Cashmere & Cameron – Sunlight and Saltwater

Family Visits

You know how sometimes you obsess over something so much that it paralyzes you, and then when it finally happens it just feels… good?

That whole family visit thing had become the bane of my existence. I was excited, then terrified, then ready to rip the Band‑Aid off, then ready to never do it at all.

And then I got the call.

My cousin Anastasia had been visiting a friend for semester break, and on her way home her flight hit rough weather and got rerouted for an unscheduled stopover. Would you like to guess where?

Yup. Bellacorde.

It would’ve been rude to know she was here and not invite her. So Ana became the first person — aside from Mom and Brad — to visit me here. Totally unplanned. But honestly? It was good. Great, even. A little taste of my old home, my old self, right here in this palace.

It was her first full day, after arriving just in time to have a late dinner with Luc and me the night before and then fall into bed exhausted from a trip that took way longer than it had to, and after a good night’s rest followed by breakfast, we’d gone exploring. I showed her the palace, the gardens, the vineyards. By the time we made it back inside, we were exhausted and had claimed the entire velvet sofa in the Sitting Room like two overfed cats, a plate of pastries between us and the kind of giggles that only happen when you’re overtired, overcaffeinated, and with someone who knows exactly how to wind you up.

The sitting room was warm with late‑day light — all gold on the stone floor, soft shadows on the carved paneling. It was the same room I had fainted in twice, which Ana found endlessly entertaining.

“So explain this to me,” she said, eyes bright as coals, her long dark hair spilling over her shoulder. “What is a sitting room for? Other than the obvious, but you can literally sit in pretty much ANY room.”

I tried to sit up straighter, imitating Luc’s posture when he’s being princely.

“Well,” I began, “I asked the exact same thing. I can tell you initially I used it to wake up from literally fainting. Twice.”

“Huh!? What now? Are you for real? People still faint?”

“Apparently I did. Twice. Once after I found out he’s the prince… forgot why the other time.”

“Understandable. I just about fainted too when Mom and Dad told me where I was going. A palace. Dude, nobody even knew you were out there — we all thought your ass was still in Britchester. All flights noped us out, no hotels available whatsoever, so Mom called Brad to see if he could get his jet to get me home from here and he was like, ‘No, can’t do, airspace locked, but while she’s there — funny story — so is Briony…’ and then he laid it on them. I mean, dude, what? When Dad called me to tell me you guys were sending a car to the airport to get me and bring me to a freaking palace, I legit thought it was one of his jokes again. Bruh, you in a fucking palace, my damn cousin with a prince. You can’t make this shit up! So, sorry to just like… show up, by the way. Totally uninvited. Super rude.”

“Hey, I don’t mind. Luc’s been riding me just about as hard as Mom that I need to introduce him to the family. It’s just… super cringe. I’m sure by now you heard how me telling my sperm donor went. That was how me telling everyone was supposed to start — first him and Beau, then everyone else — but after the BS Kershaw Sr. pulled, I was so done. I honestly didn’t even care if any of you ever found out. No thank you.”

“Yeah, I get it. Uncle Connor left out nothing. Like, full play‑by‑play. Including how your prince came to rescue you — daaaw, adorable — and honestly? I didn’t think he’d be hot. You hear all that stuff about royal inbreeding and whatever, so I was expecting, like… a chinless, cross‑eyed Victorian ghost about a head shorter than you. But damn, girl, your man is fine. And that sexy French accent? Oh my God. I would commit crimes. Dude. If you don’t marry this guy ASAP, I swear I will. I don’t even care. He gets no say.”

“Hey, can I at least turn twenty first in a few weeks before you chase me down the aisle? But seriously, even if I wanted to, we can’t. There are predetermined timelines — how long one has to date, which is kinda where we’re at now, then engagement, which is not allowed to happen before I turn twenty‑one next year, then all that. A million rules. I’m not even kidding. Super romantic — NOT.”

“Seriously, you complainer?! Bruh, who cares? If that man wanted to marry me, I wouldn’t care how or when. Yes, please! The end! Just get yourself knocked up and you’ll see how fast that wedding band is on your finger.”

“OMG — take your medicine or something! Gurl! You don’t understand. Everything has rules here. Me getting pregnant now would… OMG… just no. Trust me, we already had that scare and I do not want a rerun, especially not a real one. But seriously — it’s super formal, all the time. You’re always under a magnifying glass. You can’t just veg out for a weekend being all fat and ugly or whatever. Someone’s always there. You can’t just be like, ‘No people‑ing today, I wanna run down the hallway naked,’ because it’s always FULL of people — guards, staff, randos I don’t even know…”

“Yeah, big inconvenience, since that’s just what you and I normally do at home — run through the house naked — NOT! There have always been people all over our homes. And I have a little brother who is the world’s most annoying teen boy. Like, remember when he got that nosebleed from basketball and couldn’t find tissues, so he grabbed one of my tampons, shoved it up his nose, and came down to dinner with the string dangling? And then told Mom, ‘What? Blood is blood, right?’ I swear she almost buried him in the backyard.

And on top of that we have a maid who comes daily, a gardener, a pool guy… and we live next door to Blaine Cameron. Honestly, I barely know how to spell privacy.”

And hey — wasn’t on my Bingo card wanting to marry young either, but girl… being here, seeing all this, and knowing you’ve got a shot with that man‑hunk‑prince, if I were you? I’d find a way to have had him put a ring on my finger yesterday. Before he changes his mind. Because seriously, what are girls like us supposed to do? A real job is out. Nothing we do ever really counts. No matter how talented we are, we’re always going to be nothing but the Nepo‑babies who ‘had everything handed to us.’ That’s why I’m so casual about college. I’m never going to use that degree and we both know it. My parents are just still super delulu about it. And so are you. Why is your ass still enrolled in college when you have all this here?

