bit callous of her to look at things that way. But, she had been raised the daughter of a paparazzo, and that was just the way things were. Celebrities capitalized on their images, and relied on the fact that they were public commodities. Her father was simply a part of that economy.
“Believe me,” the man said. “You don’t want to speak to the Prince.”
She drew up to her full height, which, admittedly at five-three was not terribly impressive. “Believe me,” she countered. “I most certainly do want to speak to the Prince. I want to tell him that his tyrannical tactics, seizing an American citizen, all in the name of his precious vanity, are not the least bit impressive to me. In fact, if he has issues with his presumably weak chin, subtly rounded jawline and hollow chest, perhaps he could take some of the money he has saved by not renovating this palace and invest in a good plastic surgeon, rather than imprisoning a man for taking a few photographs.”
“Weak chin?” Another voice sounded in the darkness. Much different from the voice of the servant. It was deep; it resonated there in the stone room, resonated inside Belle. And then, for the first time, she knew fear. An intense, trembling kind that skated down her spine and reverberated in her stomach. “That is a new accusation, I have to say. However, suggestions that I go visit a plastic surgeon are not. I find that I have lost patience with going under the knife, though.”
“Prince Adam,” the servant said, his tone clearly intended to placate.
“You may leave us, Fos.”
“But, Your Majesty—”
“Don’t bow and scrape,” the Prince said, his tone hard as the stone walls all around them. “It is embarrassing. For you.”
“Yes,” the man said, “of course.”
And then, the one person who she felt might be her ally shuffled back off into the darkness. And she was left with a disembodied voice that was still shrouded in the inky blackness.
“So,” he said, “you have come to see about your father.”
“Yes,” she said, her tone unsteady. She took a deep breath, tried to get a grip on herself. She was not easily intimidated. She never had been. She had spent her childhood going to private schools that she was far too poor to have gained admittance to, if not for a trust fund previously established by her long-deceased grandfather.
Everyone there knew she was there on charity, and she had been forced to grow a spine early. Everyone was always teasing her. For being poor. For always having her head in the clouds—well, she had her nose firmly planted in a book. But, those stories, those fictional worlds, were her armor. They allowed her to insulate herself. Allowed her to ignore the taunting happening around her.
She had survived a childhood surrounded by the mocking glances and cruel words of the children of Hollywood royalty. Surely she could face down the Prince of a country that was the size of a postage stamp.
She heard a heavy footfall, an indication that he had moved deeper into the room, but she still couldn’t see him. “I arrested your father,” he said.
“I know that,” she said, doing her best to keep her tone steady. “And I think it was a mistake.”
He chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound. It lay flat in the room, making it feel as though the temperature had dropped. “You’re either very brave or very stupid. Coming to my country, my home, and insulting me.”
“I’m not sure that I’m either. I’m just a girl who’s concerned about her father. Surely you can understand that.”
“Perhaps,” he returned. “Though, I find it difficult to remember. I have not worried about my father in quite some time. The cemetery keeps him in good comfort.”
She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that. If she was supposed to say that she was sorry that his father was dead. In the end, she imagined that he probably didn’t want her sympathy.
“That’s what I’m afraid will happen to my father,” she said. “He’s sick. He needs treatment. That was why he got the pictures of you in the first place. He needed money to cover the cost of the treatment that the insurance wouldn’t. This is his job. He’s a photographer. He’s—”
“I have absolutely no interest in paparazzi scum. That kind of thing is forbidden in my country.”
“No freedom of the press, then,” she said, crossing her arms and planting her feet more firmly against the stone floor.
“No freedom to hunt people down as though they are animals simply because you wish to collect photographs.”
She huffed. “I doubt you were hunted down. I was able to gain admittance to the palace easily enough. My father is an experienced photographer, and I bet it was even easier for him.”
“He was also caught. Unfortunately, he had also already sent the photographs off to his boss in the United States. And, as his boss is unwilling to negotiate with me—”
“I know. The photographs are planned to go out in an exclusive later this week. I spoke to the Daily Star.”
“But they are so invested in the fact my interim leader’s tenure has now come up, they want the monopoly on these photographs for when I make my decision about my rule.”
“If I had been able to negotiate with them,” Belle continued, “I wouldn’t have come myself. But, I imagined that they didn’t explain to you about my father’s illness.”
“Am I supposed to care? He does not care about my afflictions.”
Rage poured through her. “Are your afflictions going to kill you? Because his will. If he doesn’t get back to the US and get himself into treatment, he is going to die. And I won’t let that happen. I can’t. You want him sitting here wasting away in a jail cell? For what? Your pride? He can be of no use to you.”
She heard him as he began to pace, his footsteps echoing off the walls. She could just make out a dark shape, movement. He was large, but that was all she could gather.
“Perhaps you have a point. Perhaps he is of no use to me. Beyond the fact that I feel the need to make him an example.”
“An example to who?”
“Anyone who might dare to do similar. Is it not enough, what was done to my family already? The press feel the need to come back and add insult to injury near the third anniversary of the accident? I will not allow it.”
“So, you’ll let a dying man rot away in your palace then. Haven’t you ever heard that two wrongs don’t make a right?”
“You mistake me,” he said, his tone suddenly fierce. “I am not trying to make anything right. What has been done to me can never be made right. I want a pound of flesh.”
She heard his footsteps, and, she realized, he had turned away from her. That he was beginning to walk away. “No!”
“I am finished with you,” he said. “My servant will show you out.”
“Take me.” The words left her trembling lips before she had a chance to think them through. “Instead of my father. Let me take his place.”
