My Forbidden Royal Fling by Clare Connelly
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HE’SQUIETBUT I don’t want to read anything into that. Whatever question his silence raises, I already have the answer.
I’m leaving soon, and that will be the end of us. He doesn’t look at me as he drinks his coffee, concentrating instead on the newspaper in front of him. I watch him read, marvelling at this small, ordinary action, and am struck by something unusual.
My parents used to do this.
How many mornings did I walk into the dining room to find my father reading the paper, mother opposite him? It is the most ordinary reflection of every day domesticity, and sharing it with Santiago now makes me anxious, because it’s such a lie. I know I’m reading too much into it. I stand uneasily, moving towards the window. Across the room, my small suitcase is packed, stuffed with all the things I brought. Clothes that will remind me of Santiago for ever. The cap sits on top, ready for me to resume my disguise.
‘We haven’t talked about the casino,’ I say, glancing at my wristwatch at the same time.
He lifts his gaze to my face and my heart stops beating. The golden light from behind me frames him until he shimmers. I ache for him but I know that can’t happen. Like ripping off a sticking plaster, I have to go.
‘We can discuss it over email,’ he says quietly. ‘But I see nothing in your requests that is...unreasonable.’
My eyes sweep shut. He’s going to agree to my terms... Because he thinks they’re fair or because we’ve slept together? Uneasiness grows. ‘Thank you.’
The rustling of paper draws my attention back to him. He stands, walking towards me. ‘I’ll drive you to the airport.’
I anticipated this suggestion and have my response ready. ‘I want to take a taxi. I’ve never done that before.’
His eyes war with mine, a challenge in their depths. ‘Then I’ll come with you.’
I hadn’t anticipated that response, but I demur easily enough. ‘It’s too risky; too many people...my security guards. I’d rather say goodbye to you here. Privately.’
I wonder if he’s going to overrule me, as he did with the trip here, but after a moment he nods. ‘Fine.’ He rakes his fingers through his thick, dark hair and I wonder if he’s experiencing a similar maelstrom of emotions as I am.
I’ve never been with a man before. I have no experience of any of this, particularly not with saying ‘goodbye’, but I have bags of history when it comes to knowing what people expect of me.
This should be light-hearted. Nothing about what we’ve done was ever going to be serious. We both knew that coming into it. I force a bright smile to my face. ‘I’ve had a lot of fun with you,’ I say, wondering how it became so much more meaningful than just ‘fun’.
‘I’m glad.’ He doesn’t match my smile. His hand, when it cups my cheek, is gentle. ‘Try to remember what you deserve, Princesa.’
Hope briefly lifts my heart. ‘And what’s that?’
‘More than an arranged marriage.’
On this, I know we’ll never see eye to eye. There’s no point discussing it further. Besides, I’m starting to worry that if we don’t wrap this up quickly I might do something truly embarrassing, like crying, or begging him for one more night.
‘I really have to get back.’
‘Of course. Your state dinner,’ he says with only the faintest hint of emotion darkening the comment.
I nod slowly.
He drops his head but, instead of the passionate kiss I crave, I receive a chaste goodbye peck on each cheek, and then he drops my hands and takes a step backwards. ‘Take care of yourself, Freja.’
I watch him walk towards the door. Every inch of me wants to run after him, but I don’t. I stand exactly where I am, already feeling the heavy gravitational pull of my real life and the future that awaits me.
It turns out sleeping with Santiago changed many things about me, but not this. I still feel nothing for my future husband. He is handsome and polite, well-spoken, and there’s every indication he’s well-read and well-educated, but if anything the idea of our marriage leaves me short of breath—in the worst possible way. I feel like my head is being pushed under water; I’m suffocating. I speak to him for longer tonight than I have before, trying to find common ground or some kind of spark, trying to find something with which to connect with him.
There’s nothing.
‘We should meet privately, another time, to discuss our parents’ machinations,’ he says, wiggling his eyebrows as though it’s all some big joke. He doesn’t know my heart is breaking. I’m very good at concealing such things.
‘Do you want to pretend it never happened?’ I ask with what I hope seems like humour, hoping he’ll agree.
‘I don’t think that’s possible. My parents would be devastated.’ His eyes scan my face. ‘Would you prefer to forget it, Freja?’
Hearing him say my name angers me. Not because I care about ceremony—I don’t, generally—but it’s an intimacy I like sharing with Santiago alone.
‘I... My parents...’
He nods sympathetically. ‘My parents have explained how much it meant to yours. Our marriage was their greatest wish. So let’s have dinner some time between now and Christmas. We can go over the details then. Perhaps we should go away together for a weekend, get to know one another in a more private way?’