My mom managed a real career somehow, but honestly – I don’t think I could repeat that if I tried. Even if I became an attorney, everyone would just assume anything I achieve is because she helped me. Dad made it worse for Tate and me getting as famous as he has become. Tate doesn’t get it yet. He wants to be an actor like Dad — this week — but even if he sticks with it, you think anyone’s ever going to give him credit? It’ll always be, ‘His dad got him that role,’ or ‘Well, if you grew up next door to Blaine Cameron, you’d get any role you wanted too.’ Tell me I’m wrong. Argue with me.”

I couldn’t. She sounded exactly like the voices in my head — the ones that show up when I’m dead‑tired and brain‑fried from trying to learn everything at once. Semester finals, royal‑protocol training, the broader consort‑preparation classes, French lessons, and still showing up for Luc whenever he needed me by his side. Believe me, I’m no drama queen — that was a lot. Sometimes it felt like my whole crazy childhood — bouncing between San Sequoia, Brindleton Bay, and the occasional Chestnut Ridge stint, growing up in a wealthy, famous family with paparazzi stalking us everywhere, squeezing through crowds of photographers and fans at VIP events — had been the boot camp I needed just to survive this life. To even be tough enough to attempt it.

“Right. Oh, and back to your question: according to Luc, a Sitting Room is a semi‑private reception room. Not as formal as a salon, not as intimate as a bedroom. A place for quiet conversation, reading, resting—”

Ana snorted. “Resting. Right. On top of or underneath your prince, huh?”

I threw a pastry at her. She dodged it.

“Well,” I continued, lowering my voice, “funny you should say that…”

Ana clapped a hand over her mouth, delighted. “No! You did NOT! Are you kidding me right now?!”

“I wish I were.” I blushed in various shades of crimson.

“In here? Weren’t you afraid someone would walk in on you?”

I felt my face heat. “We, um… Luc umm… locked the door.”

Ana’s eyes went huge. “Briony Rose Cameron. You little hussy!”

“I know.”

“But not on this couch, right? Umm… because… eeeew!”

“NO! We did it half standing and half on the desk, like decent creeps.”

She collapsed into laughter, sliding sideways until her head hit my shoulder. “You’re living my dream. Goddamn, you bish — catches herself a fucking real‑ass prince and then one that looks like him and he sounds a lot of fun too. Girl, I like for real hate you right now!”

“Yeah, well, pick a number. There’s already a line forming. And I wish I were kidding. Some of the chicks here? Girl. So there’s this ex Luc has — Clementine d’Aubigny — she’s like the sister of some count or whatever, very I‑drink‑champagne‑for‑breakfast vibes. And then there’s the other ex, also noble, Dominique — I think she’s a Viscountess? Whatever that even is — but she’s also the sister of Luc’s best friend, which is just… messy. And—”

“Oh my God, if I had to name a total bitch, that would be the name I’d come up with too… Clementine the aubergine and ‘Dumb‑in‑nick.’”

Ana SNORTED — like, full‑body, undignified, pig‑in‑a‑trough snort — and I nearly died doing one of those soundless, breathless laughs, clapping like a deranged baby seal.

We were still laughing and wheezing when the door opened — not abruptly, not casually, but with the crisp formality of palace protocol.

Fetched

A guard stepped in first, posture straight as a spear.

“His Serene Highness, Sovereign Prince Luc Beaumont.”

Ana straightened so fast she nearly launched herself off the sofa. I snapped into Serious Mode instantly — which, for me, is still like… 60% mental chaos and 0% guarantees.

Luc entered with that effortless authority he never seems aware of — full regalia, dark coat cut to perfection, royal‑lavender sash, polished shoes, every detail immaculate — expression composed but softening the moment his eyes found me. That tiny shift in his face always hits me like a punch.

He bowed his head slightly to both of us. “Mademoiselles.”

Ana smiled. I smiled. He smiled back — the kind of smile that said we looked like two cats who’d just eaten the canary. If he knew he’d been part of the topics we’d rehashed so far…

“Luc,” I said, trying to sound like someone who had not just confessed to using this room for indecent purposes. With him. Cough, cough.

He approached, hands clasped behind his back — the posture he uses when he’s trying to look stern but is actually amused. His accent slipped in around the edges, soft and warm.

“I need both of you in the receiving hall,” he said. “A formal introduction is about to take place.”

Ana’s eyes widened. “Us? Me too?”

“You are both my guests,” Luc said politely. “It would be discourteous to exclude you.”

The word guests landed in my chest like a pebble dropped into deep water. Because officially, that’s what I was too. A guest. Even though I lived here. Even though everyone with a pulse knew what we were. Even though he looked at me like that.

He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t being cold. He was being correct — careful — following protocol. But it still brushed against that quiet, aching place inside me.

Ana didn’t notice. Luc didn’t mean anything by it. But I felt it anyway.

“Umm, thanks,” Ana said, “but I don’t know how to do formal introductions at palaces…”

The dry way she said it, like it were some university class elective or something, sent me. I snorted loudly before I could turn away.

Luc’s mouth twitched. “Just follow my lead. I will guide you both.” He smiled at Ana — and she melted into a puddle on the spot. Good. At least I knew it wasn’t just me.

“Uh… Luc? Do we need to change?” I asked carefully, feeling like I should know the answer by now. After all the training I’d already had, you’d think I’d be fluent in royal code — but it was confusing AF, with a million exceptions and sub‑rules and ‘only if the sovereign is present’ clauses. I knew a lot more than before, but I still wasn’t sure about anything.

He looked us over, taking in my lavender sheath dress and Ana’s borrowed blue semi‑formal maxi dress.

“No,” he said, relieved. “You both look entirely suitable. I am the host and the sovereign — I must dress according to royal decorum. But as my guests, and given the short notice, what you are wearing is perfectly appropriate.” He paused, his eyes lingering on me for half a heartbeat longer than necessary. “In fact… more than appropriate.”

