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.
There had been a handful of kisses in her past; she was twenty-six, after all. But never more than a brief touching of lips. The kind of men who had been permitted near her just happened to be the kind of men who got aroused at the thought of their own reputations inflating with a real-life princess on their arm. Not one of the men she’d dated had ever tried to get to know her really.
A prickle made its way along her skin as she thought of a certain pair of grey eyes, raking their way down her body. It was madness, the way her body
