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“Her full name is Odette Rochelle Wyntor,” he began to read, because the man never knew when to give up. “She was born in Sunrise, Washington. Her father was Marvin Wyntor, founder and creator of Etheus, and her mother, Wilhelmina Wyntor— Oh, forgive me. They are divorced, so her name is Wilhelmina Wyntor-Smith now. She was the first woman of African-American descent to receive both the Miss America and Miss USA—”
“Arty, are you going to read the whole profile?”
“She has a younger sister named Augusta, and look at this. She is actually older than you by a few months. She was born on November twenty-seven,” he replied, coming around the desk to lean right on the edge of my seat.
“You are really—”
“I know you are not interested in any of that, so I’ll just skip to how stunningly beautiful she is.” He held a picture of her above my face as if she were live bait.
She had big, dark-brown doe eyes, a button nose, and warm almond-brown skin. She had an oval face and long, thick and curly hair, and when she smiled, her cheeks balled...she was beautiful. Very much so.
It was not until I heard him snicker that I brushed his arm—and the photo—away. He was using her beauty to rope me in because, apparently, that was all I cared about.
“I was not expecting her to be ugly after you told me her mother was a beauty queen,” I muttered.
“Not just her mother. Odette won an array of awards as a child, too—very interesting. She was Little Miss Sunrise, as well as Little Miss Washington, Little Miss America, and America's Royal Miss, as well as another nine titles—all before the age of seven.” He held up another photo of what I thought had to be a doll at first.
She smiled with all her might, a crown way too big for a child on her little head, and she wore a giant pink ball gown and even had her own star princess wand. She looked ridiculous and yet unbelievably cute, too.
“She did not win any other crowns after seven? What happened?” Shit. The moment I asked, I regretted it.
“Oh! So, you are interested. Good!” he teased.
“What I meant was—”
“She stopped competing after that and focused on music. She was classically trained and offered a scholarship to Juilliard. However, she turned it down. She asked for them to give the scholarship to someone else because—and quote—‘I am blessed to have the means to afford tuition at Juilliard. I am honored to have been chosen, but please give the scholarship to someone who needs it.’ She also studied international relations and business at Dartmouth.”
“Aren’t school records meant to be closed?” I muttered.
“Over the years, she has been a massive patron of the arts. And she’s a musician now, too. That’s nice. Let’s see what else she enjoys.”
“Again, it really does not matter. All you are doing is giving me a headache,” I interjected, but he went on as if he couldn’t hear me, adjusting himself on the arm of the chair.
“Her favorite season is winter. Her favorite sport is volleyball, which she played at university. Her favorite food is pasta and meatballs. Her drink of choice is red wine, although no specific brand they could find. She hates oysters and is highly allergic to peanuts. We will have to make sure the staff is aware of that at all times.”
Mr. Ambrose and his staff never failed to impress. How they managed to get that was beyond me, but knowing them, it was also just the tip of the iceberg.
“I’m begging you to please stop.” I was at the point that I had closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair, feeling defeated.
“For all intents and purposes, she seems like a perfectly fine young woman,” he said seriously, flipping to the next page and, luckily, no longer reading aloud. So, he could hear me. “I was apprehensive with her being American, and as you said of the higher status, that she would have scandalous incidents or secrets that we would need to have the palace prepare statements for. So far, however, the only dramatic thing about her life is her parents’ love affair. Which she can hardly be blamed for.”
“I have not agreed yet, Arty. You’re getting ahead of yourself.” Why did we need a statement already?
“I—”
“What are we talking about?”
Oh, thank God, I thought as I heard Eliza’s voice. I opened my eyes in hopes of seeing my savior only to see her enter the library dressed in a black gown with a large silver cross necklace around her throat, netting veil over her face, and black lipstick. Her red hair had been dyed pure black.
“Whatever we were talking about is significantly less important than that outfit,” I replied, not sure whether to laugh or make the sign of the cross.
“We were looking at the profile of Gale’s fiancée,” Arty said, completely unfazed by her fashion choice for the day.
“We are not engaged yet!”
He just assumed I would say yes when I agreed to think about it last night.
“Oh, let me see!” Eliza said with far too much excitement, and because of how long her dress was, she looked like she was gliding toward us.