That last part was his very subtle way of calling me beautiful — part of the unspoken code of things he wanted to say but couldn’t in certain situations. And it always had an effect on me.

Then he looked at me, and the warmth in his eyes softened into something else entirely.

“And Briony,” he added quietly, “please try to behave.”

“I always behave.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“…mostly,” I corrected.

Ana snorted again, doing a pathetic job of hiding it behind her hand.

Luc sighed — the long‑suffering kind — and extended both arms.

“Come,” he said. “One of you on each side. Let us try to look like a respectable trio.”

Ana took his left arm with the confidence of a girl raised in the glittering Del Sol Valley hills among the rich and famous. I took his right, feeling the familiar steadiness of him beneath my hand — grounding, warm, mine.

As we walked out of the sitting room, Ana leaned across Luc and whispered:

“Do you think he knows what we were talking about?”

“Ummm… he probably does now! He can hear you, you idiot!”

“Okay, but can he read minds?”

“Dude, he was there — and shut up!”

“You shut up!”

Luc didn’t look at either of us, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

He knew. He had to know. Urgh.
He always knows things he’s not supposed to.

The receiving hall was arranged for ceremony — guards at attention, the Beaumont crest gleaming above the dais, the air thick with that quiet, anticipatory hush that only happens when nobility is about to be presented.

Luc stood tall, every inch the Sovereign Prince of Bellacorde. He positioned me just behind and to his right — not a consort, not a fiancée, but undeniably his. Ana stood beside me, hands folded, trying to look serious and failing spectacularly. Her eyes were huge, taking everything in.

She leaned in. “I swear I feel like I’m on one of my dad’s film sets.”

“Shhh!” I hissed back.

A chamberlain stepped forward, staff in hand, voice ringing through the vaulted space with perfect clarity:

“His Lordship, Lord Thiago Manuel Monteiro de Alvarenga, Marquês de Verdemar, of the ancient House of Alvarenga, Keeper of the Verdemarian Coast.”

The doors opened.

Ana and I both straightened instinctively — backs a little too straight, hands a little too still — holding our breaths like two kids pretending to be adults at a royal dinner. Because with a name like that, whoever walked in had to be… something.

And then he entered like the room had been waiting for him.

“Wow!” Ana whispered — and I elbowed and shushed her.

“Sorry, but I thought he’d be, like, a retired admiral with a limp and a monocle. Not… Lord Dreamboat of House Jawline. Is everyone here frigging hot? Cancel my damn flight home. I am staying in the paradise of testosterone gods.”

That set us off — the kind of giggle you try to swallow because you’re in a palace, but it bubbles up anyway. Shoulders shaking. Eyes watering. Doing our absolute best to look composed and managing… maybe 70%. The harder we tried to stop, the worse it got.

Luc’s head turned at the sound — just a fraction, just enough to acknowledge it. A single raised brow. A flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth that he smothered instantly. The kind of micro‑expression only someone who knew him well would catch.

To anyone else, he looked perfectly princely: calm, polite, unbothered.

But I saw it — that tiny spark in his eyes. The one that said: This. This is why I’m obsessed with you. You bring life into these dead, formal rooms.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t admonish us. Didn’t even look directly at me for more than a heartbeat.

Just the faintest tightening of his jaw — the “I am absolutely not laughing at this” jaw — and then he stepped forward to greet Thiago like nothing at all was happening behind him.

Which, of course, made Ana and me giggle harder.

Semi‑successful. Very mature. Ten out of ten.

We got serious instantly when the Marquês got close enough.

He moved with the kind of elegance that wasn’t learned — it was inherited. Old blood. Old nobility. Old Verdemar.

Tall. Sun‑touched. Sea‑green eyes that flicked over everything with sharp intelligence. Hair slightly too long for strict court fashion, silver strands at the temples catching the light. Posture perfect — but with a looseness at the edges that whispered: I have absolutely climbed out of a window before.

He bowed deeply to Luc.

“Your Serene Highness,” he said — the words wrapped in that unmistakable Verdemarian lilt, warm and coastal, with that soft, Portuguese‑leaning musicality. “My apologies for the delay in presenting myself. The sea has a way of… extending one’s plans.”

Luc’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “So I’ve heard. Verdemar and the seas surrounding it have always had a talent for keeping its sons longer than intended.”

Thiago straightened, amused. “It does have that habit.”

Luc inclined his head, the gesture both sovereign and warmly familiar. “Regardless, you are welcome home, Marquês. Bellacorde’s court is poorer without its Verdemarian voice.”

A flicker of genuine gratitude crossed Thiago’s face — brief, but real. “You honor me, Highness.”

Then, with a shift back into his usual irreverence: “I return now as the last of my line. A tragic honor. And apparently it means I’m stranded on land for the foreseeable future — someone has to… como é que se diz… uh, how do you say? To babysit the estate before it collapses under the weight of its own history.”

Giggles times two. I don’t even know how it was so funny, but it definitely was in the moment, enough to have my cousin and me stand there, vibrating like two malfunctioning phone alerts on silent mode — the kind you pretend aren’t happening while your whole body betrays you.

Luc’s elbow found my ribs — the royal equivalent of Briony, please — but he was smiling.

Thiago’s eyes flicked to me, amused. “I see I have found an honest audience.” Even that line carried the faintest coastal lilt — warm vowels, softened consonants, the kind of accent that made everything sound like a flirtation even when it wasn’t.

Luc cleared his throat.

“Mademoiselle Briony Rose Cameron, a resident of Beauvigne.”

As he said it, his hand brushed mine — light, effortless, the kind of touch that could be passed off as guiding me forward. But his fingers lingered just long enough to make the point. A prince’s version of hands off, mine.

Thiago’s gaze flicked to me first. He bowed — lower than before, the flourish softened into something almost reverent. “Mademoiselle Cameron,” he said warmly, “it is an honor to greet one so clearly cherished by His Serene Highness.”

