Chapter 2

Flashbulbs from cameras made me wince. I was standing with my arm around Niamh in front of the royal family’s villa outside the capital, Saint Henri, a group of photographers and journalists having just arrived for a brief interview. 

Niamh was barely smiling. I leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Look happy.” She widened her smile until she looked demonic. 

“How are you two enjoying married life?” a woman asked in French.

I replied in English, “We’re getting to know each other even better now, which is why we chose to honeymoon here in Saint Henri.”

Every time a royal family member vacationed here, the little seaside town’s economy was boosted. Niamh and I wore clothes made from a local designer, and we were scheduled to appear at a popular seafood restaurant later that week.

“This place is beautiful,” said Niamh.

The journalist kept the microphone near me, which irked me. Although the press was insatiably curious about my new American bride, they also disliked that I’d chosen an American to wed. Some of the old guard had complained that it had been a slight to choosing either from the Salasian aristocracy or from a royal family in Europe. 

Apparently, there was a duchess in Luxembourg, ten years my senior, who’d very much wanted me to choose her. I’d declined, mostly because she owned ten Shih Tzus and expected to bring the pack of yappy dogs to the palace.

“And do you have any plans for this evening?” This was asked in English from a photographer nearby. He waggled his eyebrows. “You are newlyweds, after all.”

Niamh blushed. I sighed internally, because I could feel the sharks starting to swarm around us. Any sign of discomfort and they’d taste blood. They’d already been upset that I’d announced our engagement without anyone knowing we’d been dating. I’d neglected to inform them that we’d never actually dated before our engagement, of course.

“What would you recommend?” This from Niamh to the photographer. “I’ve never been on a honeymoon, you see. I don’t know what’s expected.”

Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on the crowd. A few tittered; a few others typed onto their phones with wide eyes.

“Oh, I’m sure His Highness will be happy to show you,” said the photographer. “He’s had plenty of practice, we’ve heard.”

Niamh stiffened. I wanted to punch the guy, but I just smiled tightly and said, “I think that’s enough for now. We’re tired from traveling. Thank you for coming.”

I led Niamh back into the villa. A small estate in comparison to the palace, the villa could still house upwards of twenty-five people comfortably. Niamh and I had taken the master suite that led to an expansive garden that was maintained year-round. In the distance, we could see the snowy peaks of the mountains, and looking eastward, we could make out the blue waters of the Mediterranean. 

It was warm and balmy today, and I wiped sweat from my forehead as I collapsed into a thick chair right outside our bedroom. I put my feet up on a nearby ottoman.

Niamh sat down across from me. Her forehead was pinched. She was also gaining more freckles by the minute. 

“Did you apply sunscreen?” I asked her.

“Why? Am I burning?” She looked at her shoulders and held out her arms. “I slathered myself this morning.”

“No, but be careful. The sun here can be brutal for people like you.”

She raised a dark eyebrow. “What, pale as ghost people? Don’t worry, I’m aware of how easily I burn. The sun has never been my friend.” She squinted up at the sun then back at me. “You don’t burn?”

“Sometimes, but I usually just get tan.”

“So lucky.” She sighed. “One time I went to summer camp as a kid, and I guess I didn’t apply sunscreen very well, because I ended up with handprints on my legs from where I’d missed spots. The rest of me was burned.”

“Handprints?” I laughed. “How in the world did you manage that?”

She shrugged, but she was smiling again. “I’m just that talented, I guess.”

Something shifted inside my chest. Although I’d been the one to issue Niamh an ultimatum regarding marriage, I’d been stupid enough to hope she’d still like me afterwards. Based on how she’d refused to let me touch her after our wedding night three days prior, we weren’t going to enjoy ourselves much on this faux honeymoon.

That reminded me of the photographer. “You shouldn’t bait the press,” I said quietly. 

“I didn’t bait anyone.”

“You answered sarcastically. It only gives them more ammunition against you.”

“If they’re going to write bullshit regardless, then I don’t see why it matters.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. My head was starting to ache. “It matters, because your behavior reflects not only on yourself, but on the royal family. You aren’t just a regular citizen now. You represent the Salasian monarchy now. When you accepted this marriage, you accepted the role and the duty that goes along with it.”

I sounded like my father, and I hated it. But if Niamh had no sense of self-preservation, then guilting her was my next best method of getting her to behave. Mostly, I didn’t want her to inadvertently feed herself to the wolves.

She crossed her arms. “His question was rude,” she said.

“It was. But if you react to every ‘gotcha’ question, you’ll exhaust yourself and make an enemy of the press.”

“Aren’t they the enemy?” She gave me an incredulous look.

My smile was lopsided. “Yes, which means keeping them close. They need us, and we need them. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”

“It sounds more like an abusive relationship. Or maybe a parasitic one.”

“A parasitic relationship would imply that one party receives nothing in return. If we control the narrative of the press, then we benefit. It’s as simple as that.”

Niamh said nothing for a long moment. Her gaze seemed fixed on some far-off point. Finally, she said, “I’m never going to be the good, compliant princess. You know that. I’m not going to change myself completely.”

Frustration made me short. “This isn’t about changing yourself, Niamh. This is about putting forth an image, a front, where we are seen as happily in love and that this marriage is real. If you come off as antagonistic and rude, it will bring us all down. It will be a smear on the royal family. And it will make your life much, much harder.”

“What I’m hearing is that it’ll make your life harder.” She stood up. “I know that your crown is all you care about, dearest husband, but you could at least attempt to act like you give two shits about me.” Her voice was full of daggers before she stalked off.

I let out a frustrated breath. I had the sudden urge to get myself completely drunk, but it was only an hour past noon. The last thing I needed was the press managing to capture photos of me staggering around drunk.