He is everything amenable and yet disgust threatens to swallow me. I nod, because I don’t trust myself to respond, and excuse myself a moment later.
It’s a relief when the dinner ends and I can return to my apartment, pushing Heydar from my mind gratefully and replacing him with Santiago. I lie in my bed, altered for ever by the nights spent in Barcelona, wondering what he’s doing now.
I could text him, but to what end?
We shared something special—at least, it was special for me—but now it’s over and I have to accept that, no matter how much it hurts.
I’m not surprised by the papers the next day. I’m single, twenty-four and in desperate need of a royal heir or three. And while the news of our betrothal is still confined to an intimate circle of fewer than ten people, Heydar is also young, single and highly eligible. A photograph of us locked in conversation runs in most of the European papers. The headlines are respectful in the more conservative papers, but in the tabloids it’s all variation on a theme.
Happily Ever After! A real-life happy ending for the tragic Princess!
And in some, it was more speculative still.
Red-Hot Royal Romance!
Indeed, the photo does make us look quite intimate. Carelessly, I’ve leaned too close, or perhaps that’s him. Our faces are only an inch or so apart, our eyes locked. I try to remember what we were discussing at that moment and draw a blank. The truth is, contrary to the image in front of me, I barely gave Heydar a tenth of my concentration. My entire mind was wrapped up in Santiago and the fact I’d flown out of Spain only hours earlier.
I throw the newspapers aside in a fit of impatience. I have just enough capacity left for rational thought to acknowledge that the photograph can be used to our advantage. When we inevitably announce our marriage, it will seem more realistic. People will believe we are in love.
I grip the wall behind me for support against the horror of that idea.
Another image floods my mind. I see Santiago as he was on the last morning, the way he’d read the newspapers from front to back, and I know there’s no way on earth he hasn’t seen this. Guilt rips through me and I fight an urge to message him to explain. I owe him nothing, just as he owes me nothing. If he did see the picture, only his ego will care.
I have to let it go.
A week later, at another state dinner, my heart lurches dangerously in my chest and I reach for the Prime Minister’s arm, squeezing it unintentionally hard. ‘What’s he doing here?’
Henrik follows my gaze. ‘Mr del Almodovár? I invited him, of course.’
‘But why?’ I turn to face him and am sure I must look as deranged as I feel—overjoyed and terrified all at once. It takes every ounce of will power I possess not to run across the room and throw myself into his arms.
‘He’s poised to invest billions of dollars into our economy. I thought it made good sense. Speaking of which, have you signed the contract yet, Your Highness?’
I think of the documents I was emailed six days ago, each condition I’d wanted spelled out in clear legalese. Why haven’t I signed them? After all, I made up my mind a long time ago. I’m going to sell the land to him. The casino deal will go ahead.
Perhaps Santiago senses my questions, because at that precise moment his head lifts and his eyes pinpoint me effortlessly, slicing through me, exposing me, making me yearn, ache and fly all at once. He murmurs something to the couple he’s in conversation with then begins to walk towards me. I have barely any time to brace for his proximity, or to work out how to behave. My instincts are to embrace him, to kiss him, to hold him close and never let go, but this is a very public setting and such a display would be a disaster.
I pull myself up to my full height and straighten my shoulders, aware of both the literal and figurative weight of the diamond tiara I’ve chosen to wear for the evening. It was my mother’s favourite and it seems fitting that I should have that reminder of her tonight, when I am the closest I’ve ever been to wanting to disregard everything that’s expected of me. The spirit of rebellion is almost impossible to tamp down.
Only two feet away from me, Santiago stops, addressing the Prime Minister first, extending a hand and shaking it as if they are old friends.
Seconds later, he turns to me, and I can’t work out what’s going through his mind. He looks at me and I feel a thousand and one things, but chief amongst them is relief. I thought I’d seen him for the last time, and until this moment I hadn’t realised how badly I needed that not to be the case.
The week since I left Spain has been the longest of my life. I have been more isolated and lonely than ever before, more dissatisfied with my gilded cage and the limitations of my role here. Being ceremonially important—and only ceremonially important—is stultifying and infuriating.
I hold my breath, staring at Santiago—I can do nothing more. I’m frozen to the spot.
‘Your Highness.’ He bows low, the deference so at odds with the way he greeted me in our first meeting that a faint smile crosses my lips.
‘Mr del Almodovár.’ My voice shakes a little. ‘Thank you for joining us tonight.’
‘I was invited,’ he says, flicking a glance to the Prime Minister.
‘Of course, of course,’ Henrik interrupts, so I want to shove him. ‘I’m glad you came. Her Highness was just saying she’s been meaning to sign the contract.’
