CHAPTER SIX
REMIREZ ALEXANDER MONTEGOVA, Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Montegova, paused before the imposing double doors, his raised fist as frozen as the rest of his body.
It didn’t escape him that anyone who knew him would be shocked by this uncharacteristic display of hesitancy. Since infancy he’d been lauded as a fearless, valiant visionary who would one day steer his people to greater heights than any of his forebears had imagined.
But here he was, cowed by a set of doors.
Granted, they weren’t just any doors. They were the portals to his final destiny. As pretentious as the words sounded, that didn’t make them any less true.
He’d been dreading this day.
The simple truth was he didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to face his mother the Queen. Every instinct warned him that he wouldn’t emerge the same person.
When had that ever mattered? He’d never belonged to himself. He belonged to history. To the destiny forged by countless Mongetovan warriors who’d fought bloody battles to carve out this Western Mediterranean kingdom with their bare hands.
For as long as he drew breath he would belong to the people of Montegova. Duty and destiny. Two words branded with indelible ink into his skin.
Like twin weights they settled like a heavy cloak over his shoulders, making his next breath a torturous chore.
‘Your Highness?’ his senior aide prompted nervously but firmly from behind him. ‘Her Majesty is waiting.’
One voice in many that peppered his daily life. One that cajoled and coaxed and, when he closed himself off to that, as he’d mastered doing, prodded and pushed.
The morning’s summons, however, had been absolute.
His mother requested his presence at nine o’clock sharp. The solid gold antique clock standing proudly in one of the many marbled and hallowed hallways of the Grand Palace of Montegova solemnly announced that he was five seconds from being late.
With a resigned breath, he unfroze his fist, rapped sharply on the gold-leaf-framed doors and awaited the command to enter.
It arrived, brisk and firm, yet wrapped in a layer of unmistakable warmth.
The voice accurately reflected the woman seated in the throne-like chair beneath the grand coat of arms that spelled out her royal status in Latin, her flint-grey gaze tracking him across the vast office.
She nodded approvingly when he executed a respectful bow before taking his seat before her.
‘I was wondering how long you’d remain behind the door. Am I really so frightful?’ she mused with a trace of sadness in her eyes.
That sadness grated, but Remi refused to let it show.
He was used to people wearing that expression in his presence. He was used to several more expressions, yet sorrow and pity chafed the worst. But he supposed it was better than being treated as if he were made of fragile glass.
He ignored the emotion and searched her face for signs that, just this once, his instincts were wrong. But from her perfectly coiffed hair and flawless make-up, to the classic Chanel suit she favoured for official duties, and the diamond and emerald brooch made in the image of the Montegovan flag, Remi was left in no doubt that this meeting was exactly what he’d suspected it to be.
The axe was truly about to fall.
‘Not frightful, no. But I suspect the reason for this summoning will leave one of us less than thrilled.’
His mother’s lips pursed momentarily before she rose. A tall, striking woman, she would have commanded attention with effortless ease even if she hadn’t been the reigning Montegovan monarch. Long before she’d become Queen she’d won three beauty pageants across the world. When she deigned to bestow it on the deserving her smile could stop a grown man in his tracks—Remi had seen it first-hand. The hair that had turned silver almost overnight ten years ago, after his father’s death, had once been as dark as his own, but she’d owned that very visible sign of pain and grief with the same stalwart strength that had stopped her kingdom from descending into chaos at the sudden death of its King and the scandal that had followed. At twenty-three, Remi had been deemed too young to take the throne so his mother had taken his place as interim ruler. He was supposed to take the throne on his thirtieth birthday. But then further tragedy had struck.
His mother was the strongest woman he knew. Which was why everything inside him tightened when, after several minutes examining the spectacular view from her office window, she returned to her desk, planted her palms on the polished antique cherry wood and locked eyes with him.
‘It’s time, Remirez.’
His gut clenched tighter. She very rarely used his full first name. As a child that had never boded well for him or his hide. As a grown man of thirty-two it still commanded his attention.
Unable to remain seated in the foreboding of impending fate, he stood and paced in front of her desk. ‘How much time are we talking, here? Weeks? Months?’
It wouldn’t be years. She’d already given him two years. And lately she’d indicated, without cruelty, that it was time to set his own grief aside.
‘I would like to make the announcement that I’m stepping down at the next Solstice Festival.’
The third week in June.
‘That’s...three months away.’ The reality of it hit him like a cold wave in the face.
‘Yes,’ she replied firmly. ‘Which means time is of the essence. We must put our house in order before we begin to make the announcements.’
‘Announcements?’