Only then did he straighten, eyes sliding to Ana.

“And her cousin,” Luc continued smoothly, releasing me with a polite smile that didn’t fool me for a second, “Mademoiselle Anastasia ’argrave of Del Sol Valley, our esteemed guest.”

Thiago bowed again, with a flourish just a little too dramatic to be entirely proper. “A pleasure, Señorita Hargrave.”

Before she could react, he reached gently for her hand — not presumptuous, not rushed — and bowed over it with Verdemarian elegance, lips hovering just shy of her skin. A kiss in everything but contact.

“Um verdadeiro prazer, Ana. A true pleasure.”

He said her name with that unmistakable Verdemarian softness — Ahn‑ah, not Anna — all warm vowels and Portuguese lilt, like even the syllables had been sun‑touched.

Damn. What a playa. And right in front of Luc, too.

I shot Luc a glance. He smirked slightly and gave the tiniest shrug — just the way he is.

Ana, flustered but trying to play it cool, dipped her head. “Prazer é meu,” she said — her accent terrible, her confidence absolute.

Thiago’s smile deepened, delighted. “Ah… ela tenta. She tries.” Then, with a tilt of his head, voice dropping into something softer, “Diga‑me, Ana… o homem que guarda o seu coração deve ser muito corajoso para deixá‑la fora de sua vista.” A beat. “How do you say… He who keeps your heart must be a brave soul to let you out of his sight. Or very foolish.”

Ana blinked, then grinned — bright, unfiltered, Ana. “Nah, my heart is 100% free-roaming.”

Luc made a quiet sound — half cough, half laugh — and smoothly added, “The senhorita is quite unattached at the moment.”

Thiago’s eyes glinted, unmistakably pleased. “Então, tenho muita sorte. Then I am very fortunate.”

Before Ana could respond, and the rest of us settle in with popcorn for whatever sappy show this was turning into, the chamberlain stepped forward again, staff striking the marble with a crisp, echoing tap.

“Mademoiselle Clementine d’Aubigny.”

I braced myself.

WHAT?! Why tho?! Her again?! Yuck.

Instinctively, I shot Luc a look — the full WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS glare.

Luc’s eyes flicked to mine, and he gave the tiniest shrug, palms subtly open at his sides.

Translation: Non. I had no idea either. Also translation: Please, mon cœur, do not start a war in my receiving hall.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, trying to keep my face neutral.

Luc’s mouth twitched — the smallest, most treasonous smile — because he knew exactly what I was thinking.

He always knows.

In swept Clementine — all perfume, silk, and the kind of ambition that could power a small city.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, far too brightly. “I had no idea introductions were happening today.”

She absolutely had an idea. Otherwise, her ass wouldn’t be standing in Luc’s Receiving Hall right now ruining my day.

Her entrance was flawless: chin lifted, shoulders back, gown shimmering like she’d rehearsed under stage lights.

She approached Luc first — because she had to, even though Luc and I were tied for first place on her personal shit list — and dipped into a deep, elegant curtsy.

“Your Serene Highness,” she said, voice dripping honey. “What an honor.”

Honor? Girl, you weren’t even invited. Party‑crasher.

Luc inclined his head with the polite neutrality of a man who has survived many Clementines.

She rose and turned to me next, offering a smile so sweet it could rot teeth.

“Mademoiselle Cameron,” she cooed. “How lovely to see you again.”

Yeah, sure. I bet you’re just as fucking thrilled to see me as I am to see you.

I returned the smile, because I was raised correctly.

Ana stood poised beside me, hands folded, observing everything with Del Sol Valley poise.

Clementine’s gaze slid to her — curious, assessing, and just a touch dismissive.

Luc stepped in smoothly.

“Allow me,” he said, voice formal. “Mademoiselle d’Aubigny, this is Mademoiselle Anastasia ’argrave, Mademoiselle Cameron’s cousin and guest of Beauvigne.”

Ana curtsied with perfect grace. Of course she did — she grew up doing ballet. Meanwhile I still looked like a drunk stork half the time.

“Enchantée, mademoiselle,” Ana said flawlessly.

Oh yeah. That too. My cousin was apparently the Rain Man of languages — once heard, saved forever. Me, on the other hand? Still struggling with basic French like a toddler with a head injury. Sigh.

Clementine gave her a polite, meaningless smile — the kind nobles give when they’re not sure whether someone matters. I could’ve given her the spoiler alert: my cousin was the daughter of one of the most prolific actors of the day, Jasper Hargrave, who is impossible to ignore, and Iris Marie, who will make you mind her by any means necessary. And Ana? If she wants to be noticed, you don’t get a vote. She decides the rules, not anyone else.

Ha. Screw with Ana, I dare you, Clementine. You thought what Luc put you through for coming after me was bad? Try Ana. She’ll flatten you so fast you won’t even have time to think ‘oh crap!’. And she’ll do it without the middleman, I thought to myself gleefully.

We all exchanged the appropriate nods.

Only then — only then — did Clementine turn her full attention to Thiago.

And the transformation was instant.

She beamed like the sun on crack. Urgh.

“Oh, Marquês de Alvarenga, so good to see you home safe and sound. When I heard about the terrible storm…”

Blah blah blah. My brain legit turned my ears off for my own protection.

Thiago bowed — perfectly polite, perfectly correct — but the warmth he’d shown Ana was gone. This was the diplomatic version of him, the one that could be carved from marble. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His posture didn’t soften. He was performing courtesy, nothing more.

And while Clementine launched into her monologue, Thiago’s gaze kept drifting — subtle, but not subtle enough — back to Ana.

I rolled my eyes — evidently out loud — because Luc gently nudged me. I looked over and he gave me that just a little while longer, s’il te plaît look.

Ana leaned over.

“Is that the Clementine you were talking about?”

“Yes! The same. But shhhhhh!”

