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I barely even blush through these interviews anymore. I’m a better liar these days.
* * *
“So you met Prince Alden for the first time the day before this photo?”
Damn. This reporter’s coming in hot, smacking a copy of our driveway kiss onto the coffee shop table in front of me. I narrow my eyes at him, sipping from my latte.
I’ve met dozens of reporters like him already.
Sharp, hungry, ambitious. The word ‘Gotcha’ forever ready on the tip of his tongue. The lenses of his glasses shine under the coffee shop lights, and so does his balding head. His suit is baggy.
“Good afternoon,” I say pointedly, lowering my mug. Then, reciting my line by rote: “My sister and I arrived at the palace the week before.”
It’s not the question he asked, but it’s the answer he’s getting. I may have failed utterly to protect Alden during our visit, but there’s no way in hell I’ll make things worse for him now.
And I know how it looks. A kiss likethatafter a single day?
But this guy wasn’t there. No one will understand it except the two of us. Because it didn’t feel like I’d only known the prince for a day—it felt like a lifetime. Like he’s been part of me all along and I never even knew it.
“It’s quite a photo.” Keen eyes watch me, and I tear my gaze away from the image.
“You think so? I’d say it’s a little grainy.”
The reporter’s smile widens. He leans closer across the table, the espresso by his elbow forgotten.
“Was that your only intimate encounter with the prince?”
Memories flicker across my mind. His warm hands kneading my shoulders; his low voice in my ear; his lips brushing the backs of my fingers. Those heated promises of what he’d do to me.
“Yes,” I say flatly. “Your coffee is going cold.”
The reporter waves a hand, impatient. “Did he kiss your sister too? Did the three of you—”
“Stop.” I hold up a palm, stomach lurching. “Stop right there. That is vile.”
The reporter sinks back in his chair, disappointed. And I can’t keep the tremble from my fingers when I pick up my mug again, but it’s not because I’m nervous.
No. I’m angry. So, so angry.
Angry with myself. Angry with my sister.
And furious with this foul reporter.
“Prince Alden is a good man.” I grip the mug tight, and though my insides are rioting, my voice is steady. “He had a long-standing agreement with my sister, one he made and kept to, by the way, for the good of Caledithia. But the instant Olympia changed her mind, he released her. Their agreement was over when he kissed me.”
I’m off script, and god, I hope the palace lawyers don’t come for me after this, but there are only so many bland responses I can give while assholes likethisderide Prince Alden.
“It seems rather cruel to your sister.”
I roll my eyes, spinning the photo around. “Does she look upset here?”
No. I already know the answer, because I’ve stared at this photo in so many interviews now that it’s burned into my mind’s eye. Olympia and Gerond stand together in the background of the photo, Gerond toeing the driveway with his leather sandal while Olympia beams with undisguised glee.
The reporter sighs.
Whatever he wants from me, he won’t get it. I willneverhelp him slander the prince.
He doesn’t ask about the ball. None of the press seem to have realized that was me and not Olympia, thank god. As far as they’re concerned, I was hiding away in my suite, knitting or doing whatever they think modern day spinsters do.