‘Has she?’ Santiago’s attention doesn’t leave my face.
‘I noticed you’ve incorporated the changes we discussed.’ I hope my gratitude shows in my tone.
‘I gave you my word that I would.’
My stomach tightens. ‘Yes, you did.’ I wish Henrik would go away. In fact, I wish everyone would. I want to be alone with Santiago so badly it hurts.
‘Well, then, that’s settled,’ Henrik says convivially, patting Santiago’s back. ‘Shall we discuss the specifics of your build time?’
Santiago nods once, but his eyes stay on my face. ‘However, there are some matters still to clarify with the Princess.’
‘Oh?’ Hope flutters in my chest. ‘There are?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Shall we do so now?’
‘Not tonight.’ He gestures to the room. ‘It isn’t the time, and I’d hate to take you away from your adoring public.’ I hear his cynicism, but it’s mixed with something else too, an emotion I can’t analyse. ‘Does tomorrow suit?’
‘I can clear my schedule,’ I say eagerly—too eagerly, but fortunately Henrik is champing at the bit for this deal to be finalised, presumably so he can announce it ahead of the upcoming election and get the credit for bringing in such a valuable project. If the Prime Minister notices my willingness to meet with Santiago, it only matches his own.
A beat passes. ‘You’re staying in Marlsdoven tonight?’
A small smile flickers on Santiago’s lips. I stare at them, mesmerised. ‘If you are free to meet tomorrow, then sí.’
‘Her Highness has already agreed to it,’ Henrik says with over-the-top conviviality. ‘Come, let’s go and marvel at your site.’
I half-expect—and hope for—Santiago to tell Henrik to get lost. After all, he’s not the kind of man to be told what to do or where to go. But he falls into step with the Prime Minister, cutting through the crowd with ease. I watch him go, perturbed and on edge.
Knowing he’s here makes it impossible to concentrate. I rarely drink at events such as this—a message drummed into me when I was first conscious of alcohol and the powers it has to remove barriers—but I murmur a request for a glass of champagne to a palace staff member, grateful when a crisp, cold flute is placed in my hand a moment later.
The first sip is bliss but does little to calm my raging nerves. The evening passes in a blur. I go through the motions––making conversation, smiling, posing for photographs, remembering tidbits about each attendee’s life as I have been trained to do––but all the while I’m conscious of Santiago, particularly the way he watches me. I feel his eyes on me and their possessive heat is like a glow building in my chest, burning brighter as the night wears on until finally it’s over and I can escape.
All morning I’ve been waiting for this, yet the moment he strides into the drawing room, my breath catches in my throat and I feel as though my knees will no longer support my weight.
‘Mr del Almodovár,’ I murmur, for the benefit of the liveried soldiers who stand sentinel at the doors.
His eyes narrow imperceptibly and the air between us sparks with electricity. He closes the distance slowly, an agonising journey that makes me want to cry out. I force myself to remember that I’m a princess, and here in Marlsdoven I must behave like it. What we shared in Spain might as well have taken place between two different people.
But when his eyes roam my face it is as though I’m being ravaged. Heat flicks through me, slowly at first, but then with a flaming urgency burning me so my cheeks are hot and my lips part.
Finally, he reaches me, his lips twisting in a cynical half-smile. ‘Your Highness.’
His voice runs down my spine like treacle and I fear my knees might actually buckle if I’m not careful. I need to sit down but I’m incapable of moving. I stand there, staring at him for a long time. The quiet clicking of the door as it closes rouses me from my stupor.
‘Santiago.’ Alone now, I use his name, but it’s a form of torture because it reminds me of an intimacy we can never share again.
‘Freja.’
My heart jolts. He’s watching me carefully, his manner apparently relaxed, yet there’s a tension on his face that makes me wonder if he’s feeling as many emotions as I am. But of course he’s not. This is Santiago del Almodovár. What we shared was earth-shattering and life-changing for me but for him? It was just another affair in a long string of affairs. I meant nothing. I force myself to remember that as I stare across at him.
‘How are you?’
It’s a polite question, little more than a civility, but my heart trembles when he asks it.
‘Fine,’ I lie. There’s no sense in telling him that every moment since leaving Spain has been a form of torture...no purpose in telling him that the time we spent together has changed me in a fundamental way. ‘And you?’
His response is to lift a shoulder indolently, then gesture to the chairs across the room. ‘Shall we get down to business?’
My brows knit together reflexively. ‘Oh,’ I respond quietly. ‘I—Yes. I mean, if you’d like.’
There is a coldness to him that makes me shiver. I feel his distance from me and want to shake him. ‘It is why I’m here.’
