After all selections are made, Aleeza thanks Talia for her time, smiles, and tells her she will make sure Talia has all the clothing she needs for the duration of her pregnancy.

  “Ok then. I guess I’ll get dressed now,” Talia replies, reaching for a pair of cotton jersey pants.

  “Don’t you dare, girl!” Sebastian’s back and he’s pushing another cart through the door. A massage table and three people in black t-shirts and aprons have somehow appeared while Talia was absorbed in the clothes. Sebastian introduces them as her health and beauty team before Talia’s robe is gently removed and she’s guided carefully onto the table beneath a cool sheet. With some assistance, she rolls to one side while a woman massages her back and legs.

  “I am the osteopath. Please let me know if you’re experiencing any specific pain. Carrying twins can be very hard on the body, and we want you to be as comfortable as possible,” she says.

  “Thank you,” Talia replies, sighing loudly as the woman’s adept hands release all the tension that had been gathering around her hips. The masseuse rolls her to her other side, completes the massage, then assists Talia to a nearby reclining chair where the two other women give her a luxury mani-pedi, complete with a hot-paraffin treatment, and an amazing finger and toe massage. While the polish dries, Sebastian wheels up a professional looking metal suitcase, and takes a seat in front of her.

  “Hmmm,” he says, tilting his head as he inspects her skin and hair. “D’accord.”

  He opens the top layer of his case, and unfolds shelf upon shelf of foundations, eye shadows, lipsticks, brushes, sponges, mascaras, and things Talia doesn’t even recognize.

  She gives a small squeak. Talia has never been the type to wear much make-up, and she’s definitely never seen this many cosmetics outside Sephora.

  “Not big on the maquillage, are you?”

  “No, not really. I hardly wear anything back home,” she responds. “Just stuff for my eyes, and a nude lip gloss.”

  “Don’t you worry, my dear. I’ll give you a natural look.” Sebastian squeezes her shoulder reassuringly.

  Ten minutes of foundation application, bronzers, and concealers is way more effort than what Talia’s used to. But when she sees her reflection in the silver hand mirror Sebastian holds up when he’s done, she’s truly amazed.

  “Whoa! You have to show me how to do this on my own,” she says, touching a flawless looking cheek.
No matter how hard she looks, she can barely see any evidence of the makeup at all. She looks ten times better, but still very natural.

  “I told you so,” he smiles. “And now, what are we wearing today?”

  “Well, maybe these sweats?” Talia says, shrugging.

  “No, no, no! You simply cannot put all of this,” he flaps his hands at her newly scrubbed, buffed, varnished, and made up self, “Into something as dull as loungewear! What will the prince say if he sees you in…” he actually shudders, “jersey?”

  “Uh, I don’t really care since he’s the reason I’m a prisoner here,” she answers slowly.

  Only to be met with that kicked dog look from the people who just spent hours getting her ready.

  “Okay, okay, fine!” she acquiesces begrudgingly.

  “Oh thank you, darling!” Sebastian says, fussing over to the rack of clothes Talia has selected.

  Talia can’t help but suppress a small smile. Yes, she is absolutely furious to be trapped here. She’s powerless, pregnant, and being deprived of her rights in a foreign country. Worst still, no one—her friends, her family—knows she’s here. But this morning…the food, the bath, the massages, the beautiful clothes…and the people she’s met, well, she has to admit this is way better than dealing with repeated kicks to the back of an economy seat on a long, cramped flight home.

  After applying eye make-up and a subtle lip shade, Sebastian works luscious smelling product into her hair, transforming her shoulder length curls into long, smooth locks. He trims her split ends, and twists her hair into a low, wide bun at the nape of her neck. Talia’s hair is pulled tight, and he carves her bangs into a soft curve, with a few strands hanging down.

