The Prince and I Read online

  Like now.

  I wipe my tears away, thinking about the day she died. That day will always be part of me, no matter how many tears I cry. “I miss you, Mom,” I say through a sob that catches in my chest. “I miss you so much.” She battled breast cancer for five years until it finally got the best of her. My dad created this ball to raise money for cancer research, but I wonder if he even cares anymore, or if it’s just about the façade now.

  Maybe that’s why it’s a masked ball. The point is to hide everyone’s true intentions. Wiping the tears away again, I stand on shaky legs as I take a look at the clock. I have a few hours left before I have to face the music. I leave a pile of clothes strewn across the floor as I make my way into the bathroom and turn on the shower.

  I reach my hand under the faucet to test the temperature, the hot water from above needling my hand as it beams down from the shower head. Scalding, just how I like it. Stepping into the shower, the steam engulfs me and fills my lungs. It steals my stress and makes my worries evaporate, and I relax. I run my hand through my hair and water flows into my lips as I lean my head back, letting the hot water drift over my skin and warm my body.

  A sense of dread fills my stomach as I step out of the shower. “You can do this. It’s one night, and then it’ll all be over,” I tell myself. After the ball, I’ll be able to lock myself in my room and read books and just stay away from everyone. The soft cotton of the towel grips my skin. I tie it around my chest and walk toward the vanity to start getting ready.

  When I sit down on the antique stool, I grab my mom’s old hairbrush. The handle is worn, and the gold paint is chipped. Some of the bristles are missing from old age and so much use, but it will never stop me from using it. I brush the tangles out of my hair. The light touch of the brush massages my scalp, and I’m locked in a daze. I’m not thinking about anything except for the motions of brushing my hair.

  I place the brush down on my mother’s vanity, and I smile. It makes me feel like a little girl knowing I’m using my mother’s things to get ready for a ball. I stare at the wallet-sized photo stuck between the mirror and the vanity frame. It’s a picture of her when she was my age. The color has faded, and she looks like a total hippie with her bell-bottom pants and long-sleeved shirt. Her hair was blown out with terrible bangs, but she would just say she looked groovy.

  My fingertips rub over the picture of her wide smile. “I’ll make you proud one day, Mom. Just wait and see.” I sigh and shake the sadness of missing her. Ten minutes later, I’m sweating from the blow dryer and the effort it takes to get all of my hair in a French twist. Blah, I hate that sweaty-face feeling.

  I keep my makeup simple since the mask will be covering most of my face. Some light grey eyeshadow in the crease of my eyelid, mascara, and a light pink lipstick, and just like that, this look is complete. I open the drawer on the right, which is the place where my mother always kept her pearl earrings, and I get them out. The blue box has scratches all over it, but when I open it, the pearls are shining like new. She always took such good care of the things that meant the most to her—my father included. “Oh, if you could only see him now,” I mutter.

  I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering who the person is that I see staring back at me. I didn’t used to be so… timid, but I guess that’s inevitable seeing as people cage me in all the time. I vow tonight to be different. I’m going to have fun. I’m going to have a good time and meet new people, and maybe steal a glass of champagne because to hell with it. Maybe I’ll even dance. Who knows? All I know is that I need a night off from fighting my life. If I relax for an evening, maybe I’ll realize life isn’t so bad.

  A knock at the door sounds, yanking me from my thoughts. I toss the towel on the floor and grab my robe, throwing it on as I make my way to the door. Cracking it open, I peek my head out to see Tabitha sipping on something that looks like orange juice, but the smell of tequila reminds me that not everything is what it seems.

  “Yes, Tabitha?”

  She sips her drink, twirling her body back and forth. “You aren’t going tonight.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask. Did I want to go? No, but now that I’m getting ready, I’m excited about it. I want to dress up. It isn’t every day that a girl gets to put on a five-thousand-dollar gown. “Is Jesse going to be there?” Jesse is my brother. He just came home from boarding school for his winter break, so I wonder if that is why I can’t go.