It’s just a statement of fact. It shouldn’t bother me but I feel like I’m being pushed into a stream of lava.
‘We could have dealt with this over email,’ I say with quiet reserve.
‘And yet you haven’t.’ His eyes lance mine. ‘You haven’t sent the contract back.’
My stomach drops to my toes. He’s here for the contract; that’s all. No part of this is because he wants to see me. Disappointment is like a chasm in my chest.
‘Not for any reason,’ I murmur, my voice halting. ‘I’ve just been busy.’
He slices me with a look, as though he knows I’m lying, then moves towards the table set up beneath the window. The contracts have been laid out on it. I watch him from where I stand, watch his autocratic profile as he regards the documents.
‘You’ve read them, I presume?’
I nod, but he’s not looking at me.
‘Yes.’ I walk towards him, my stomach in knots.
‘And?’ He spins abruptly, pinning me with the full force of his attention so I almost lose my footing.
‘Thank you for amending them so completely.’ My smile wobbles. ‘These terms are more than fair.’
‘They’re what you requested.’
‘I don’t think I expected you to grant them.’
‘I saw no point in denying you.’
I stand opposite him, hope bursting through me, because surely he’s admitting to something more? Surely he was so generous with my requests because he cares for me on some level?
‘Why not?’ The words rush out of me, husky and desperate.
His eyes narrow. ‘Negotiating leads to delays. I want to begin construction immediately.’ He looks at the papers once more. ‘So, if you’re ready?’
Disappointment is fierce. Of course it’s business. It’s always business with Santiago.
I nod jerkily, but don’t reach for the pen.
‘I...’
What? What was I going to say?
His eyes pierce mine. He waits. My uncertainty grows. We feel like strangers––no, not strangers. It’s worse than that. There’s antipathy coming from Santiago, hitting me straight in the face.
‘You’re angry with me,’ I say, sure I’m right.
His only response is to square his jaw.
‘Why?’ I ask, pushing the point.
‘I’m simply impatient for you to sign these documents so our business together is concluded. Bueno?’
Frustration slices through me. ‘Why are you talking to me like a stranger?’
‘Isn’t that what we are now?’
My lips part. I go to deny it but pride keeps me silent. I feel the burn of tears behind my eyelids and move quickly, leaning forward and grabbing the pen, staring at the table while I flip through the contract, adding my signature at the bottom of the last page. But when that’s done I stay as I am, not wanting him to see the emotion in my eyes, needing a moment to steady myself.
A single tear rolls down my cheek and thuds on the table. Embarrassed, I spin away from him, striding towards the window and staring out at the city without really seeing.
‘Thank you.’ For a second I think I hear something in his voice, something soft, apologetic even, but then his footsteps sound and I realise he’s leaving.
I whirl round, sadness shifting to anger with lightning speed. ‘So that’s it?’ He stops walking but doesn’t turn round to face me.
Fury zips across my body. ‘Is this how it goes, Santiago? You’ve had your fun with me and now I’m persona non grata to you? I had no idea this is how you treat your ex-lovers.’
At that, he whips round, his eyes like coal.
‘How should I treat you, Princesa?’
I flinch at that, the weaponizing of a title he’d made so sexy and intimate now used almost as an insult.
‘I’d settle for a modicum of respect—a hint of cordiality.’
A muscle jerks in his jaw. ‘Respect?’ He strides towards me then, his body emanating tension, his spine ramrod-straight. ‘Do you think I am treating you disrespectfully? How, exactly?’
But I can’t explain it. It’s not anything he’s done so much as what he’s not doing. He’s not smiling at me; he’s not touching me. He’s looking at me as though we’re two strangers. He’s speaking with icy civility bordering on disdain, but it’s only the contrast to how he was in Spain that I resent.
‘Forget it,’ I say, my voice wobbling with tears. ‘Just go.’
‘Is that what you want?’ he demands quietly.
I stare at him, frustration slicing me. It’s not. But what I want isn’t possible. I look around me, as if to reinforce that. I’m surrounded by ceremony. This room is one of the oldest parts of the palace. Gold wall panels meet double-height ceilings, crystal chandeliers run in a line down the centre and, at the end of the room, there’s a wall of mirrors. The floor is a shining parquetry.
It’s a physical reminder of who I am and what I owe my country. Across the corridor is the throne room; he would have walked past it before coming in here. Two golden thrones sit side by side, as they have done for hundreds of years, awaiting occupants.
‘Or do you want this?’ he asks, purposefully laying the contract back down and rounding the table slowly, giving me time to realise his intention and to stop him if I wish to.
But I don’t. Despite the impropriety and impossibility of Santiago I am stationary. Waiting, wanting, needing...
