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“The jig is up, I’m afraid. I saw you with your man earlier. I feel like a congratulations is in order. You’ve managed to ensnare the most eligible man of the weekend. Hell, the whole of the European continent, actually.”
Apparently, he’s as excited about my betrothal as my grandmother is. I wonder what he knows of Royce’s family.
I smile. “I’m happy you approve.”
He scoffs. “Approve? Wholeheartedly, my dear. In fact, I’ll do whatever I can to expedite the wedding. Have it here if you must—just get a ring on that man’s finger now.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m not worried about him fleeing our engagement if that’s what you mean.”
He waves away my worry. “Of course not. With a face like yours, he’ll be hoisting you over his shoulder and rushing you to the altar himself.” He shakes his head, a warm smile on his face. “I’m so happy for the two of you. What a pair. The gossip pages will be hungry for every salacious detail. I think a full-page spread in Vogue is in your near future. I won’t even have to put in a good word with Anna. She’ll be coming to you.”
I’m not sure how to reply to his effusive support. I didn’t realize he had such a high opinion of Royce.
“And his father,” he continues. “Does he approve?”
Royce’s father? I hadn’t even considered it.
“Oh…I think so?”
“Don’t worry. Frédéric can be brusque at times, and that’s putting it politely. I can’t imagine he’s been all that welcoming, but he must be pleased with the match. I can’t think of a better pairing myself.”
I hold out my hand, doing a poor job of masking my confusion. “I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. Frédéric?”
“Frédéric Mercier.” He laughs. “Your future father-in-law…how much champagne have you had, dear? Should I bring you some water?”
“No.” I force out a laugh, though it comes out slightly quivering. I’m trying to play this whole exchange off and doing a terrible job of it. “I’m fine. I just…”
I have no idea how to put this to rights, how to explain to him that I’m not engaged to Emmett and, furthermore, I’m not sure what gave him that idea.
“Janice!” Victor suddenly exclaims, waving to a party guest behind me. “Where do you think you’re off to? Don’t you dare disappear on me. I’m going to have the crew bring us up a round of espresso martinis!”
I use his distraction as an opportunity to slide past him and hurry down the railing toward the back of the yacht. Before, I had no plans to rejoin the party. Now, there’s no way I will. How many others suspect what Victor has just shared with me? Is it because of last night or our conversation earlier today by the pool? Have I missed something?
Surely Victor is only grasping at straws. Emmett has spent more time with Marie than he has with me, not to mention Royce was the one to lead my search party before dinner last night. Did Victor not take that into account?
My mind works overtime trying to determine some elusive fix to this problem. Already, I feel anxiety twisting my stomach. I go back into the boat and find myself in a quiet sitting room. I take a seat on a couch, wringing my hands.
I don’t know how long I sit there, spiraling, before I’ve exhausted myself. I heave a deep sigh and decide it’s enough. While worrying, there’s nothing I can do about the situation right now. I might as well distract myself. I’ve never been on a yacht this size, and though I’m not sure what the rules are for events like this, I decide it can’t hurt to do a bit of exploring.
Soon, I’ve given myself a tour of the second level, and then I slip down one floor below, peering into the spacious cabins. I’m not disturbing anything, careful to keep things exactly like I found them.
Here is what I’ve observed so far: it’s astounding, really, to see how much bad design a person can cram into a multi-million-dollar vessel. It’s like the owner hired four interior designers to give suggestions and then decided, What the hell? Let’s do it all. Every bathroom is decorated using a different color scheme. Black marble, white marble, gold marble—the sky’s the limit. Some bathrooms incorporate all three. The last one was actually wall-to-wall turquoise with pink tile floors and black hardware. The one before it was a dark brown with red accents. There’s no cohesion, no overall stylistic design. It’s…a madhouse, and I’m fully invested in discovering what oddity I’ll stumble upon next. I’ve just taken hold of the handle of a door that I think leads to another cabin, maybe a bunkroom for children, when Emmett’s voice scares the life out of me.
“Are you allowed to be down here?” he taunts.
