Page 41 of Princessa
Chapter 24
During my younger years, age three to about thirteen, an appointment to see the king and queen—my parents, for goodness sake—was never a condition. I’d just waltz into the stateroom, their office, bedroom, boardroom, a courtyard tea, wherever the hell they were, and simply frolic about, not a care in the world. As I grew older, my time with them was always announced, prearranged, predetermined. Which is one reason I valued the hours carved out for family-only affairs like picnics, dinners, or watching silly telenovelas.
Thisappointmentwith the almighty king and queen felt more like I was walking into some meeting with a judge in an effort to plead my case, beg for him to spare me a life sentence. In truth, marriage to The Dragon, commonly known as Iris Godiva, would have been worse than a life sentence—marrying her would have been the equivalent to a death sentence.
Harsh comparison? Whatever. You don’t know her. Anything about that conniving woman could turn a blissfully-ever-after tale into a dark and tragic one.
“Everything okay, Your Highness?” Dom asked, as he trotted alongside me, his Spanish accent ever so present. Built tall and thin, he was an older gentleman, approaching seventy, but still had jet-black hair of a man half his age, albeit some of it balding. He began his work at Andorra Palace as a groundskeeper, way before I was even born. Working his way up the household career ranks, he’d been our Master of the Household for close to twenty years, in charge of all things hospitality—including training butlers into future household masters, many of which had moved on to work at the esteemed Buckingham Palace.
It’s what we did for our employees, our household team. We hired them, and helped cultivate their career to the next level, even if that meant we were grooming them for bigger and better things.
“Yes, I’m okay,” I said, sweat forming on my palms, heart rate erratic. “A little anxious, but okay.”
Nearing wide, cerulean double doors that would take me into the stateroom, I mentally reviewed talking points composed the night before.
And as Dom opened the doors to announce me, I inhaled a deep, mind-cleansing breath before stepping in.
Inside the stateroom,the king and queen—Mom and Dad—were surprisingly dressed business-casual, instead of their normal, day-to-day suited attire, which gave me pause. Was the meeting going to be a short, one-sided conversation filled with them basically bashing my attempt at reason?
Think. Positive.
Mom, who was seated beside Dad on the cream-colored sofa, situated in the center of the grand space, stood first. Her arms were fanned out, her younger-than-she-really-was-looking face fully dressed in a smile.
“Mijo!Come, give your mother a hug. I’ve missed you so much.”
Dad stood, mouth stretched from ear to ear, as I approached with caution, them both enveloping me in a hug.
In their late sixties, both appeared at least ten years younger. Dad, tall, with a naturally sun-kissed skin tone like myself, still possessed slim and fit qualities thanks to the fitness staff employed at the palace. Mom, petite and slim, always appeared glamorous to me, with long, raven-colored hair, skin as pale as mountain snow, eyes sapphire-blue like mine. Growing up, her friends used to call her Snow White, especially since she lived with seven overprotective brothers.
“Let’s sit and chat,” said Dad as the pair took a seat on the sofa.
“I’d rather stand, if that’s okay. I’ve been sitting for six hours on the drive over here.”
One of our servants—Bethany—dropped off a tray of tea and pastries, acknowledged my presence with a nod, then left the three of us alone.
“So,” Mom initiated, her proper spaniard-accented tone still evident after all her sixty-plus years. She poured tea into a porcelain cup and handed it over to Dad. “Tell us why you fled from home? You know we could have worked all of this out eventually.”
As I’d always done when nervous, I shoved my hands into my pants pockets, trying not to trip over the bullshit while I paced the floor. “Really?” I let out an amused scoff. “Not according to Gaspard, who was pretty damn adamant I needed to announce Iris as my to-be-wed at theCompromísGala.”
“You know how animated Gaspard can get,” chimed in Dad, legs crossed, sitting back on the sofa while sipping tea Mom prepared for him. “And the announcement at the Gala shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you, nor the fact that you’re now thirty-five and need to be married before your next birthday.”
Boom. Dad was always straight to the point, no dicking around.
“But not toIris, of all fucking people. She’s the reason I left.” I paused, making my way to the grand window overlooking the regal courtyard. Its plush, green trees and bright flowers were a calming contrast to the red I was beginning to see. “I wanted to take a stand, initiate a revolt against something that dictates when someone should be married.” Spinning on my heels, I trekked over to the sofa across from theirs and plopped down, hands forming a steeple. “Love happens when it does. Could be at age sixteen, twenty-two, or seventy-eight. No one should be forced into a loveless marriage just to satisfy some useless, pathetic, and utterly pointless decree. Rules are supposed to improve, safeguard the quality of life. Not destroy it.”
Even though I went a tad off course from my planned spiel, I’d never felt more confident that I’d gotten my point across. But the suffocating silence that followed, filled the room like a septic fog.
Regal as they were, my parents sat quietly across from me, marinating in the truth I poured all over them. It was the first time they’d ever been speechless, so naturally I began to worry I’d taken it too far.
At last, my father cleared his throat. “Andorra’s royal marriage decree—as useless, pathetic, and utterly pointless as it may seem—was indeed derived to safeguard the quality of life. A man can’t rule a country founded on principles of church, family, and marriage if he’s galloping around single, lacking the personal fundamentals needed to model said principles.”
In a matter of seconds, I began to feel smaller, far less badassy than I did when I stood tall, regurgitating my feelings in front of a man who had not only ruled a country for so many years, but also our family.
“Thirty-five years,” he went on, “is a long time to find someone to share your life with. Someone who will one day rule this beautiful country at your side, the same way your dear mother has been by mine all these years.” He placed his cup of tea on the table and took my mom’s hand in his. “The verbal arrangement we’d made with Lord Devon Godiva several years ago was a mere formality. Truthfully, your mother and I hoped to God you’d meet someone on your own. Iris Godiva is not someone we think will befit our lovely nation.”
Relief washed over me, a mighty weight lifted off my shoulders.
“However”—my father raised his index finger—“you’re still required to marry someone before your next birthday and present your chosen prospect—someone your mother and I approve of—at theCompromísGala in three weeks.”
I got to me feet, that confident swagger I walked in the room with, tailgating me once again. “You’ll meet her this evening at dinner.”