  “Aleeza, the Missoni!” Sebastian reaches out and snaps his fingers. A moment later, Talia’s standing behind a dressing screen where a gorgeous set of Cosa & Bella maternity lingerie waits on an upholstered chair. Hanging over the edge of the screen is a sleeveless, multicolored Missoni empire-waist dress. Not formal attire, but the kind of dressy casual she could never afford on her law student budget. Aleeza drops the Missoni over Talia’s head and torso, and the silky fabric slides down over her chest and hips, finally falling in graceful folds near her feet. Talia feels the bodice hug her curves, and can see how the skirt drapes beautifully over her baby bump.

  “Show us, please, Madame,” Sebastian says.

  Talia steps out from behind her shelter, lips pressed together.

  “Mon dieu, c’est magnifique!” the stylist says, and Aleeza clasps her hands together in obvious agreement.

  “I know, right!” Talia replies, unable to contain herself. She turns before the gilded standing mirror to admire herself from all sides, before facing Sebastian again.

  “Now, all that remains are the shoes. We could only find, euh…these in your luggage.” The little man holds up her admittedly battered pair of flip flops, the ones she wore daily on Terre d’Or. The treads are rubbed smooth, and there are deep imprints where the balls of her feet have scooped craters into the soles.

  Sebastian flings them into a corner, like they’re part of a dead animal he came across unexpectedly.

  “Hey!” Talia says, offended on behalf of the sandals that served her so loyally during her stay.

  Tutting, the stylist leads her to the sofa. “Really, my girl, we’ve had to work very, very hard to arrange all of this so quickly. Your clothes were gathered by our personal shoppers in Paris, and hand delivered on an overnight flight. And I had to call my beauty team back from other jobs. Du coup, we only have ten pairs of shoes to choose from! I hope we can find something that works.”

  Well, when you put it that way…

  Manolo Blahnik, Prada, LK Bennet—Talia tries them all, and decides, for today, on a pair of suede Miu Miu mid-heel loafers.

  Sebastian, Nelly, and Aleeza stand before her with wide smiles.

  “C’est parfait!”

  Talia smiles back, feeling like…well, a princess.

  But then Pascal rushes to her side and takes her by the arm. “Please,” he says softly, gesturing towards the open door and the hallway beyond. “His Royal Highness wishes to meet with you.”

  And just like that, her very own preparing-for-the-prom montage from an 80s teen movie comes to a screeching halt. She remembers she’s being held prisoner here by an incredibly spoiled and ridiculously entitled asshole.

  Talia’s shoulders stiffen. “And if I don’t wish to meet with him?” she asks.

  Pascal doesn’t even acknowledge her question. Instead he says, “Right this way, Madame Jeffries,” with a gentle tug on her arm.

  “Please, call me Talia,” she grumbles.

  But not wanting to cause a scene, she follows him without protest. Yeah, no question about it, Aldrich has ultimate power over everyone who lives and works here. And they are all expected to play by his rules.

  Including her.

  Chapter 17

  Talia and Pascal walk down several long hallways, their footsteps and those of the guards behind them muted by thick, plush carpets. Every few yards, she peeks out floor-to-ceiling windows to the gardens beyond. There are acacias, exotic palms, and…is that an aviary?

  They descend a wide, central staircase. Talia runs a hand down the polished oak banister, and admires the sparkling crystal chandelier majestically occupying the space above the massive foyer. The walls are adorned with truly enormous canvases depicting past kings and queens and their families.

  Pascal leads her down yet another long hallway, this one covered in black-and-white geometric patterns, and finally they stop in front of a door. Pascal knocks three times.

  “Entrez.”

  Talia steels her nerves. This is it. Now’s her chance to fight her way out of this place. Regardless of the makeover and delicious breakfast, she is prepared to do whatever it takes to gain her freedom. Pascal opens the door, and Talia marches through—only to stop short when she takes in the scene in front of her.