  Her long, skinny fingers wrap around the straw as she lets out a laugh, resembling what a hyena probably sounds like. “No. He is a great child. Proper. Plus, he is young, so having a child there will make people donate more money. Aw, the little boy without his mommy,” she pouts, swirling her drink around. “It’s perfect. You, however... well, you are just an embarrassment to this family. You aren’t going. I don’t need to spend half my night explaining to people that you’re the dud of this family. You want to make your father proud; don’t you?”

  Right as I open my mouth to beg her to let me come tonight, my father walks out of his bedroom on the other side of the hall, staring at something on his phone. “Darling,” he says as he smiles, and my heart jolts with excitement thinking he is talking to me, but when he kisses her cheek, all my hope deflates. I want to laugh at myself. I’m such a fool for still having hope. “Is there a problem?” he asks, wrapping his arm around her.

  My father is a good-looking older man. He is pushing his mid-fifties, so his hair is starting to go grey, but his skin has aged gracefully. He has stunning blue eyes, while I have brown ones like my mother did. My brother has Dad's eyes, though. I’m a spitting image of her, and that is why my father can’t seem to look at me for more than a minute before averting his gaze.

  It breaks my heart. Every single day.

  “No, dear. Rosie was just telling me how she is unwell and won’t be able to come tonight. Isn’t that right, Rosie?” She glares at me with an expression that threatens if I don’t agree, I’ll be sorry.

  I cough, trying to play along. “Yeah, I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know what came over me. I don’t want to get others sick. So many people are going to be there.” And I cough again, ending the scene. For a second, I think I see disappointment flicker across his icy blue eyes, but it’s gone just as fast.

  He lets his eyes fall to the floor as he clears his throat. “That’s probably best. Do you, uh, need anything, Rosie?” he asks me, not meeting my eyes yet again.

  Tears burn my eyes from the hurt he causes me every day, but I refuse to let them fall. I never want to show them the gratification of the pain I hold inside. “No, thank you. Have fun tonight.” I don’t wait for them to say anything. Instead, I shut the door in their face.

  When I hear their footsteps retreat, my face heats from the anger boiling in my veins. If they think I’m not going to this ball being held in my mother’s name, then they have another thing coming. It’s a good thing neither of them know what my dress looks like. They won’t know I’ll be there and I’m never going to tell them. Tonight is about me feeling good about myself, and nothing they say can stop me.

  Chapter Three

  Luca

  “Bonjour, America,” I say as I step off the private jet, buttoning my Armani suit. People assume that people from Belgium speak ‘Belgian’. It’s laughable, really. We don’t, for the record. There are three official languages of my home country: German, Dutch, and French. French is used the most in my country. And when I say my country, I truly mean it is mine, since I am the Prince of Belgium.

  My expensive Italian leather shoes hit the pavement as I stride over to the car waiting for me. No one greets me since I am here on secretive business for my father, the king. “Chauncey!” I call over my shoulder to my pilot.

  “Your Highness?” he replies. He stands on the first step of the stairs leading down from the plane and he bows.

  “I’ll be ready to go home tomorrow evening. Until then, enjoy the city of Billings.”

  “Your Highness, we are in Mo
ntana. I do not think there is much for me to see,” he says with a curl of his lip.

  I smile at his pretentiousness. I don’t blame him. America is very different from our home. “I think you will be surprised.” I walk away and get into my rental car. I’m meeting one of the richest men in America, but I never thought he would live in Montana, of all places. Grayson Caldwell, of Caldwell Manufacturing, is holding an Enchanted Ball tonight. It's intended to raise money for a fundraiser. He invited my father to the party to discuss business, but my father never travels overseas. That's why I’m here. I’m the liaison. I know what my father likes and dislikes, and I want to see what Caldwell can offer us.

  I’m already dressed for the ball, the mask hidden in my suit pocket. We aren’t supposed to meet until the morning, but he invited me to his home for this to have a good time and welcome me to America. It will be a good night off from politics and work. Even better, no one will recognize me as the prince. I’ll be able to just be tonight, and I never get the opportunity to do that. I’m not even going to introduce myself to Mr. Caldwell, since I’m not on the clock as a prince.

