Chapter Twenty-Four
Edee
Trumpets blare.
And let me tell you, the real deal has nothing on the tinny fanfare I’ve heard in the movies. It feels like the roof is about to cave in, the gilt-covered walls of the ballroom vibrating with each long, drawn-out blast. The sound is regal and imposing. It’s a heads-up that the evening’s star attraction is approaching and that we lesser mortals should pay attention.
As if I could possibly overlook Dare. These last few weeks—and particularly these last few hours—I’ve second-guessed myself. I’ve questioned whether I should have let him go so easily. If I should have fought or yelled or hung onto his ankles and yanked him down onto our bed. Maybe more sex could have fixed what had gone wrong. Or maybe the right words would have finally occurred to me. Or maybe nothing would have mattered at all because the truth is that Dare hasn’t called me. He hasn’t texted, emailed, or sent a freaking carrier pigeon. A relationship can’t be all one-sided, and maybe I do have to accept that he’s gone.
That he’s not coming back.
I wish I could say that I stopped caring.
That I stopped looking for Dare wherever I went. That I stopped checking my phone, my inbox, and even the goddamned sky because there’s nothing that could stop Dare from reaching out to me if he really wanted to.
And it’s because I can’t stop that I’m here. Lost in a crowd of elite partygoers. In the last half hour I’ve heard so much speculation about how tonight will go. Apparently, no one actually knows which brother will choose a bride tonight, although supposedly Nik is already off the market and engaged to some lovely girl from a well-to-do Valeian family. She’s called dibs, licked the cupcake, nailed her prince.
Part of me wants to march over there to that stupid white gazebo and snatch those ladies bald. They have no idea just how sweet a happily-ever-after with the prince of your dreams can be. That’s the proud, smart, bold part of me—but she’s fighting for control with a softer, wimpier part that wants to explain to whoever Dare chooses that he’s a man as well as a prince. I hope she understands that. His favorite whiskey is distilled in the mountains of Colorado and the maker inches it down the road one death-defying inch at a time. He’ll pick red tulips over roses any day. He hates the feel of velvet, and cats and kids adore him. And someday . . . someday he’s going to make an awesome father, but she’ll have to convince him because he’s so certain that he’s a screw-up.
The woman beside me sighs. She sounds like a category four hurricane. “Don’t you wish you were waiting in that gazebo?”
She sounds wistful, even though she’s sporting an enormous diamond over her elbow-length white glove. The best man doesn’t always come bearing the biggest rock in the world.
“Yes,” I say because New Me has vowed to tell the truth no matter what.
“We all do.” She tears her eyes away from the gazebo and really looks at me. Her eyebrows inch up and I tell myself I don’t care. New Me has balls of steel, too. “Honey—there was a dress code.”
She waves a finger around the ballroom—which is a sea of white and sparkles—but any other editorial comments are drowned out by a new burst of trumpets as the fancy gold doors topping a sweeping staircase at the far end of the ballroom swing open majestically. The trumpets escalate and then are abruptly cut off. I’m still trying to clear the ringing from my ears when a herald appears at the top of the stairs and makes his announcement into the sudden silence.
“Their Royal Highnesses Prince Luca, Prince Darejan, and Prince Nikoloz.”
The first man who saunters through the door is Luca, my wedding gown nemesis. He seems larger in person, making Dare’s comparisons to a troll even more apt. Although a giant might have been a better yardstick since he’s roughly the size of a lumberjack. Brow furrowed, he storms down the stairs. He wears his long dark hair loose, burly shoulders straining at his uniform jacket. Whatever he does in his spare time, it must be strenuous. One strong hand curls around the sword by his side; I’m pretty sure he’s trying to decide who to stab first. When Dare mentioned that his brother disliked social occasions, he wasn’t kidding.
“Here comes my favorite,” someone whispers hungrily.
Not me. I swear.
My fingers itch to take a photo. Dare strides confidently down the stairs. He looks happy. Hot. Like he’s having the time of his life. It’s like those movie scenes where the sexy male model canters through a field toward you and canters and canters . . . because he’s headed in the wrong direction.
In fact, he’s not coming toward me at all,
He catches up with Luca and heads for the most ridiculous gazebo I’ve ever seen plunked down in the middle of a ballroom. A gazebo where three stunningly beautiful, perfectly made up women wait. Three women. Three princes. Even I can do that math—and the whispers rising from the crowd around me connect any dots that the invitation to a betrothal ball didn’t make clear. Dare’s already moved on and the only space in his happily-ever-after for me is standing room only.
On the outside looking in.
I’ve spent my entire life happily standing on the sidelines, letting other people take what I want. Not going after my dreams. So I’m not sorry that I came here to Vale because at least I know, but it hurts. And suddenly I’m really pissed off.
Does the royal family expect us to stand here and hurl rose petals at the three happy couples?
I can accept that Dare has moved on, but I deserve a drink.
“Excuse me,” I snarl to the courtier bobbing up and down next to me. She has her phone out, busy recording the whole lovely event. Mr. I-Hate-Cameras is going to be miserable tomorrow when he checks YouTube.
