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The fear in her voice startled him, but his training had taught him not to release anyone until he had another means of restraining them.
‘You are making it very difficult for me to help you here. Do you know that?’ he said, holding her arms tightly to her sides and trying in vain to ignore the delicious scent of vanilla that drifted up from her hair.
‘Why…? Why would you offer to help after what you think of me?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Because I believe in second chances.’ He spoke without thought, his answer surprising even himself. ‘You always have a choice—no matter how impossible it seems.’
A strange look came over her face as their eyes locked. Her breath was coming hard and heavy against his chest but she’d stopped fighting him. Her eyes drifted away from him, settling on the distance with a mixture of resolve and deep sadness.
‘I’m not who you think I am.’
Without warning a heavy weight came down behind him, followed by what he presumed to be a palace guard shouting in furious Catalan.
Roman pushed the man backwards, holding his hands up in what he hoped resembled a peaceful motion.
‘I have authorisation,’ he began, motioning towards the lapel of his suit jacket. ‘The King knows I am here.’
Roman felt his hands being pulled behind him into handcuffs and fought the urge to laugh as he looked up into a second guard’s furious face.
‘You will regret this.’
He grunted at the pressure of a knee between his shoulder blades, knowing that they most likely did not speak a word of English. As his face was crushed against the carpet he looked sideways, just in time to see a pair of dainty bare feet appear by his side. Up close, he could see that a tiny hand-drawn daisy adorned each red-painted toenail.
The woman spoke in rapid-fire Catalan, her voice muted and fearful yet with a strange backbone of authority. The nearest guard nodded, uttering two words that made his body freeze.
‘Si, Princesa.’
Roman crushed his face further into the carpet with disbelief and sheer dread.
He had just body-searched a damn princess.
His Majesty King Fabian of Monteverre stood up as Olivia entered the private sitting room flanked by two stony-faced members of the Royal Guard.
‘Of all the days to pull one of your disappearing acts, Libby,’ her father said angrily, motioning for the guards to leave them with a flick of one hand.
Her mother, elegant and perpetually silent, did not acknowledge her entry. Queen Aurelia sat poised in a high-backed chair, her eyes trained solemnly on nothing in particular.
‘Where have you been? You were informed of the intruder hours ago,’ Olivia said, breathing hard.
‘And naturally you expected us to abandon the event? Honestly, Libby…’ The King frowned in disbelief, reaching down to take a sip of whisky from a thick crystal tumbler.
Her father was the only one who still called her Libby. It reminded her of being five years old and being scolded for trying to sneak chocolate from the kitchens. But she was not a child any more, and she was damned tired of being treated like one.
‘I was attacked,’ she said slowly. ‘A man held me hostage in my own dressing room. And yet I’ve been left to pace my apartments completely alone for the past five hours.’
‘The matter has been resolved. It was a simple misunderstanding.’ King Fabian avoided his daughter’s eyes. ‘Best to forget the whole business.’
Olivia felt all the outrage and pent-up frustration freeze in her veins as she registered her father’s words. Had he actually just told her to forget this afternoon? She opened her mouth, then closed it, completely at a loss as to what to say in response.
‘Your absence was noticed by Sheikh Khalil,’ he said, scolding, his brows drawing down as they always did when he was unimpressed.
‘Well, as I have just said, I was rather busy being held against my will by a dangerous intruder.’ She took a deep breath, looking briefly across to her mother’s uninterested blank features before returning her furious gaze to her father. ‘Have I gone mad? Or are you both completely unaffected by today’s events?’
‘I understand it might have been…alarming…’ King Fabian began solemnly.
‘“Alarming” hardly covers it.’ Olivia fumed. ‘Why are you both so calm?’
The last word came out in a disbelieving whisper. She fought a distinct urge to walk over and bang her fist on her father’s chest, to knock over her mother’s glass, to make them both react in some way other than with this muted nothingness.
Today’s events had shaken her to her core, and yet she felt as though she were intruding on their peace with her inconvenient outrage. Surely her own father should be shocked and outraged that his daughter’s safety had been at risk inside their own home. Unless… Unless he wasn’t shocked at all.
‘What do you mean by a misunderstanding?’ she asked, not bothering to hide the challenge in her voice.
‘Libby…’ Her father sighed, raising a hand for her to quieten.
‘Please, don’t “Libby” me.’ She placed one hand on her hip. ‘Tell me exactly what is going on. Did you know about this man?’
The King twisted his mouth in discomfort. ‘Well…not directly, no.’
‘Indirectly, then. You knew that someone would be here today? In our home.’
King Fabian strode to the window, placing one hand on the sill and looking out in silence. ‘The man you met today was Roman Lazarov, founder of The Lazarov Group, an international security firm.’ Her father sighed heavily. ‘He is a very close friend of Sheikh Khalil and I have been assured that he is the authority on high-class security operations. But after the complete muddle he made today, I’m not so sure of his expert status…’
He laughed weakly, his voice trailing off as he took in her expression of horror.
‘Don’t look at me that way. It was a gift from Sheikh Khalil—very thoughtful of him to want to ensure your safety, I thought.’