  I check my Rolex watch, the hands showing it’s a little past ten at night. The party is already in full swing when I pull up to the curb. “Impressive,” I comment. I bend my neck to look through the windshield as I try to get the entire view of the home. It’s large, but it has no sense of personality, history, or individuality like the castles back home.

  The line for the valet is long, but we get through pretty quickly. After a few cars disappear into the night, it’s my turn to hand over my keys. I tip the man, making sure I give him American dollars. I don’t know how much to give, so I give him a one-hundred-dollar bill. That’s fine, right? “Merci,” I bow to the young gentleman dressed in a tuxedo, wearing a gold mask.

  “Merci to you, sir. Thank you. Wow, thank you so much!” His voice sounds surprised as he stares at the hundred-dollar bill.

  “Thank you for your hard work. Have a wonderful night,” I say, reaching into my coat pocket to snag my mask and set it over my face. I also hand a Belgian cigar to the young man. It truly is exquisite. The best cigar money can buy.

  “Oh. I appreciate it, sir, but I’m not old enough to smoke,” he says, and he blushes like his age is an embarrassment. I’m not aware of America’s laws, but I should have known they are different than my country. In Belgium, you only have to be sixteen to smoke.

  “I apologize. It’s a little different here compared to where I am from.” I place the cigar back in my pocket and say farewell to the valet before making my way up the steps. They are guarded by lion statues, which is a bit much, in my opinion. Of course, our guards back home are human, but who am I to judge?

  The doors open to a live band playing and caterers carrying trays full of flutes of champagne. I take one in my hand and do a sweep around the room. Nobody sticks out, but it is fun to see everyone dressed the part. Some masks cover the entire face, while others are simple like mine, only covering the eye area. Some cover half the face and have long noses, too. Everyone looks alike, but at the same time, everyone is different, from dresses to suits, and from one mask to another.

  I finish my first glass of champagne right as another caterer walks by, so I snag a second flute, replacing the one I take with my empty glass. “Merci,” I say. I have to remember the language barrier here in the States. Not everyone speaks French, but luckily, merci is pretty universally known.

  The band plays a slower song, and people start pairing up, slow-dancing with their lovers or soon-to-be lovers for the night. I glance away, remembering my father’s words before I left.

  You need to pick a partner soon, son. I need to know the kingdom will be taken care of when I step down, and I can’t do that without you being paired off.

  It is his way of saying pick soon, or we will pick for you, and that will be a nightmare for me. I haven’t met the woman who I want by my side as my queen. It isn’t an easy decision to make, especially since the queen holds just as much power as the king in Belgium. I need an equal partner.

  Getting women isn’t the issue, but finding one woman whom I adore is the problem. I refuse to settle, and I’ll fight my family every step of the way so that I can choose whom I fall in love with, not just end up with someone whom I am forced to love. That never works out anyway.

  Even after being at the party for only a short while, a few women have already batted their eyelashes at me and said hello, but I’m not interested. Not that they aren’t beautiful, but they don’t have the kind of beauty I am looking for. I want someone simple and easy on the eyes without a lot of effort. I’m looking for someone who commands beauty but has no idea they are beautiful. I’d love someone naturally gorgeous without the help of the world—both inside and out.

  Checking my watch, I look to see that there is a half hour to go until midnight. I’ve made my appearance and I’ll think I’ll go now. I have an early meeting with Caldwell and then a long flight back home. I want to catch some sleep. I place my flute on the mantel since I don’t see a caterer nearby, and I head toward the front door. “Excuse me,” I say, giving a small smile to a woman as I pass her.

  Right as I reach the door, I notice everyone looking up, and it piques my interest. I spin around to see why everyone is murmuring and whispering into each other’s ears. Tilting my head upward, the object of everyone’s attention is a woman standing at the top of the staircase, and I now understand why. I turn my body, never taking my eyes off of the mystery woman, and I slither my way through the crowd until I am at the bottom of the staircase.