Ana straightened, assessing Clementine like she was a casting director evaluating an actress.

Right when Clementine let out the world’s most annoying giggle and said:

“Oh mon dieu, I could never. I positively would have just died if I had been on a ship in such a terrible storm. I am far too delicate and simple for such radiant excursions…”

Ana whispered, “Oh jeez. That airhorn and delicate? Puh‑lease. Is delicate in the room with us? If she keeps going like that they need to start handing out boots, ‘cause it’s getting deep in here.”

I giggled — loudly — and there was nothing I could do about it. I tried to hide my face and noticed even Luc was trying hard not to laugh.

And then I noticed even the good Thiago was suppressing a smirk — one eye firmly on Ana, the other politely enduring Clementine’s posturing.

A very handsome chameleon.

Exit Stage Left

Luc straightened his face and posture, then — almost theatrically — glanced at his wrist as if he wore a watch.

“Ah. Mon Dieu. Where has the time gone?” he said, voice smooth as polished marble. “I deeply regret this, but Mademoiselles Briony, Anastasia, and I have other business to attend to. Please, enjoy this room and each other’s company for as long as it pleases.”

Let me translate: Luc had just said, Well, we’ve done our duty. Looks like you’re shit out of luck now, Marquês. Enjoy the bitch fluttering around you — we are OUT.

And we were.

I had to physically restrain myself from sprinting. Ana, meanwhile, almost walked into a column because she kept looking back at Clementine circling Thiago like a noble-born vulture.

Once we were alone in the corridor, Ana leaned around Luc to look up at him.

“Oh my God, what was THAT? Please tell me that chick is the court jester!”

Luc gently pulled her back into place, gallant as ever. “Please, not here, mademoiselle.”

We landed in Charles’— no, wait — Luc’s study. He guided us in, shut the door, and turned to Ana with the patience of a saint and the expression of a man who has seen some things.

“Mademoiselle ’argrave,” he said, hands clasped behind his back, accent softening the edges, “as amusing as your commentary was, you must refrain. I assure you, there are many who agree with you. However, you must make every effort to keep those thoughts — and facial expressions — to yourselves. N’est‑ce pas?”

“You got it. Sorry about that.” Ana shrugged. “But you gotta admit… she was all over that! I mean, she was half a brain cell away from humping that man’s leg in front of us! You cannot tell me acting like a bitch in heat was court‑appropriate behavior either!”

“Ana!” I hissed. “You can’t — not — in front of Luc!”

“He has eyes!” she shot back, turning to him. “You SAW it!”

Luc smirked — that patient, slightly predatory smirk that means he’s amused and pretending not to be.

“Mademoiselle Anastasia,” he said, voice smooth as polished marble, “I have seen a great many things.”

And it landed. We all knew what he meant. Clementine might have been throwing herself at Thiago, but Thiago had very clearly flirted with Ana — Ahn‑ah, the way he said it with that Verdemarian‑Portuguese softness — and she had very clearly liked what she saw when he walked in. I hadn’t even mentioned the two “Hubba‑hubbas” she muttered during the whole meet‑and‑greet thing. Luc had heard them.

Anastasia blushed so hard she looked sunburned.

Then — a knock.

Luc straightened. “Entrez.”

A liveried footman stepped inside, bowing deeply.

“Your Serene Highness,” he said. “A message was left by Lord Thiago de Alvarenga as he departed the palace.”

Ana’s head snapped up. Luc’s brows lifted — amused, not surprised.

“Merci,” Luc said, accepting the folded missive.

The footman bowed again and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Luc turned the envelope over once, twice… and then laughed under his breath.

Not loudly. Not mockingly. Just that quiet, knowing laugh he only uses when something is very interesting.

He held the note out toward Ana between two fingers — like he was offering her a card that would change the entire game.

“It is for you, Mademoiselle ’argrave.”

Okay, pause. The way he said Hargrave? ’Argrahv. ’Argraaaav. Almost made me wish my last name were Hargrave.

Okay, back to the scene.

Ana’s eyes went huge. She stared at Luc, then at me, took the envelope, then stared at the wax seal like it might explode.

She tried to flick it open with her thumb.

“Best to crack it,” Luc suggested gently.

She did — producing the oddest little crunch, like snapping a square off a chocolate bar — and unfolded the note.

I was already halfway over her shoulder. Practically draped across her back. Zero shame. Zero decorum. Luc’s eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t stop me — he was amused.

Ana stared at the handwriting like it was a cursed spellbook. So did I.

She looked at me. I looked at her. We both looked at the note.

“So? What does he say?!” I demanded, bouncing on my toes. “Come on, don’t dramatic‑pause me!”

“I… don’t know. You tell me. I can’t read that…” she admitted, horrified.

“Uh, yeah… same. Is that even English?” I wondered.

Luc cleared his throat softly — the polite version of you two are hopeless.

“Might I assist?” he offered, extending a hand. Not impatient. Not judging. Just… Luc. Smooth, elegant, slightly entertained.

Ana practically threw the note at him like it was burning her fingers.

Luc smiled — that soft, princely, amused smile — and read:

“My dear Señorita Hargrave,
Ana,”

He paused, glancing up at Anastasia with a grin that made her blush instantly
Then he continued:

“Forgive the impropriety of a note so soon after our meeting, but I find myself unable to depart Beauvigne without acknowledging the… unexpected effect you have had on me.

I have spent years at sea, surrounded by storms, salt, and silence — yet none of it prepared me for the sunlight you carry so effortlessly.

Should you find yourself walking the terraces tomorrow at the mid‑afternoon hour, I would consider it a great honor to cross paths again.

Until then, T. M. Monteiro de Alvarenga”

Luc folded the note neatly, still smiling and handed it back to her.

Ana made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a squeak as she clasped that note like the winning lottery ticket.