Olivia felt a headache begin at her temples. This was all becoming too much. She closed her eyes a moment, unable to bear her father’s apparent disregard for his daughter’s privacy or independence.
‘No, Father. In fact I find it horribly thoughtless. And intrusive, among other things.’ She felt her breath coming faster, her temper rising like a caged bird set to take flight. ‘This is the last straw in a long line of things I have overlooked since you began vaguely mentioning a possible marriage. I am not a piece of livestock to be insured and fenced in, for goodness’ sake.’
He sighed. ‘You are overreacting.’
‘No, I’m really not. Did anyone consult me before all my charity events were cancelled? Was I informed when I was assigned five new bodyguards for all trips outside the palace?’ She shook her head, her knuckles straining with the tightness of her fists by her sides. ‘And now this. Did you even think to ask me before you sent a bloody mercenary into my room? I’ll never feel safe there again!’
‘Lazarov was simply going to attempt to gain entry to your rooms. To find any weaknesses in our security. Besides, you were supposed to be at the races with your fiancé.’
The tightness in her throat intensified. ‘I have not yet agreed to this marriage. Until today I had no idea that you were truly serious about it! And if this is how the Sheikh shows his concern…’
She tightened her lips, willing herself to say the words. To tell her father that the whole deal was off. She didn’t want this. Any of it.
King Fabian’s voice lowered in warning. ‘Olivia, these negotiations are months old—we have discussed why this is a necessary step.’
She blinked. Months old? ‘For the kingdom, yes. I understand what we stand to gain from a political union.’ She cleared her throat, her voice sounding all of a sudden smaller. ‘But what about for me?’
Her father’s brows rose imperiously. ‘You will be serving your kingdom.’
‘I don’t see why I must get married to a complete stranger in order to serve Monteverre. I am doing good work with Mimi’s Foundation—I am making a difference.’
‘Your grandmother and her damned charities…’ Fabian scowled darkly, draining the last of his whisky. ‘You think teaching a handful of scrawny kids to read will change anything about our situation?’
‘My grandmother taught me that charity is not always about money. It’s important to nourish the youth as well as to do our best to help those in need. She was beloved by this kingdom.’
‘Ah, yes, the eternally perfect Queen Miranda! My mother spent so much time on her charities she didn’t even notice her country’s economy crumbling beneath her feet.’ His mouth twisted cruelly. ‘Don’t you see, you silly girl? We are facing financial ruin without this union.’
Olivia opened her mouth to protest, only to have her father’s scowl stop her as he continued on his own personal rant.
‘The Kingdom of Zayyar is overflowing with wealth, thanks to this man. He is an economic genius. But the civic history of his country still stands in the way of true acceptance from the west. To put it bluntly, they need our political influence and we need their money.’
‘Money…’ Olivia bit her lip, wanting to ask just how much she was worth, considering he was essentially trading her body for cash.
‘Sheikh Khalil has the capabilities to take Monteverre back to its glory days—surely you want that for your people? What good is being able to read if they have no money to feed themselves?’
She had never heard her father speak so frankly, and his eyes were red-rimmed with half-madness. Olivia knew that Monteverre was in trouble. A series of bad leadership decisions and banking crashes had left them neck-deep in debt and with many of the younger generation emigrating to greener pastures. They were bleeding, and it appeared that this Sheikh had come offering a magic bandage. At a particular cost…
‘Trusting an entire country’s economic future to one man’s hands? That seems a bit…reckless. Surely there is another way without the marriage—?’
‘No,’ he cut across her, his voice a dull bark in the silent room. ‘There is no going back on this. I won’t hear another word.’
Her father’s eyes were dark in a way she had never seen them before, as though he hadn’t truly slept in months.
‘Everything you have had since birth is thanks to your position. It’s not like you have an actual career to think of—you spend most of your time looking pretty and waving. None of that would even change. Your life would continue just as it has been—only as the Sheikha of Zayyar.’ He took a breath, smiling down at her as if he had just bestowed upon her some enormous gift. ‘This is your duty, Olivia. To Monteverre. It’s not about you.’
She felt his words sink into her skin like an icy breeze, setting off goose pimples down her bare arms. Did being born a Sandoval really mean surrendering every aspect of your life to the good of the kingdom?
As the second daughter she had naïvely believed that her life would be different from her older sister’s. She was not first in line to rule Monteverre—she didn’t bear that crushing weight of responsibility and she had always been infinitely glad of it.
‘The Sheikha of Zayyar…’
Her mother’s melodic voice intruded on her thoughts, sounding absurdly serene.
‘Sounds like something from a film…’
‘I don’t even know where Zayyar is,’ Olivia said numbly, almost unable to speak past the tickle of panic spreading across her throat.
‘Somewhere on the Persian Gulf,’ Queen Aurelia offered, twirling the liquid in her glass. ‘They have a hotel shaped like a boat sail.’
‘That’s Dubai.’ King Fabian rolled his eyes. ‘Zayyar is halfway between the desert and the Arabian Sea. Gorgeous scenery—you will love it.’
