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Etienne’s eyelids droop closed as we approach our hotel. My husband is seconds away from passing out.
I sigh in resignation as the car slows to a halt at the back entrance of our lodging for the night. Tomorrow we fly off to our honeymoon. How many days and nights will I have to witness the fun and flirty drunk Etienne? And how often will the sarcastic, biting Etienne appear? I hope against hope that I’ll get the fun and flirty version of him while he’s sober. At least let me have that much, I pray to the gods.
“Will he be alright?” I ask when the footman gives me his hand to exit the car.
“Yes, Your Highness. We’ve got this.”
For a second, I wonder who this footman is speaking to. I’ve already forgotten that I’m a princess now.
I leave the burly men to carry my sloppy drunk husband to our suite.
My mood improves when I see our room has a deep soak tub.
Shutting the bathroom door, I see that my belongings have already been delivered and unpacked. Looking at my night creams, I give a tired, happy sigh. I strip off my gloves and wash off my makeup first, then unpin my shimmery headpiece.
Without the aid of attendants, I struggle to worm out of my dress, but I manage, suppressing any fantasies of an eager husband helping me out. Actually, I’m relieved. Those sexy unzipping scenarios only look good in movies. I’m sure it would only be awkward for me, even if Etienne and I had married for the right reasons.
I cannot bring myself to look in the mirror at my pretty bridal underthings—the white hose, the garter belts, the body-smoothing corset.
Nothing has turned out like my fantasy wedding night. I never expected spectacular sex, but I’d thought… I’d thought at least both of us would be awake, if for no other reason than to talk about the day’s events. Perhaps scroll through the photos on our phones together. Discuss which guests had the best and worst handshakes. The funniest dancer. The scariest moment. How the loud wedding march music nearly made me pee myself.
At least I had some excellent cake fed to me by a man who, for a short moment, meant well.
I sink into the tub and let the hot, jasmine-scented water cover me in its embrace.
* * *
The open-air lobby of our secluded hotel is silent when we arrive the next night by private jet to the remote Pearl Crescent islands.
I’m parched and hungry, and the bowl of sliced tropical fruit at the desk is tempting. I remember what Ilsa always said: Princesses should not be seen eating in public.
I glance around at the curiously empty hotel while our assistant checks us in. Even for midnight, I would have thought I’d see guests out and about. But there’s nothing and no one. One lonely bartender wipes a glass and stares at us from the poolside bar.
A nibble won’t hurt. I step forward and take some, and it’s the best fruit I’ve ever tasted, period. I moan before I can control myself.
Etienne gives me a bemused look. “Are you going to be alright?”
Still holding half a slice in my hand, I offer it to him.
“Taste this.”
“No thanks,” he says, surly, sober, and tired from the flight. When he’d awakened hungover this morning, he didn’t say much. I gave him his space, figuring we’d have hours to get to know each other on the plane. No such luck. Mostly we talked about the terms of our divorce pact.
Specifically, we will live together as husband and wife, and pretend to be happily married. I won’t be required to birth an heir before he’s crowned king (gee, thanks). I’d thought this rush to secure the royal lineage was about making babies and settling my father’s debt, but whatever.
When I pressed him on whether he was sure the king wouldn’t expect me to produce an heir before he steps down, Etienne popped a Valium with his vodka soda and slept for most of the trip.
I’d spent the rest of the flight wondering what the king had said to him in that dark corner of the balcony room at the Arenhammer Plaza Hotel.
Holding the fruit out to my tired, clearly thirsty husband, I urge him to take some. “Come on,” I say. “It will blow your mind.”
He’s looking at me like that because I’m acting as giddy as a child in a sweet shop. I can’t help it.
“Fine,” he sighs, leaning in and accepting the fruit into his mouth.
I notice how his lips brush my fingers and feel a twinge of pleasure at their softness.
Our eyes meet, and he manages to smile at me while chewing. My stomach tumbles, and my cheeks heat.
