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“Why don't we spend the day at the Jardin des Plantes? It's the largest botanical garden in Paris, on the Left Bank. It's such a beautiful day; it would be a shame to spend it cooped up inside anywhere.”
Paris imagined wandering among the exotic flowers, hand-in-hand with Alex. It sounded like the perfect day. “That sounds like a great idea.”
Paris knew she wasn't hiding the massive smile that was slowly creeping across her face, but she didn't care.
* * *
Because Paris still wasn't positive where her hotel was, and all she had were the clothes she'd been wearing when she arrived in Paris, Alex had sent off for a collection of outfits for her to choose from.
This has to be a dream, doesn’t it? It was a question she had asked herself a million times since yesterday. On what planet could something like this be real? And yet, every time she literally pinched herself—hard—it hurt like hell.
When she began opening the boxes with the names of designers she only recognized from hearing them in the mouths of famous actors and music stars on TV, she couldn't believe how beautiful they were: flowing skirts, soft t-shirts, a pre-washed denim jacket, cotton bras and cute underwear, all in her size.
Something told her that though these were “simple” items, they were outrageously expensive. The seams were hand-stitched, and the fabric was a deceptively light weight for the high thread count. Every bit of embroidery and lace had the slight variations and imperfections that told her these were custom—not machine—made.
A part of her wanted to object. These items were much too precious for her to wear. But the girly part of her wanted to try on everything. She knew Alex was already dressed and waiting for her, though, so she slipped on a long pink gauzy skirt, a snug white t-shirt that emphasized her generous curves, and the denim jacket, then slid on her converse sneakers. Even without her makeup, Paris felt lovely and ready to explore Paris at Alex's side.
When Paris walked out of the bedroom, her breath caught in her chest at the sight of Alex, sitting at the bar and sipping an espresso. His sparkling eyes were framed in black-rimmed glasses that perfectly highlighted his chiseled cheeks. A navy blue sweater fit snugly over top of a crisp white button-down, all of which accented his muscular physique.
Alex's outfit was finished off with a pair of skinny faded jeans and a pair of Converse that matched Paris', and he looked every bit the handsome man of Paris' dreams. Paris couldn't stop herself from rushing up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and kissing him with all of her being.
When she finally let him free of her embrace, Alex was grinning like a fool. “What was that for, beautiful?”
Paris shook her head, looking down, and then gave him one more quick kiss before taking his hand in her own and pulling him toward the door like a child on Christmas morning, desperate to see what presents Santa had left for them the night before.
“Just because! Come on... we've got a botanical garden to explore!”
13
The strobe lights inside the immense hall made it impossible to actually see any of the clothes that were being modeled by the bored women as they sauntered down the makeshift runway. The DJ crammed in the dusky corner had the music thumping so loudly that no one in the sparse audience could hear Whitney in the back, screaming at her manager.
“What IS this bullshit, Nigel? My line was supposed to debut at a Fashion Week venue! Not at some crappy nightclub five miles from anything! This is ridiculous! No one is even here! How could you possibly be so incompetent?”
As if on cue, the runway collapsed out from underneath two of the models, sending them flying to the floor, and filling the club with dust and debris. Even over the music, you could hear the sound of one of Whitney's creations tearing off its model, ruining about $2000 worth of mulberry silk. And if you really focused, faintly in the distance, you could hear the sharp smack of Whitney's hand as she slapped her manager across the face.
* * *
Paris couldn't stop giggling as the lavender-scented wind whipped through her hair, her hands free from the handlebars as she flew down the bicycle path in the Jardin des Plantes. From behind her, she could hear Alex calling out, “Slow down, maniac! You're going to end up in a rose bush rushing around like that!”
Alex finally caught up to Paris, falling into her rhythm, reaching up to adjust his low hat that had been thrown off-kilter by the breeze. They had been riding bikes through the botanical gardens all morning, stopping from time to time to marvel over a beautiful statue, or take in the lovely scent of a freshly-blooming group of wildflowers. When they finally reached the small zoo on the far side of the garden, and began to lock up their bikes, Paris excused herself to go to the restroom.
“Alex, can you wait one second? I’ll be right back.”
