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‘I’m glad.’ He doesn’t match my smile. His hand, when it cups my cheek, is gentle. ‘Try to remember what you deserve, Princesa.’
Hope briefly lifts my heart. ‘And what’s that?’
‘More than an arranged marriage.’
On this, I know we’ll never see eye to eye. There’s no point discussing it further. Besides, I’m starting to worry that if we don’t wrap this up quickly I might do something truly embarrassing, like crying, or begging him for one more night.
‘I really have to get back.’
‘Of course. Your state dinner,’ he says with only the faintest hint of emotion darkening the comment.
I nod slowly.
He drops his head but, instead of the passionate kiss I crave, I receive a chaste goodbye peck on each cheek, and then he drops my hands and takes a step backwards. ‘Take care of yourself, Freja.’
I watch him walk towards the door. Every inch of me wants to run after him, but I don’t. I stand exactly where I am, already feeling the heavy gravitational pull of my real life and the future that awaits me.
* * *
It turns out sleeping with Santiago changed many things about me, but not this. I still feel nothing for my future husband. He is handsome and polite, well-spoken, and there’s every indication he’s well-read and well-educated, but if anything the idea of our marriage leaves me short of breath—in the worst possible way. I feel like my head is being pushed under water; I’m suffocating. I speak to him for longer tonight than I have before, trying to find common ground or some kind of spark, trying to find something with which to connect with him.
There’s nothing.
‘We should meet privately, another time, to discuss our parents’ machinations,’ he says, wiggling his eyebrows as though it’s all some big joke. He doesn’t know my heart is breaking. I’m very good at concealing such things.
‘Do you want to pretend it never happened?’ I ask with what I hope seems like humour, hoping he’ll agree.
‘I don’t think that’s possible. My parents would be devastated.’ His eyes scan my face. ‘Would you prefer to forget it, Freja?’
Hearing him say my name angers me. Not because I care about ceremony—I don’t, generally—but it’s an intimacy I like sharing with Santiago alone.
‘I... My parents...’
He nods sympathetically. ‘My parents have explained how much it meant to yours. Our marriage was their greatest wish. So let’s have dinner some time between now and Christmas. We can go over the details then. Perhaps we should go away together for a weekend, get to know one another in a more private way?’
He is everything amenable and yet disgust threatens to swallow me. I nod, because I don’t trust myself to respond, and excuse myself a moment later.
It’s a relief when the dinner ends and I can return to my apartment, pushing Heydar from my mind gratefully and replacing him with Santiago. I lie in my bed, altered for ever by the nights spent in Barcelona, wondering what he’s doing now.
I could text him, but to what end?
We shared something special—at least, it was special for me—but now it’s over and I have to accept that, no matter how much it hurts.
* * *
I’m not surprised by the papers the next day. I’m single, twenty-four and in desperate need of a royal heir or three. And while the news of our betrothal is still confined to an intimate circle of fewer than ten people, Heydar is also young, single and highly eligible. A photograph of us locked in conversation runs in most of the European papers. The headlines are respectful in the more conservative papers, but in the tabloids it’s all variation on a theme.
Happily Ever After! A real-life happy ending for the tragic Princess!
And in some, it was more speculative still.
Red-Hot Royal Romance!
Indeed, the photo does make us look quite intimate. Carelessly, I’ve leaned too close, or perhaps that’s him. Our faces are only an inch or so apart, our eyes locked. I try to remember what we were discussing at that moment and draw a blank. The truth is, contrary to the image in front of me, I barely gave Heydar a tenth of my concentration. My entire mind was wrapped up in Santiago and the fact I’d flown out of Spain only hours earlier.
I throw the newspapers aside in a fit of impatience. I have just enough capacity left for rational thought to acknowledge that the photograph can be used to our advantage. When we inevitably announce our marriage, it will seem more realistic. People will believe we are in love.
I grip the wall behind me for support against the horror of that idea.
