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His mother was the strongest woman he knew. Which was why everything inside him tightened when, after several minutes examining the spectacular view from her office window, she returned to her desk, planted her palms on the polished antique cherry wood and locked eyes with him.
‘It’s time, Remirez.’
His gut clenched tighter. She very rarely used his full first name. As a child that had never boded well for him or his hide. As a grown man of thirty-two it still commanded his attention.
Unable to remain seated in the foreboding of impending fate, he stood and paced in front of her desk. ‘How much time are we talking, here? Weeks? Months?’
It wouldn’t be years. She’d already given him two years. And lately she’d indicated, without cruelty, that it was time to set his own grief aside.
‘I would like to make the announcement that I’m stepping down at the next Solstice Festival.’
The third week in June.
‘That’s...three months away.’ The reality of it hit him like a cold wave in the face.
‘Yes,’ she replied firmly. ‘Which means time is of the essence. We must put our house in order before we begin to make the announcements.’
‘Announcements?’ he echoed. ‘Plural?’
His mother’s gaze dropped momentarily to her desk. ‘I’m not just stepping down, Remi. I’m also taking extended leave from all official duties.’
Isadora Montegova wasn’t just the ruling monarch, she was also an active member of parliament.
‘You’re resigning? Why?’
Her lips compressed—a sign that she didn’t like to admit whatever it was she was about to say. ‘The past few years have been difficult for both of us. I need a little...time away from everything.’
She wouldn’t stoop so low as to call it me time, the way others might, but if anyone had earned the right to retreat and regroup it was his mother.
Not only had she borne the unexpected death of her husband with unwavering strength, she’d weathered the subsequent scandal unleashed by the discovery of her husband’s decades-long secret with remarkable dignity and poise.
Behind closed doors, though, Remi had caught glimpses of the true toll it had taken on her. He himself had barely been able to hold back his fury at discovering that the father he’d held in such high esteem had proved to be faithless. Over the years his rage had boiled down to a simmering resentment, but it had never dissipated. Because not only had his father caused his mother untold hardship by his actions, he’d also thrown the kingdom into turmoil for years. Years which had taken a brutal toll on his mother. On him and on Zak, his younger brother.
Secrets and lies. It was a cliché until it happened on your doorstep and was played out for the world to see.
He tamped down on his fury as his mother reached out.
‘Which brings me to the next housekeeping problem.’ She opened a slim folder and slid it across the desk.
And there, displayed in full Technicolor, was the latest source of his mother’s angst.
Jules Montegova.
The surly half-brother who’d been presented to them moments after his father’s burial. The twenty-eight-year-old whose paternity had been proven via a discreet DNA test, to be royal, courtesy of an illicit affair his father had in
dulged in when he had briefly been stationed in Paris on diplomatic duty.
Jules was the scandal that had nearly unsettled the kingdom. The paparazzi had gone on a feeding frenzy for months, prising open every closet they could find in the hope of unearthing more skeletons.
It would have been easier to stomach had Jules not proved to be nothing but a thorn in their sides from the moment he’d arrived in Montegova ten years ago.
Remi scanned the picture, his jaw clenching as he noted the glassy eyes, the dishevelment, the slurred expression of drunkenness. ‘What has he done now?’ he bit out.
Queen Isadora’s mouth twisted. ‘A less aggravating question would be what hasn’t he done? Three weeks ago it was reckless gambling in Monte Carlo, then he flew to Paris and carried on gambling for another four days. The royal bursar was apoplectic when he received the bill. Ten days ago he turned up in Barcelona and gatecrashed a private party Duke Armando was throwing for his niece. Since then he’s been in London, and in the past few days in this woman’s company,’ she said, sliding aside the first picture to reveal several more.
They all showed variations of the same woman. Dark blonde. Leggy. Bright green eyes and a figure designed to stop traffic. She was striking. And her smile would win a contest against a thousand-watt bulb.
But she was a dime a dozen in Remi’s world. All flash and no substance.
