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Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Dad’s gone. He’s left Queen Margrethe’s blanket neatly folded on the end of the couch, along with a note. The note says:
Mia, thank you for the hospitality. Sorry about my behavior last night. I don’t know what came over me. I feel much better today. Perhaps it was the cheesy bread.
In the light of day I feel that it is much better if we don’t pursue the subject we discussed last night. It is, after all, an election year, and that particular subjec
t could hurt me in the polls. And as mentioned, I don’t know that I have the necessary qualifications for that particular position.
Then there’s always your wedding to think of. I don’t want such a happy occasion to be marred by foolishness from my past. So I think it’s best that, as soon as my legal entanglements are cleared up, I return to Genovia.
As for the other topic we discussed, on that I cannot budge. It’s the height of fiscal foolishness for you not to obtain a prenuptial agreement. You are the heiress to one of the largest fortunes in Europe, and it makes no sense for you to enter a marriage without some legal protection. Please reconsider.
Truthfully, Mia, I don’t think I’m the type to travel without following a map.
Sincerely,
Your father
Artur Christoff Phillipe Gérard Grimaldi Renaldo
Prince of Genovia
I can tell he means it, too, because he’s used all his names in the right order.
He’s also taken all the leftover cheesy bread with him.
Foolishness from my past? That’s how he’s chosen to refer to his own progeny?
Nice.
Well, if he thinks he’s going to intimidate me into backing down about Olivia—and the prenup—he’s wrong. I’m not giving up. I’m going to have a relationship with my little sister, and like Michael said about marrying me, it’s going to happen sooner rather than later.
Apparently not at this precise moment, however, because the deputy prime minister wants a conference call, and then after that—according to my itinerary, anyway—I have my first wedding-gown fitting.
Seriously. This is my life, as if things weren’t bad enough. Last night I dreamed that Bruce Willis took me to the ballet, and when, during intermission, he turned to ask me what I thought of the performance, I wasn’t wearing any clothes. I dreamed I went to the ballet naked with Bruce Willis.
In a way I almost wish RoyalRabbleRouser would try something—just a very minor assassination attempt (to get it over with so he could be arrested already; one that only slightly wounded me and of course didn’t hurt anyone else)—so I’d have to be hospitalized for a little while and not allowed any visitors. Then I could drink Sprite and watch the Food Network for a day or two and have total peace and quiet.
But I realize this is hardly a healthy fantasy.
Although certain reality stars seem to check themselves into the hospital quite a bit for “exhaustion.” An assassination attempt would be a legitimate excuse, at least.
CHAPTER 45
10:15 a.m., Wednesday, May 6
In the HELV on the way to Sebastiano’s
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Just had the most disturbing conversation with Suzanne Dupris, the Genovian deputy prime minister (who said she’s been trying to reach Dad, but he won’t return her calls. Honestly! Is Dad so scared of women he can’t even return their business calls?).
Apparently they’ve run out of camp beds (and “sanitation stations,” which is the polite word for portable toilets) at the Port of Princess Clarisse for all the Qalifi refugees who’ve fled there.
Worse, several of the refugees’ TB tests have come back positive.