I stared at her. “Sunlight? SUNLIGHT? Ana, he called you sunlight. He has no idea that if you look up doomsday snark in the dictionary, it’s literally your face. Oh my God. Did I hit my head and wake up in a Lifetime movie written by a pastry chef on crack? Because this is uber‑saccharine, with premium, imported, triple‑cream cheese melted on top. Dayum.”

I snorted — actually snorted — and wheezed so hard I sounded asthmatic. Ana shoved me, which did absolutely nothing except make me laugh harder.

Ana pressed both hands to her face. “Briony! Oh my God. I was just saying to you earlier that—” We both looked at Luc.

Yeah. She was just saying earlier that if I didn’t marry Luc ASAP, she would — because apparently my cousin now had a weakness for aristocrats or whatever. And now it looked like she was getting her own shot with the noble sea‑captain‑dude from Verdemar. Yup, my life, unscripted.

I hadn’t even been to Verdemar yet. Not because Luc didn’t want to take me — he absolutely did — but because he kinda couldn’t. If he went, as the official ruler, it would be considered an official state visit. And as a… whatever I was now… I couldn’t exactly tag along on official trips.

Eloise had offered to take me, but Philippe nixed that immediately. Said he would take us himself — “not safe enough to have two ladies like you wander those streets alone.”

Which, okay, fine, sweet in theory… but also mildly insulting? Like we were Victorian governesses who might faint at the sight of a pigeon. As if two grown women couldn’t protect ourselves without a fancy nobleman to escort us between his extremely important aristocratic duties like fencing lessons and whatever you call it when highborn men stand around smoking overpriced cigars and sniffing and slurping expensive booze.

He meant well. Truly. Philippe isn’t actually like that — at least not totally.

But seriously now? Has anyone here looked at a calendar lately? Spoiler alert: the year does not start with “18.” It doesn’t even start with a 1 anymore. Hello?

Luc leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself.

“I believe,” he said mildly, “that the Marquês de Verdemar is… interested. He has asked you for a rendez‑vous. Tomorrow at three o’clock, at the terraces — which means by the fountain.”

Ana made another noise — this one higher pitched, like a teakettle about to blow.

“Do you know him?” she asked. “Is he, like… trustworthy?”

Luc chuckled. “Is any man, when smitten with a beautiful young lady?” Then he sobered slightly. “I believe he is genuinely taken with you, but I cannot speak to his intentions. However, given your connection to Briony — and therefore to me — it would be very ill‑advised for him to harbor ill intentions.”

Ana hesitated, then blurted, “Okay but— is he single?”

Luc’s mouth twitched. “Yes. Quite. He is the last of his line, in fact. There were… expectations that he would marry years ago, but he has always been rather selective. Or perhaps simply unwilling to tie himself to land when his true mistress is the sea.” He shrugged lightly. “In any case, he has no wife. No fiancée. No entanglements I am aware of.”

He tilted his head. “I have known him all my life, not too closely, but his family has always been an honorable one, so oui, I do think he may be trusted. Now, as you heard, he was at sea for a very extended period, so I am not sure how much I personally would trust in his ability to not succumb to your – uh – feminine charm, if you understand me.”

Ana nodded vigorously, eyes huge. “Oh, I understand you. Man’s ready to bust some nuts. I wasn’t lost at sea, but I’d fricking tap that in a heartbeat.”

“ANA!” I yelped. “Oh my God. Luc, NOW do you see why I’m worried about you meeting my family? They are ALL like that! Her dad’s a total motormouth and my grandpa Chase either says nothing or spews curses like a Tourette’s fountain.”

“That is quite all right,” Luc said calmly. “If you worry they might embarrass you, simply invite your father so he might punch me out and I won’t remember any of it.”

Ana lost it completely. She went through every version of laughter known to mankind — wheezing, snorting, silent‑screaming, the whole circus. Luc looked… flattered? Confused? Mildly alarmed? Honestly, same. It would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t also my worst fear unlocked at Mach 10.

Then suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, Ana froze, eyes wide.

“I have NOTHING to wear,” she gasped. “And what do you wear for a date with a Marquês anyway?” She looked directly at Luc for that last part.

With a perfectly straight face he said, dry as the Sahara, “I would not know. I have never been on a rendez‑vous with a Marquês.”

Now I lost it. I mean, I almost blacked out laughing, roaring. The door even opened and a guard peeked in, and Luc waved him off while I was legit suffocating.

Luc added, perfectly deadpan, “Pas d’inquiétude, Caporal. Mademoiselle is not in distress — she is simply… from the mainland.”

The guard nodded like that explained everything, bowed, and closed the door.

I wheezed harder.

“I’m glad you’re amused,” Ana said, throwing her hands up. “Great. This close to a date with some nobleman — I don’t even know what a Marquês is, but luckily we have Google — and all I have is a suitcase full of dirty laundry and plane‑casual wear. And let me guess, there are no 24‑hour stores here?”

“Nope,” I said. “And pharmacies are closed on weekends. Please do not ask me how I know, because I would have to kill you. Look, chill, cuz — you can borrow something from me.”

“And I can assist with the title question,” Luc added smoothly. “A Marquês is a noble rank — above a count, below a duke. In Verdemar, the title is old, respected, and carries significant land and responsibility. Lord Thiago is… how do I say… one of the last of his kind, in many aspects.”

Ana blinked. “So… like… fancy fancy.”

Luc inclined his head. “Très.”

She groaned. “Okay, but what do I WEAR? I can’t show up looking like I’m about to board a budget flight, in yoga pants and shit. Fantastic.”

Luc considered her thoughtfully — that princely, assessing look he gets when he’s about to give advice that sounds like it came from a Vogue editorial.

“For an afternoon rendez‑vous,” he said, “one should aim for elegance without pretense. Something light, feminine, comfortable enough to walk in. A dress or skirt is traditional, but not required. Neutral tones… or—”

He paused, then smiled slightly.