During our travels across Europe, the press had left me alone for the most part. It was only here in Salasia that they followed my every move. So often I felt like a prisoner in my own country. I couldn’t leave my home without at least one photographer following me, if not an entire group. I couldn’t go to a restaurant and enjoy that sense of anonymity that regular citizens took for granted. 

Now you’re wallowing, I told myself. You aren’t going to get Niamh to like you again by complaining.

I was considering what to do with my wife when Laurent came outside. We’d traveled to the villa with our own secretaries, who would organize our schedules. A local chef would provide our meals in-house, and a handful of servants would maintain the estate itself. 

“Your Highness,” said Laurent with a brief bow. “I have received confirmation for your dinner at Les Papilles on Friday at seven p.m.”

I nodded, barely listening. When he remained near, I finally said, “Is there something else?”

“Yes. Well, not precisely.”

“That narrows things down.”

“I’m afraid I’m overstepping.”

I sat up straighter. I waved a hand. “Go ahead. You’ve whetted my curiosity now.”

Laurent smiled a little, his expression soon becoming more serious again. “If it would please Your Highness, I would be happy to speak with the princess. In regards to handling the press.”

“She’s already received training on that front.”

“Yes,” said Laurent, elongating the word, “but perhaps she could use some, ah, more training.”

I considered the proposal. It couldn’t hurt. At the very least, it would take some of the heat off of me. Perhaps hearing my suggestions from a neutral party like Laurent would be more effective.

“You’re welcome to ask her, but it’ll be her decision if she accepts,” I said.

Laurent bowed. “Excellent, sir.” 

Dinner was an informal affair. Despite that, we were still seated at a long table, both at the heads of it, with at least five meters of table separating us. 

“You can sit next to me,” I said after we’d been served our meal.

Niamh swirled her wine around in her glass. “You can sit next to me, Your Highness.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or flirtatious. Knowing Niamh, it was probably both. I picked up my plate, my silverware, and my wineglass and went to sit next to her. She raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes, I’m capable of picking up my own plate,” I said.

“You’ll only blow my mind if you tell me you know how to wash dishes.”

I leaned forward. “I can even turn on the dishwasher.”

Niamh fanned herself. “Good sir, I am all aflutter.”

I chuckled. I sipped my wine, enjoying the warmth in my belly and the warmth in my wife’s eyes. I was tempted to kiss her or at least touch her hand. But she was a skittish creature, like an animal that was still afraid of human touch. Or, at least, my touch. 

“What other peasant activities do you do?” She bit into a flaky croissant. “Can you do laundry?”

I grimaced. “I’ve never had to do my own laundry,” I admitted. When Niamh was about to give a scathing reply, I added, “But I do know how. I swear.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Okay, go on.”

“I know how to cook eggs. I can make coffee.” I didn’t add that I had no idea how to make a good cup of coffee. “I’ve even used a vacuum once.”

Niamh’s lips twitched. “Wow, used a vacuum once. You sound just like every guy I’ve dated. What is it with men and their aversion to vacuums?”

I swallowed a bite of my salad. “How very sexist of you.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, guys do not like to clean. Once, I was so grossed out by my boyfriend’s apartment that I legit vacuumed it myself.” She wrinkled her nose. “He was so underwhelmed that when I got home, I sent him an invoice for the work I’d done.”

I almost choked on my wine. “You didn’t.”

She just shrugged, smiling. Then she asked, “Can you drive?”

“Yes, although I do it rarely. I usually have a driver here in Salasia, and I prefer taking taxis if necessary.” I thought back. “I haven’t driven a car in…five years?” 

“I love driving.” Niamh put her chin in her hand, her gaze now far away. “They’re like horses, but with engines. I always found them fascinating. When I was just ten, I made my uncle teach me how to change out a flat tire after me and my aunt were stranded for three hours with a flat in the middle of nowhere, Washington. When I got older, I started tinkering with my uncle’s car, but he finally was so annoyed with all of my messing around that he bought me a junker to play on instead.”

Her expression closed. “But I stopped after that. I haven’t worked on a car since high school.”

“Why not? If you enjoyed it so much?”

She looked uncomfortable. “I started taking automotive classes at the local career center. You could take them for high school credit. But I was always the only girl, and the boys…” She scowled. “They were assholes. They’d say gross shit to me. When I did better than them, they’d fuck around with my tools, even breaking some. They’d sabotage a car I was working on, making it so I’d spend hours upon hours just to undo their damage.”

White hot rage made my fists clench. “Did you tell anyone? They should’ve been disciplined.”

“Oh, I agree. And I did tell: my teacher, who said it was just boys having fun. I went to the principal of the career center, and although she agreed it was wrong, without proof of who had exactly done it, she couldn’t help me. It was bullshit. So one day I was so fed up that I just quit. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Silence fell. I wished I could find those boys and deck them. Or at the very least deck their parents. The thought of young Niamh, who loved this hobby, giving it up because she’d been harassed? It was difficult to fathom, mostly because Niamh was so stubborn and strong. 

“Do you regret quitting?” I asked finally.

She sighed. “Sometimes. But I was only seventeen. It got to the point that going to that class was so stressful that I couldn’t sleep. My aunt and uncle did everything they could with contacting the school. A few boys did get detention, but it only made things worse. I felt like I didn’t have a choice but to give in.” 

I took her hand, squeezing it. “I’m sorry. I hate that you had to give up something you enjoyed.”

“So do I. I’ve thought about starting up again, but I just haven’t had time. Life, you know. Plus, college tends to take up a lot of brain space.” 

When she returned my hand squeeze, my rage at these unknown teenagers faded. Instead, I felt as though I’d glimpsed a sliver of the sun in Niamh’s eyes.

I lifted her hand to my mouth and kissed the back of it. She shivered. 

After that, we both concentrated on just finishing our already cold entrees.