  Our eyes meet as she descends from the staircase, angelic and beautiful. She practically floats on clouds, and the chandelier acts as a halo, illuminating a glow above her head. My body acts on its own accord, needing to be closer and closer to this goddess. She steals my breath with her heavenly beauty. She has on a light blue ball gown with crystals on the bodice. The sweetheart neckline plunges, molding to her breasts and pushing the snow-colored mounds up toward the sky, but not in a way that takes away from her class. She is petite, her frame small, but she walks with a confidence that makes every head turn. Her shoulders are back as she stands up straight.

  Our eyes lock, and something passes between us. It feels like a combination of fire and lightning. Despite the mask, I can still see her beauty. Her dark chocolate eyes are framed with long lashes, the matching blue mask she wears accentuating her features as if it is made just for her but covering just enough to conceal her identity. Her lips remind me of Valentine’s Day, painted a light pink with a perfect cupid’s bow. I can’t rip my gaze away from the stunning creature in front of me.

  I know that I have to be the first man to greet her, or she will be taken from me forever. I hold out my hand and say, “Good evening, beautiful.” I wait to see if she will accept me. I suffocate as I wait for her answer because she’s so gorgeous that I forget to breathe.

  She slides her silver, silk-gloved hand into mine, on instinct, being drawn to one another in the way that fairytales are made. “Oh,” she says in surprise, widening her eyes.

  I’m not surprised. There is something here between us. I felt it across the room, and I feel it now, and I know that she feels it, too. “May I have this dance?” I ask, bending my head to place a kiss on her hand. She smells divine—light and airy with a hint of flowers. It reminds me of the breeze in Belgium on a beautiful, cloudless day. “Please say yes.” I’m not usually a man to beg, but I will for her.

  “Okay,” she says, her voice weightless and soft. It’s soothing.

  “Merci. It is an honor.” I hold my arm out, and she takes another step down, linking us together. The crowd watches us, parting a pathway as we step off the last stair.

  “Everyone is staring,” she says out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Everyone is staring at you.” I stare at her, too, wondering what the disbelief written on her face can mean.

  “Why? Is something on my dress?” She looks
down at her gorgeous gown, spinning left and right to see if anything is making her stick out.

  “Only you.”

  She furrows her brows, not understanding me.

  “You’re gorgeous,” I elaborate.

  Her cheeks redden as she looks away, shaking her head with disbelief. I put my lips to her ear and whisper, “Is it so hard to believe that you are the center of attention?”

  She doesn’t say anything, leading me to think that for her, it is hard to believe. I don’t say anything, keeping my gaze on her as we walk through the crowd.

  We follow the path people create for us, like an aisle to the throne. For the first time in all my life, I feel like I’m walking with royalty. It’s something I’m accustomed to, but this feels different. This feels more important, and it stuns me. I have to get to know this woman better. I grab a flute off another tray and hand it to her. “Here you are,” I say, reaching for another for myself.

  “Thank you. Where are you from?” she asks. “I can’t place your accent.”

  I smile as the rim of the glass touches my lips, the slightest taste of the champagne teasing my mouth. “I’m from Belgium. I’m here on business.” I’m not about to tell her who I am. When people find out I’m royalty, their attitude changes, and they treat me differently. I don’t want that with her. I want us to be able to be ourselves without the stress of having to ‘impress’ a future king.

  The doors to the backyard are already open, so I don’t have to worry about taking my hands off her. I really didn’t want to anyway. The bushes and trees have lit up with lights. There is a gazebo up ahead, standing in the middle of the yard, lonely and with no one to accompany it. I decided that is where I want us to go. I need to be alone with her.

  Side by side, our strides match one another as we walk down the long corridor. I take a step up on the gazebo, holding my hand out to help her. She takes it and I suddenly wish the gloves weren’t covering her hands. I want to feel her skin against mine. Is her skin cold naturally? Warm?