“Verdemar’s color is deep green. It would suit the setting. And you. If the goal is to impress him, I’d recommend that.”

Ana blinked. “Green? I don’t own anything green.”

“You own my closet,” I reminded her. “And I have a green dress. Two, actually.”

Luc nodded approvingly. “Deep green is flattering on most complexions. And it will not appear as though you are trying too hard. It is… subtle symbolism.”

Ana stared at him. “Symbolism?”

Luc shrugged lightly. “He will notice. It will send a signal.”

“Signal?”

“That his interest is reciprocated.”

Ana made another noise — this one high enough to summon bats.

“Oh, got it. Yeah, definitely deep green then. Oh, my God,” she whispered. “I’m going to die.”

Luc smiled. “Hopefully not before tomorrow at three o’clock, s’il vous plaît. At this point, I believe we are all invested.”

Ana pressed both hands to her face. “What if he doesn’t show up?”

Luc blinked, genuinely confused. “Why would he not?”

“I don’t know!” she said, flailing. “Maybe he changes his mind! Maybe he realizes I’m just some girl from Del Sol Valley who got stuck in the wrong airport!”

Luc shook his head. “He will be there.”

“How do you know?” she demanded.

Luc gave her that serene, princely look — the one that makes you feel like he’s already read the next ten pages of your life. His expression softened, his voice gentling in that way he used when he was trying to be both honest and kind.

“Because,” he said, “men of his status do not write notes like that unless they intend to follow through. Especially not to a young lady they met at my court. And in your case…” He gave a small, meaningful tilt of his head. “You are Briony’s cousin — blood family to the woman at my side. That alone places you under my protection and elevates how you are perceived. A man like the Marquês would consider you already vetted, already respectable, already… appropriate. He is quite serious about this, I assure you.”

Ana swallowed, eyes huge.

Luc continued, “But if this meeting goes well… he may pursue you openly. Properly. In earnest. Men like him do not court for sport. They may have taken casual companionships during long absences at sea, but never with a woman presented to them formally. That is a different matter entirely. When they court in that context, it is toward marriage.”

Ana made a tiny choking sound.

I threw my hands up. “Hold on — doesn’t that come with, like, years of trial periods and protocols and whatever? Like what we have to go through?”

Luc shook his head. “Non. That is only for members of the royal House. Our partners must be prepared for a life of public duty, properly vetted, and the process is…tedious and extensive.” He gave me a small, knowing look. “But nobles are not bound by those requirements. Especially not men who are well into the usual marrying age and facing the extinction of their line.”

Ana blinked. “So if I go on this date, I’m basically telling him I’m open to… all that?”

Luc nodded. “Oui. At court, nothing is casual. Accepting his invitation signals that you are willing to be courted — formally, respectfully, and with intention. There is no harm in that, of course. But you should understand what it implies. Courtship here is not for amusement; it is undertaken with the possibility of marriage in mind… assuming, naturally, that the rendezvous goes well and neither of you decides otherwise.”

Ana froze.
Then she squeaked.
Then she squeaked again.

I grabbed her shoulders. “Okay, okay, okay — you need to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Not like you’re hyperventilating into a paper bag, please. Relax.”

Ana nodded, inhaling like she was preparing for childbirth.

I sounded calm, but inside? Everything in me was screaming WTF?! Ana went from “sunlight” to some hot guy to “marriage material?” in about 0.3 seconds.

Seriously, guys — me hoping to EVER make sense of ANYTHING at court was clearly a fool’s errand. I couldn’t hold Luc’s hand in public, even though we’ve known each other for almost two years now, but this guy could look at my cousin once and decide she was prime marriage material and that was somehow 100% court‑approved behavior?

Are you kidding me right now?!

Luc stood, smoothing his coat. “I will leave you both to… whatever this becomes.”
Then he muttered with a sigh, “C’est un cirque, vraiment…” (It’s a circus, truly…)

He kissed my forehead — soft, warm, devastating — and as he leaned in, his breath brushed my ear.

“I will find you later,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.

Then he straightened, all princely gravitas again, and nodded to Ana.

“Bonne soirée, Mademoiselle ‘argrave. Rest well. Tomorrow will be… eventful.”

Ana made a noise that was not human. I think that was her response to Luc.

Luc left the study, shaking his head, closing the door behind him.

Well, maybe now it dawned on him why I was making such a big deal about him meeting my family. THIS was only the beginning of the crazy they were capable of.

Silence.

Then Ana turned to me, eyes huge, wild, sparkling.

“BRIONY,” she whispered. “I HAVE A DATE WITH A MARQUÊS.”

I grinned. “Yeah, but should you really go to that, knowing what we know now? I mean, I thought you’d be hanging out with some fiery Verdemarian captain, cool. But knowing he’s over there proverbially picking out wedding bands and shit?”

She grabbed my hands.

“I know, right?!” she said reverently. “I was up in that room with you joking about this and now… oh my fucking God!”

“No, yeah, I get that, cool and all. But… look. I don’t know if what Luc said sunk in with you. If you go on that date tomorrow and it goes well, he might think you want to marry him. I mean, Ana!”

“So?”

“So?! Are you joking? This is not a drill. Luc told you — and I can vouch for it — things work differently among aristocrats. He was serious. This is serious.”

“Yes, I heard you the first ten times. And I understood Luc fine, too, thank you.” She threw her hands up. “I get it. So, fingers crossed that I don’t bomb tomorrow.”

“You are eighteen. He doesn’t have all the roadblock timelines Luc and I have. You could be married by nineteen. Hello?”

“Yeah — to a nobleman with the sexiest fucking accent and from what I could tell, killer bod. What’s the problem?”

“Are you drunk?! Or high?! Both?!”

