40.1
Isabel
That dickhead.
That stupid, arrogant, childish, irresponsible ass.
I pull open the drawer that holds the clothes I arrived with – one duffel bag, nothing fancy. In fact, it was so un-fancy that the butler who escorted me to my room when I arrived a few hours ago practically sniffed at me, disdain written all over his face. I wonder if my bag has already been burned, so as not to contaminate the palace.
Rummaging through my clothes – perfectly folded and placed in the drawers for me, each item separated by fancy lavender tissue paper embossed with the royal crest in gold filigree -- I yank on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I want out of this stupid dress and these uncomfortable heels.
In fact, I should just get a flight out of here. I could head back to the States.
I mean, sure, everything is different now. It's been two years since I've lived in the States. I was supposed to go back and move in with Derek.
Derek and I had been in a long-distance relationship while I was in Africa, which seemed like the thing to do at the time, although in retrospect, it was obviously a stupid idea. But we'd dated throughout college, and my mother and his parents were friends. It's not as if we had no history together.
It was expected that we’d be together. But if I were being honest with myself, I’d admit to myself that I was never in love with him. Not really.
It was far too easy to leave him for two years to go to Africa. It shouldn’t be that easy to walk away from someone you love.
To say that my mother will be disappointed with my breakup will be an understatement. It’s the reason I’d been avoiding her phone calls for the past week, hiding out while I got my shit together after the Vegas debacle. She had to send bodyguards and a private plane to escort me to Venici, ostensibly because I was avoiding her calls, but also because that’s just like her, to do something like that for dramatic effect.
There’s a single knock on the door, and the door swings open without hesitation. My mother closes it swiftly behind her, standing with her hands on the doorknob behind her back as if she needs it to support her. “Isabella Kensington,” she says, her tone harsh.
“I understand you're upset, Mother," I start. "I had planned on telling you about what happened with Derek. I just needed some time."
"No," she says, walking toward me with long strides, her expression calm. You'd never know she was upset in the least, not to look at her. "Upset isn't the right word to use in a situation like this. Right now, I’m devastated."
I choke back a laugh. "Devastated?" I ask. "You're devastated about my broken engagement? I think that's how I should feel."
She holds her hand up, making a silence gesture. "I tolerated your need to run off to that God-forsaken continent to save the world. I was more than understanding."
"Yes, you were the epitome of support," I say, my tone bitter. I applied for the two-year position without telling anyone, using my mother’s mAdriano name and keeping my secret until I knew I’d gotten it without any connection to my mother or the Kensington fortune. I only told her after I’d already made the decision and accepted the position.
"There's no need to take that tone with me," she says. "And your little outburst today was appalling."
"I'm sorry you found it disturbing," I say. "Perhaps you'd find it as upsetting to know that your favorite almost son-in-law was fucking Adriana? Or that he's been doing it for years?"
"Derek is a man," she says. "All men have indiscretions, particularly men like Derek. What matters is that he's marrying you. And, if you recall, I never liked Adriana.”
I shake my head. "We’re not getting married anymore," I say. "And I don't believe that. I don't want something like that."
She raises her eyebrow. "Please tell me I raised a daughter who's not naive enough to believe in some ridiculous notion of true love."
I don't know why the words surprise me, but they do. "It's not ridiculous," I protest, my voice weak.
Except I'm not sure I believe that. Maybe it is ridiculous and naive.
"Fairy-tales," she says. "I blame that nanny of yours. She was always reading you stories like that when you were young. It's time to grow up, Isabella. Life isn't one big fairy-tale."
"You're marrying a king, mother," I say. "You don't see the irony of that? You're telling me that fairy-tales don't exist when we're literally standing in a palace?"
"Don't be stupid," she says. "You're not a stupid girl. It's beneath you. As are fairy-tale notions of life.”
"You didn't fall in love with a king..." I question, my voice trailing off.
She looks at me for a long time. "You will fall in love with Derek. You'll smile and take his arm and stand by his side when he becomes the Governor of New York, just like his father. And then you'll stand beside him when his family money ensures he becomes President. And you'll turn the other way when he shares his bed with someone else. You'll smile and look beautiful because it's what you do."
"I'm not a teenager," I protest. "I'm twenty-three. And, despite what you might think, this isn't the eighteen hundreds and you can't force me into a marriage. I'm not doing it."
"We’ll discuss it later,” she says, waving her perfectly manicured hand dismissively. “There are more important matters at hand right now.”
“Like the fact that you’re marrying a King,” I say sarcastically. Obviously, that’s her most important concern here.
She raises her eyebrows and gives me a disapproving look. “Yes, Isabella,” she says. “We’re talking about making history. I know that you don’t seem to have an appreciation for rules and tradition and – God knows, I tried to instill that in you –“
“You’re from the United States,” I say. “You’re not even a native of Venici. You aren’t connected to their history or tradition.”
“We are making history,” she says. “Do you understand that? The Kensingtons – your family – your father’s name, God rest his soul. We are making history. Years ago, the idea of the King of Venici remarrying – to a foreigner, no less – would have been unacceptable. It would have been appalling. But today, it’s different. And we are a part of that. Do you not see the importance of this?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to be a part of this,” I say, feeling strangely detached from the entire thing. “I’m going back to the States, mother. Coming here was a mistake.”
Of course, I’m already a part of this, I think. I’m married to the Crown Prince.
I force the thought out of my head. It’s inappropriate. And something I’ll just have to rectify before anyone finds out. The last thing I want is to become part of a public scandal, my life spread out before the world like an open book.
“It’s very important to me that you’re here for the summer,” she says, her tone calm. But it’s clear that it’s not a request.
Well, she can’t tell me what to do. I’m not a child anymore.
“I can’t stay here,” I say.
“The last thing you want is a public scandal,” she says. “I know how much you despise being the center of attention.”
“Why would anything be a scandal?” I ask, trying my best to keep my voice calm despite the guilt that surges through me at the thought of the secret I share with Kev.
“Staying for the summer, getting to know the king and your new family, is what people expect, Isabella,” she says. “Any behavior different from that is going to raise red flags. It will cause more media attention than I know you’d like to have on you. Reporters will track you down wherever you go in the States. The wedding will be the media event of the year. Here, in the palace – in Venici – we can protect you. There is a whole PR team dedicated to managing the publicity. There are bodyguards, security. The entire thing will be controlled. Everything will be handled.”
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head.
“I’m disappointed, Isabella,” she says. “I’d hoped you’d realize the potential for all the good you could do in Venici.”
“What do you mean?”
Sofia sighs heavily. “You’ve always missed the forest for the trees,” she says. “You think that being in the thick of things, administering shots to children and wiping sweaty foreheads, is noble. It’s far more noble to be the person that provides funding for other people to do those things.”
“And that’s your goal, being Queen of Venici?” I don’t bother to hide the doubt in my voice. My mother has been involved with charity for years, but I’m not sure the power isn’t the most alluring part of all of this for her.
“Think of all that you could do as a princess, Isabella,” she says. “I’ve already set up work for you with refugees, with children’s organizations. You’ll have a virtually unlimited budget at your disposal compared to what you had in Africa. Think of what you can do. Think of the children who need your help.”
“I have to think about it,” I say, already feeling like the most selfish person on earth. My mother is offering me the chance to do a world of good, and I’m actually considering not taking it, just because I don’t want to spend the summer in the castle with my new stepbrother, who just happens to be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I know you’ll make the right decision,” she says, smiling at me. “Take some time. You’re jet-lagged. I’m sure you’re tired. Relax, and gather your wits. Then you can tell me when you’ve made the right choice.”
It’s less of a suggestion than it is an order. That much is clear.