‘Thank you for the sales pitch, Father.’ Olivia sighed, looking across to her mother, who had once again turned to gaze into the empty fireplace.
It was customary for her mother to permanently nurse a glass of the finest cognac after midday. In Olivia’s memory no one had ever questioned it or raised any concern. There had always been an unspoken understanding among the Sandoval children that their mother and father each did whatever they pleased and things would always be that way. They did not welcome personal discussions.
She looked up to the ceiling, feeling the familiar sense of exhaustion that always accompanied any meeting with her parents. For that was all they ever were. Meetings.
‘Sheikh Khalil simply wanted to ensure your safety, Libby. Surely you find that romantic? I know you are prone to the sentiment.’
Her father looked down at his wife, but she had drifted off, her eyes dull and unfocused as she stared into nothingness. The look on his face changed to outright disgust and he turned away, busying himself with retrieving his jacket from a chair.
Olivia’s heart broke a little for her parents’ fractured marriage. She had fleeting memories of a happier time, when her parents had seemed madly in love and the Kingdom of Monteverre had been a shining beacon of prosperity and culture. Now there was nothing but cold resentment and constant worry.
‘Father…’ Olivia took a breath, trying to calm her rapid thoughts. ‘This is all happening very fast. Perhaps if I just had some more time—’
‘Why do you think the Sheikh arranged this trip? He plans to propose formally this afternoon so that the announcement can be made public before he leaves.’
Olivia’s breath caught, expanding her throat painfully. ‘He…he can’t do that…’
‘Oh, yes, he can—and you will be grateful for his patience.’
His voice boomed across the room, the sudden anger in it startling her, making her back away a step.
He took a breath, deliberately softening his tone. ‘Can’t you see that you are a vital part in this? There is power in your position.’
‘Power…’ Olivia repeated weakly. Her shoulders drooped. Even her bones felt heavy. Women are not always destined to surrender to men… Those words—his words—had struck something deep within her.
Roman Lazarov.
She bit her lip hard. For a moment she had regretted her decision to have him captured. He had seemed to glow from within—a fiery protector and proclaimer of women’s strength. Now she knew he was just like the rest of them. Here to ensure that her cage was kept good and tight. That she had no hope of freedom.
King Fabian tightened his lips, forcing a smile before shrugging into his navy dress jacket and fixing the diamond cufflinks at his wrists. He paused by her side, looking down at her.
‘You will have a private lunch with Sheikh Khalil tomorrow.’ He placed one hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. ‘I know you will give him the answer he wants. I’m so proud of the beautiful woman you have become.’
Olivia closed her eyes, not wanting him to see the tears that glistened there. Her heart seemed to slow in her chest as she nodded her head in defeat, glad when he was gone, with the smell of cigar smoke wafting on the air in his wake. How could he be proud of the woman she was when she had no idea who she was herself?
‘I can’t do this,’ she breathed, silently hoping her mother would look up. That she would hold her and listen to her worries, then kiss her forehead and tell her everything would be okay.
But sadly she knew that would never happen. She had no memories of ever being in her mother’s arms, and even if she had the woman who now sat like a living ghost in the sitting room was not truly her mother.
She stood still for a long time, letting the tears fall down her cheeks and stain the neckline of her dress. Eventually she wiped her face and turned away from the unbearable silence, walking through the long main corridors of the private suites.
As usual, the guards pretended not to notice her.
She took her time, idling through the gardens on her way back to her rooms. With a few deep breaths she calmed the tremor in her throat. It had been a long time since she had let a single tear fall—probably not since the day of her grandmother’s funeral. Crying was a fruitless activity when her future had already been neatly packed up and arranged.
She sat heavily on a marble bench in the centre of the courtyard. This was her favourite part of the palace, where a low stone square fountain provided the perfect vantage point to sit and listen to the staff as they went about their daily duties. Here, partially concealed by bougainvillea and foliage, she had been privy to the most heart-stopping live-action dramas outside of television.
The fights, the wicked gossip, the passionate clandestine embraces. A reluctant smile touched her lips. She had seen it all.
Just in the past month it had been revealed that one of the upstairs maids had engaged in an affair with the head gardener’s handsome son. Olivia had overheard the whole sordid situation developing—right up to the point when said housemaid had found out that her beau was also heavily involved with one of the palace florists. The ensuing slap had resounded across the courtyard and earned the young Romeo a speedy transfer outside the palace.
The housemaid had moved on quickly enough, accepting a date with a palace guard. The look of delirious happiness as she’d described their first kiss to her friends had haunted Olivia for days.
She stood restlessly, leaning against the side of the fountain. Was that look the very thing she was sacrificing by agreeing to a loveless marriage?
She frowned, drawing her hand through the water and watching the ripples spread across her own solemn reflection. Love was about falling for the wrong guy, having your heart broken and then ending up with your handsome Prince Charming—not that she had ever experienced it. But she had watched enough old movies to know it was always true love’s kiss at the end that gave her that butterflies feeling in her stomach. That moment when the couple swore their undying devotion and fell into each other’s arms…
She wanted to feel like that. At least once in her life.
