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How could she do this to me? How could she do this tohim? The prince may not be her type, may be too responsible for her taste, but he doesn’t deserve public humiliation. By all accounts, he’s a good man. But he’ll be at that ball, the eyes of the world on his empty arm, and his reputation may never recover.
And what about our countries’ relations? Things will surely cool after such a terrible insult. Will my sister be single-handedly responsible for lost trade and strained cooperation?
She neverthinks.Olympia justdoes, and then I’m the one left holding the bag. Oh, hell.
I can fix this.
There must be some way to fix this.
A tap at the door halts my pacing. I pluck at my rose-patterned summer dress, and my voice is strangled as I call out. “Yes?”
A woman’s head pokes around the doorway, followed by the rest of her body. She’s wearing the navy and white palace uniform, her gray-streaked hair scraped back in a merciless bun, but her smile is kind.
“Miss Olympia. The prince has requested to meet with you this afternoon before the ball. He’d like some time alone together before you’re thrown to the wolves.” Her kohl-lined eyes sparkle, and it’s visible even across this huge suite how much she admires her country’s favorite royal. “Perhaps you’d like to join him for tea in the palace library?”
My breath wheezes out of my chest. I’m not Olympia. She thinks I’m Olympia.
My sister is indisposed, I open my mouth to tell her.
“That would be wonderful,” I croak instead.
Damn it.
The woman’s face softens even further, and she clucks as she crosses the rug to my side. “Oh, don’t be nervous, dear. I know His Royal Highness seems so stern on TV, but between you and me, he’s a pussy cat.”
As she speaks, she places a hand on my back, ushering me to the doorway. I trip across the rug with clumsy steps, my brain already screaming at what I’ve done.
I’m pretending to be Olympia. I’m impersonating my sister—impersonating the prince’sfiance.
Oh my god. Oh my god.
“I knocked on Beatrice’s door too, but your sister didn’t answer.” The heavy door to the suite swings shut behind us. The palace hallways are empty and quiet, our footsteps echoing along the marble floor. “But I suppose it’s best that you and the prince have some time to yourselves.”
“Yes,” I whisper, my stomach curdling under my dress. “It’s better if Beatrice isn’t here for this part.”
* * *
The palace library is cavernous, with soaring ceilings and bookshelves stretching from the floorboards to the rafters. Sliding ladders hang on rails beside the shelves, and heavy mahogany tables stand in the light of huge windows, each surrounded with plush chairs. One is scattered with maps.
The windows are open, floral-scented air drifting in from the gardens, and dust motes spin in the shafts of sunlight.
There’s only one figure in the room. A man in his thirties sits in a hard-backed leather sofa, fingers drumming against the armrest, tendrils of steam curling over the tea tray before him. The woman who fetched me—Danika—nudges me further into the room.
“Go ahead, Miss Olympia. The prince won’t bite.”
She bustles away down the corridor, chuckling, and I don’t think he’s seen me yet. I back up a step, mouth dry.
“There you are.” His voice is rich and strong. It carries easily across the silent library, and my breath leaves me in a rush.
The prince pushes to his feet, waiting for me beside the tea tray with a smile. After a long pause, I walk forward in a daze.
He’s so… soreal.I know that’s a dumb thing to think, but I’ve seen this man hundreds of times in the newspaper or on a screen. I’ve heard his voice, too, on the radio, but none of those things prepared me at all for this. He’s different in the flesh.
Prince Alden has thick bronze hair and sharp cheekbones. There’s a cleft in his chin, and his blue eyes crinkle when he smiles. He waits patiently for me to creep across the library floor, and god, even his shoulders are broader in person.
Dressed in dark pants and a white button-down shirt, those fine clothes hug his body better than I ever anticipated.
God. My sister is so freaking lucky.