Paris walked away, and as he watched her retreating figure, a deep panic began to creep from the middle of Alex's stomach and spread through his chest, before settling square in the middle of his forehead.
He began feeling all of his pockets: front, back, even the pocket of the button-down under his sweater. His phone. He'd left his phone in his pants from last night. If his parents, or worse, Whitney, tried to call him, they'd end up wearing down the battery pretty quickly when he didn't answer. There was going to be an all-out war when he finally got back to his phone later.
As Paris walked back over to him, Alex tried to paste a smile on his face, and hide his mounting fear over what kind of trouble he was going to be in with his family. He gathered up Paris in his arms and kissed her on the head, as she took in a deep breath of him. He smelled like the gardens, and the soft wool of his sweater.
She clung to his collar, wrapping her arms around his neck. To the other patrons of the botanical garden, Paris and Alex just looked like any other happy couple, lost in love for one another in the most romantic city in the world.
But to the paparazzo snapping pictures of Paris and Alex, the same one who had followed them all the way from the hotel, chasing them on foot despite his sweaty and rotund shape, all he saw was a payday. And with this latest batch of pictures, he could officially cash in on “the cheating Prince of Dalvana.”
Yup... it was going to be a good day.
14
Queen Catriona was the first of the royal family to become aware of what was happening in Paris, and that was only because her assistant was addicted to trashy gossip websites, or as Celia liked to refer to them, “the voice of the people.”
Usually, Queen Cat would just tune Celia out as she rambled on about whatever celebrity nonsense was in the news that day. But today, when Celia rushed in to the Queen's dressing room in a state of total panic, Cat was forced to pay attention.
“Cat... I mean, Your Highness! I saw! I mean... Did you see? Have you heard? I can't believe! Has anyone told you?”
Celia was practically turning blue from lack of air as she spewed forth a torrent of questions that assumed Cat had a knowledge of whatever Celia was rambling about. She did not.
“Celia, for god's sake. Calm down. Clearly, I have no idea what it is you're talking about or I'd be as... fluttery as you. So please take a few breaths and tell me what is going on.”
Celia shoved her tablet in Cat's face with a shaking hand, and when Cat saw the headline, she collapsed into the chair in front of her vanity.
Royal Prince Steps Out on Fiancée with Unknown American!
Catriona looked up at Celia with the wide eyes of a deer caught in the headlights of a Mac truck. From the look on Celia's face, her usual lust for gossip had been hampered by the personal connection this particular bit had to her own life. Cat looked at Celia for some sort of lifeline.
“Is this true? Or is this just some made-up scandal by an internet smut rag? Surely it’s made up. This must be one of those—what is it called? Photo-shop things?”
Celia shook her head vehemently, tears welling in her eyes. Dalvana had always prided itself on its lack of scandal, and its commitment to the old ways of
conducting themselves as a royal family—not like those trashy British royals who were in and out of the tabloids, or worse, the royal family of Monaco, who were one step above trailer trash in her estimation.
For generations, while the royals of Dalvana had been joined through arranged marriages, they had been happy. They had loved each other, and if they hadn't loved each other, they had at least respected one another and put on a good face in public. Cheating was never even considered, let alone acted upon. And while Alexander and Whitney may not have been married yet, it wouldn't change anything about the way the citizens would react to this when word officially got out.
“This isn't one of my gossip sites, my Queen. It's a slightly more reputable news site from the States, and they have... a lot of pictures.”
Cat slumped down in her chair, her head in her hand, not even remotely prepared for the tawdriness of the pictures, let alone an entire article full of her son’s disgrace. With a sigh of defeat, she reached out a hand for Celia's device.
“Just let me read it. I might as well get it over with.”
The first picture Cat saw was of Alexander in casual wear, the kind of clothes he never got away with wearing when he was on diplomatic missions. He had a girl in his arms, a young black woman, a very pretty girl in a carefree and voluptuous sort of way, but a girl who was without a doubt not the poised, pale and near-skeletal Whitney.
Alexander was kissing her on the head, and even with his sunglasses on, even with only half of his face visible, Cat could tell that her son was blissful with this girl in his arms.