I dart through the crowd, working my way closer. My elbows are my secret weapons—I bob and weave, stepping on dress shoes and dresses indiscriminately. I can’t see Dare anymore but the man has a planet-worthy magnetic pull, and I just follow the trail of pheromones.
Wait.
I spy the perfect opportunity to have my drink and my revenge. An entire army of footmen in royal blue livery line this side of the ballroom and they’re holding iced champagne and trays of glasses. Clearly tonight’s script calls for a celebratory drink once Vale’s princes have sealed the deal and I’m totally on board with this plan. I detour and grab two bottles, one opened and one not. I have one for now and one for later, just in case I’m not rotting in a dungeon somewhere miles below the palace later tonight. The footman looks startled, but he’s not sure what to do. After a second’s indecision, he clearly decides against pursuing the crazy, champagne-stealing chick and I storm away.
I shove through the crowd, wielding the bottles like battering rams. The bubbles are icy cold (winner!), and not so surprisingly the well-dressed guests aren’t happy about having water-slicked sides touching their expensive finery. I swig straight from the open bottle. Nope. I’m not classy at all—and I’m okay with that.
And . . . this is taking too long. At this rate, Dare and Perfect Princess will have popped out a couple of mini-mes by the time I reach them.
“Coming through,” I bellow.
Heads swing my way. Usually, I’m hanging with the footmen on the sidelines. Tonight? No so much. The last few guests get the hell out of my way when I spray them with the remaining contents of the champagne in my left hand. I do a quick check, but I don’t see Mr. Left, Mr. Right, or anyone else bodyguardy.
Instead, I come face-to-face with Queenie, who frowns. He recognizes me.
“Your Royal Highness.” I’m not sure what the protocol is—or if I care. So I give him the bodyguard head tilt, hand him a bottle of champagne, and keep on moving. A quick glance over my shoulder has me picking up my pace because HRH clearly has a large number of extremely large bodyguards that make elephants look petite. Plus, they’re all converging on my position, so I need to make the most of my remaining seconds of freedom.
I stomp-run toward the gazebo.
Go big or go home, right?
Dare reaches the gazebo first and pulls a ring out of his pocket. I’d like to say this is where I say something witty and funny. Where I show the whole world that I’m a beautiful, determined, talented woman. Unfortunately, New Me is more blunt than creative.
“Really?” I bellow.
It certainly gets attention. There’s a nanosecond of stunned silence and then the whispers start.
Dare winks at me. “I had a date with destiny, darling.”
His voice is the love child of a phone sex operator and a Latin DJ. God, I can feel myself and my righteous rage melting. I need to regain control of this moment. Dare signals to someone over my shoulder. Hopefully, he’s indicating they should hold their fire or at least not spit me on one of the dozens of ceremonial swords I knocked against in my mad dash for the gazebo.
Before I can formulate the next step in my ad hoc confront-Dare plan, he strides down the steps and comes for me. Weeks and weeks too late.
New Me proposes a plan. Be strong. Be bitchy. Be so not jealous.
I shift my gaze to the gazebo and the bridal wannabes—and that plan flies right out of the window. Even a kindergartner could manage this math.
“One, two.” I punch the air with my fingers for emphasis. “Three.”
And if finger number three just happens to be my middle finger, it’s no more than Dare deserves. I’m sure the photos will be spectacular.
Dare looks at me. I wait. Again. I really need to stop waiting for this man.
He says nothing. Again.
No, I’m not going to play it cool. Yes, I flew across an ocean and the better part of two continents to get here. Yes, I’m still working on my trusting side. It’s just that it’s a little hard to find the love of my life about to propose to another woman. Or possibly women because I honestly wouldn’t put it past Dare to have a harem. Even though I want to believe in true love and happily-ever-after, I’m more than a little fuzzy on the logistics.
My grip tightens on the remaining bottle like a Neanderthal fisting his club when the saber-tooth tiger comes a-calling. In my fantasies, it’s too late to dump him—but it’s not too late to douse him. I could drench him in lovely, expensive, ice-cold champagne. I could do so many things.
He told me in Vegas that he’d come back for me—that he didn’t want to marry a princess. But here he is. And there she is. Jealousy is an unhappy, bitter emotion. The more I think about tonight’s scene, the unhappier I become.
So more doing, less thinking.
“Have a nice life,” I hiss.
Reaching down, I yank off a shoe and chuck the Louboutin at Dare’s head. He catches it instinctively. Let’s revisit. I just attended my first royal ball, stole their champagne, and then attempted to assault a member of the royal family. Grand gestures are good, but only if you can get away afterward.
“Do keep going.” He sweeps me a bow, the top of his gorgeous, traitorous head almost touching my belly.
“You’re impossible.” And since running in four-inch heels only works in music videos, I toe off the second shoe. I should . . . I should do so many things. It’s too much to handle and I don’t really want to hear his explanations anyhow. I toss shoe and bottle to the side and sprint. Away. Toward the wall of windows and elegant French doors that open onto somewhere else. Boiling tar pit, fiery volcano, portal to the nexus of doom—I don’t care. My only desire is to get away.
When did I fall in love with a handsome king-to-be?