Brooklyn squealed when I walked backstage in a trance.

“Who was it? Was it fun?” She shook me. My head rattled. “I just heard the numbers going up and up and up.”

“I have no idea. It was a blur. There were two houses at the end. I couldn’t figure out the accents.” I reached for my forehead.

The stage manager appeared beside us. “Cherie, Cherie, you must come. Come, with me. Quickly.”

I looked at Brooklyn. I wasn’t leaving without knowing exactly where I was going. I wanted to stay for her moment on stage as well.

“No. I need details.” I stuck my chin forward.

“Cherie, your sponsor. Come now,” he urged.

“Just tell us who it is,” Brooklyn pleaded. “I’m dying to know. I thought this was going in numerical order, but apparently, that’s not Galonaian. I have no idea when I’m going out there. I’m dying back here.”

He sighed. “Cher, he is waiting. You must be quickly.”

I didn’t correct his English. “Who is he?”

“Yeah, who is it? The director? Please tell me it’s an actor. I will die if you end up with Chris Fox tonight. Although, totally ironic that you’d land an American when we’re in Europe, but it’s still super sexy and—”

“The tenders are sealed,” he interrupted Brooklyn’s chatter.

“I’m not moving unless you tell me who is waiting for me.”

“Americans,” he grumbled.

I frowned. I hated when that happened. I wasn’t being American. I was being safe and cautious. Following the girl code. Brooklyn should know who I was with and I should know where she was. It was practical and logical. American, my ass.

He pushed the microphone from his lips and motioned for me to lean in.

“Yes?”

“His Royal Highness,” he whispered, cupping my ear with his hand.

I straightened my back. “Which one?” The royal family was huge. There were distant cousins and uncles. The family tree was a twisted spider web. He could be talking about a count or a duke.

“His Royal Highness,” he restated.

“Are you talking about the king?” Brooklyn blurted out.

“Shh.” He pinched her elbow. “Tenders are sealed.”

“The king? The king was in the audience? And he bid on me?” I whispered quickly.

Two girls walked past us when the MC called another set of numbers. I didn’t notice if they heard our discussion.

“He has placed a formal tender which has been accepted and recorded. There are no bids,” he scolded. “Now we must go.”

I bit my lip. I was ill-prepared for this entire night, but facing the king had never occurred to me. That wasn’t supposed to be an option, was it? That was all Brooklyn’s fantasy. That we’d end up meeting a couple of the royal princes or maybe a couple of dukes. Really, she would have been happy with a B-list actor. The process thrilled her. The secrecy. The exclusivity of being a part of a fabled tradition. She was caught up in fairy tales and stories I hadn’t believed in until I was smack in the middle of it.

I was stuck in a chapter I couldn’t crawl out of.

Brooklyn hugged me. “Have fun. Be good.” She giggled. “I can’t believe you. And you didn’t even want to do this.”

“But I didn’t,” I whispered.

“Come now. You must.”

I waved at Brooklyn, trying to steady my erratic pulse.

I was escorted through a dark passage. Luc’s headset crackled and sputtered the farther we walked.

“Careful, cher.” He guided me to a door.

My heart beat wildly. I felt frantic. Nervous.

“Do not forget your contract.”

I nodded. I couldn’t remember what was in it. Something about no pictures. No social media posts. I didn’t know the rest. My phone was at the apartment. I wasn’t allowed to bring it to the club.

“But what if—” I looked down to ask a question, but the funny man was gone. The hallway was black. I could hear my

A green light flashed on the wall. Did that mean I was supposed to go through the door? I waited until finally it seemed ludicrous to stand in the hall any longer.

I twisted the knob in my palm. With a gentle push, the door swung open.

I expected a room. Maybe something with red velvety drapes and blue elephant paintings like in the Moulin Rouge. But there was nothing exotic or seductive about what was on the other side. The door was an exit to the back of the parking lot. I was met with dim street lights.

A long black car was parked a few feet in front of me. A driver stood, holding the rear door.

“Mademoiselle,” he greeted me quietly.

I stepped forward.

“This way.”

I eyed him. There was nothing distinguishable about his face. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A round chin. He wore a cap. Was I doing this? Getting into a car behind The Titan?

“His Majesty waits,” he urged me.

“Yes, I know.” I stopped just shy of the door.

From where I stood I could see his arm. I followed the lines of a crisp white shirt to the cuff at his wrist. I couldn’t make out the letters monogrammed on his cufflinks. His watch caught the small bit of light coming off the building. He had large hands. I also noticed his legs were long and muscular in a pair of fitted dark pants.

He strummed his fingers. He was waiting.

“Mademoiselle,” the driver urged.

“Right. Yes.”

I ducked, climbing into the backseat. The door closed behind me. And I came face to face with His Royal Highness.