  The prince is at his desk—a large, wooden piece with curved legs. It’s covered with massive piles of paperwork. Al’s staring at six documents laid out before him like they’re the missing pieces to a thousand-piece puzzle he’s been working on. He looks like he’s posing for a stock photo titled “hot redhead in a suit; completely overwhelmed.”

  “Highness,” Pascal says, clearing his throat.

  “Yes, what? Is she finally ready?” Aldrich asks in a cranky voice, not looking up.

  “Sir.” Pascal clears his throat a second time.

  Aldrich glances up at Pascal, then finally raises his eyes past the man to where Talia stands near the door.

  “Oh. Oh!” Al’s expression goes from frustrated to pleasantly surprised in an instant. “Hello,” he says to her, a smile lifting his lips as he rises to stand.

  Talia opens her mouth, but the angry speech that’s been spinning in her head ever since yesterday suddenly gets stuck somewhere in her throat.

  “Hi,” she says, instead. She nods at the mountain of paperwork. “What’s all that?”

  “Sit, please.” He extends a hand towards one of two ornate, low-backed upholstered armchairs in front of his desk.

  He then nods to Pascal, and the bodyguard silently slips away.

  And once again, she’s alone with the prince. The prince! Three months have passed and she’s still having trouble reconciling the man who helped her clean up Old Vick with the handsome monarch behind the desk. He sports a crisp white dress shirt with rolled up sleeves tucked loosely into a pair of trim beige linen pants. A lock of his burnished copper hair falls across his forehead when his gaze meets hers. Talia blinks hard to rid herself of the shyness bubbles that suddenly rise up in her stomach. But she’s having a tough time ignoring how hot he looks in “busy ruler of a foreign nation” mode.

  “Talia, custom dictates that I cannot take my seat until you do,” he says, once more indicating the chair.

  She hesitates. Talia came here to fight for the right to leave, and she want
s to stand when she presents her case. That’s one of the first things you learn in law school. But she is pretty sure he won’t continue the conversation if she doesn’t take the seat he’s offering. So with some reluctance, she gingerly perches on the edge of the seat cushion. It’s exactly the way her mother sometimes sits, as if she’s preparing to spring up from her chair at any second.

  But that’s good enough for Al. He takes his seat behind the desk. “Did you sleep well?” he asks politely as he moves a few of his paper mountains so they can see one another across the wide expanse of desk.

  Talia bites her lip. Small talk wasn’t on her agenda, but she’s still very curious about all the paperwork. “Yes. So…what’s all this?” she asks again.

  Al raises his hands, then drops them on the desktop. “As you know, my father was very ill for a long time before he died. During his illness, some administrative things started…slipping. I’ve been trying to catch up, but…it is not going very well.”

  “Huh. So instead of cleaning Old Vick with me, you should have been here, pushing papers?” Talia asks.

  “Believe me, Talia…I’d rather be cleaning Vieux Victoire. This is…” He searches for the word, his English obviously overtaxed.

  “Overwhelming?” she supplies.

  “Oui. That is the word, exactly,” he replies with a grateful nod. “Not only must I catch up on all of this, I must also figure out how to win the hearts and minds of the people who were loyal to my father and still see me as an inept child. The “boy king” as your grand-père called me. Or worse…the “bad boy prince.” Before my coronation, I must convince them I am more than that.”

  “I get it. You need a complete rebranding,” Talia says, immediately understanding. “And you need to tackle all this paperwork.”

  Another weary nod from Al. “Again, the perfect description. Thank you, Talia.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a lot of work in front of you—literally and figuratively.”

  “Oui. The question before me now is how do I change my reputation? How do I win the trust I need to move forward in my new role? I went to l’Ecole d’Economie de Paris to learn to work with numbers, not with people. I can make magic in a board meeting. Orchestrate a merger, predict a new tech boom, identify an untapped market. But people? Everyday people whose lives are more than numbers and decimal points? I’m not a normal person. How in the world can I win them over? And if I don’t, how will I be able to lead them?”