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“What have you come up with?” my grandmother asks. “As I mentioned, we’d like to use the summer season to our advantage.”
I have to fight to keep myself from rolling my eyes. I’ve stayed away from this world for so long I forgot about some of the antiquated traditions that are still alive and well among upper class society.
While it’s not as do or die as was the case back in the 19th century — when young women used the summer party season to find a suitable match, suitors pursuing barely legal girls based on their assets, both monetary and bodily — there’s still an unspoken “season” here. The summer is a constant revolving door of events — art auctions, polo matches, regattas, and galas. Each event becomes fodder for not just the tabloids, but also the more reputable news sites, everyone speculating about who’s dating whom.
I have no doubt my grandmother hopes to put Jameson and me front and center.
And Gianna will ensure that happens. After all, she has the tabloids in her back pocket. And most of the more reputable newspapers, too. They all eat out of the palm of her hand in the race to be the first to get the scoop on some breaking royal family news.
“Our hope is to make these two the top story across Europe,” my grandmother continues. “Possibly even the world.”
“And we plan on doing just that,” Gianna assures her. “We believe—”
“Before you go into details,” a voice interrupts. I look toward the man at my grandmother’s right, Silas Archer.
He glowers at me with his dark eyes, contempt in the thin line of his lips. In all the years I’ve known him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile.
“It should go without saying that nothing we discuss here today or at any of these…meetings is to leave this room.”
Everyone nods their acceptance.
Everyone except for me.
My grandmother joins Silas in his stare, waiting for me to acquiesce. After several seconds, I give them a small nod. I have no intention of following through with my promise, though. I’ve already told my most trusted friends. If these people expect me to go through with this ridiculous charade, I need someone I can talk to. Someone who understands it’s nothing but smoke and mirrors.
Just like this entire world we’ve built around ourselves.
“Thank you, Esme,” my grandmother says, then looks at Gianna. “You may proceed.”
“As I was saying, our plan is to make Princess Esme’s and Jameson Gates’ relationship the top story everywhere. The wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton will be nothing compared to what we have planned. But first, we need to build a…history between these two. Give them a love story for the ages.”
Gianna pushes two binders across the table toward Jameson and me. “These notebooks contain everything you both need to learn about each other if we’re to convince the public this isn’t a new relationship.”
“But it is,” I argue, not bringing up the fact it’s not a real relationship to begin with.
“We believe it’s in your best interests to tell people you’ve been dating in secret since last summer. Immediately after the photos of you two dancing at the King’s Day Gala were posted online.” Gianna gestures to the binders. “It’s all in there. Everything you both must know.”
I stare at the binder, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of opening it. At the same time, I can’t help but be intrigued about its contents. I glance at Jameson, curious as to where his head is. He simply shrugs, his expression a mask of indifference.
Facing forward, I flip the binder open.
Bile rises in my throat.
I knew it would contain more information than either one of us could want or need, but this is sickening. A gross invasion of privacy. Not only does it include a fabricated love story detailing every day of our months-long secret courtship, it also contains background information about our lives since birth.
Including sexual history.
For both of us.
While I find some solace in the fact that Jameson has only slept with six women in his thirty-three years — a surprise to me, having expected someone with his wealth and privilege to have wracked up quite a few notches on his bedpost — it’s still disconcerting to see this information in black and white.
Especially my lack of sexual history.
Not caring about the break in decorum, I shoot to my feet, eyes focused on my father. “I need to speak with you in private.”
“Now isn’t a good time, Esme,” he says evenly. “There’s still much to discuss. I—”
“No.” I slam a fist against the table, the sound echoing in the vast space.