“No. Better question: why are you freaking out like I’m making a terrible life choice when you are literally doing the exact same thing. You met Luc at eighteen. You know this would lead to marriage. Yet, here you are. So, can’t I? Gatekeep much?! I mean, don’t tell me you don’t know that your timeline is a bit accelerated, royal roadblocks or not. I know, you know, cos your Dad sure AF made that clear with his typical cowboy outburst. Yeah, we all know about it, it’s legend now, and shocked literally nobody. I mean we all know Jackson. Did you really think he’s on board with you doing this? No. Yet – tada – you are here doing it. Again, so why can’t I try?”

“WHAT?!”

She exhaled sharply, frustration and fear mixing in her eyes. “Look, I like what I’m seeing here. True, it’s a lot, but come on — for girls like us, there usually isn’t a way up. We have to settle. For everything. Few exceptions: your mom. She clawed her way into a successful performer career and married up, and that wasn’t easy. But you think the streets are lined with options like that?”

She paced, hands flying.

“Mom and Dad hang out with actors because of that guild‑thing they’re all in, and Dad meets half of them through work. All famous, all cheating — except my dad, obviously. At least I’m pretty sure of that.” She waved a hand. “You think I want that? Or go be a lawyer babysitting rich people’s self‑inflicted legal disasters like my mom? No! I want what you have. Not Luc — relax — but a life that isn’t a dead end. A life that isn’t me grinding myself into dust for a man who’ll cheat on me in the tabloids while I’m dodging the paparazzi cloud that always follows us around when something happened.”

She jabbed a finger at me. “YOU would know that firsthand with your Cody and Beckett thing in San Myshuno a few years ago. Still pops up in the newsfeeds sometimes. Just saying. It’s not like you and I were ever going to have a regular boring life and a 9‑to‑5 with the statistically calculated 2.2 kids.”

I was speechless. She wasn’t wrong but, what now?

You see, the thing was… I was already shipping it, the idea of Ana marrying some noble and me having family close. The Marquês seemed like something, sure, but having my cousin live here? Oh, that would be incredible. You have no idea. I was already mentally preparing to meddle in that date at a level that should probably be illegal.

So why was she being a bitch about it? Gatekeeping? Me?! What? NO!

Apparently my thoughts were not as internal as I hoped, because her face fell and she hugged me.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Just overwhelmed. Jetlagged. And I shouldn’t have snapped. It’s just… Mom and Dad want me in college, and they’ve been turning up the heat about it. I didn’t want to go, but I also wanted them off my back so they’d let me travel and hang out with my friends — which, you know, is how I ended up here — so I half‑assed picked classes that sounded the least boring. But I don’t care about any of it.”

She rubbed her face, frustrated.

“I don’t want to go to college. I don’t want to be an actress. I don’t want to be an attorney. I can kinda sing and play a few instruments decently, but I don’t want a music career — that world is brutal, the market’s overfed, and I’m not spending my life starving myself to look perfect onstage like some trained monkey. And I’m definitely not going into medicine like Chris or Uncle Con‑Bear.”

She threw her hands up.

“So… what? Marry some rich hedge‑fund guy named, like, Thatcher Ellison Fordham the Third or whatever — only to find out he’s cheating on me with his secretary in the headlines? Because that’s the track I’m on if I stay home.”

Her last line hung between us, heavy and raw.

Silence.

Then we looked at each other — both emotional, both exhausted — and the corners of our mouths twitched.

And then we laughed. Hard. Like, doubled‑over, ugly‑snorting, tears‑in‑our‑eyes hard.

We ended up clinging to each other, still wheezing.

That’s when the knock came. Of course. Perfect timing, as always.

“What now…” I muttered, then remembered I was the adultier adult in the room. “Yes?” I called, trying to sound like someone who hadn’t just had a meltdown.

The door opened and the footman bowed.

“Mademoiselle Cameron, Mademoiselle ’argrave. Supper will be served shortly.”

“Merci bien,” I said, and he retreated — leaving the door open in that very polite, very obvious palace way of saying move it, ladies.

Ana wiped her face, still hiccup‑laughing. “Hey… are we good?”

I squeezed her hand. “Of course we’re good.”

She exhaled, relieved, and bumped her shoulder into mine.

I grabbed her hand properly this time, and together we walked out — two idiots, two cousins, two disasters — heading off to supper with a royal family like it was just another Tuesday.

Because that’s what we do.

It’s Not Easy Being … Me

I woke up to commotion in the hallway — not loud, but that low, urgent murmuring that meant someone was trying very hard to keep something from becoming loud.

Luc stirred beside me, already half‑alert because he’s built like that. “Qu’est‑ce que…?”

Yup. That was his version of WTF, and honestly? Same.

Before I could answer, there was a soft knock — the polite, protocol‑approved kind — and then a voice through the barely cracked door:

“Your Serene Highness? Mademoiselle Cameron? Mademoiselle ‘argrave requests—”

The door slammed open and in burst my lovely cousin.

Oh. Cringe.

A footman stepped in after her, looking like he’d aged ten years in the last thirty seconds.

“Mademoiselle ‘argrave — you must not—”

Too late.

Ana had already barreled past him like a caffeinated gazelle.

She froze for exactly half a second when she saw Luc in my bed.

“Oh,” she said. “Hi. Didn’t realize you’d be here. Sorry ’bout that.”

She said sorry. She did not stop staring.

Umm. Awkward.

Luc went very still — the princely version of I am choosing serenity over death — and inclined his head with the dignity of a man pretending this was normal. It was the furthest thing from normal for someone with his upbringing. Just in case that wasn’t already painfully clear.

“Bonjour Mademoiselle ‘argrave,” he said calmly.

Ana waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, good morning, sorry, I’m not here for you. No offense and all.”

The footman made a strangled noise — scandalized, mortified, possibly praying — and gratefully backed out of the room like he was escaping a crime scene when Luc mercifully gave him the ‘dismissed’ signal.

I cringed audibly. OMG. My family. YIKES. We sure were a crass bunch, I tell you what.

Luc exhaled through his nose — the royal equivalent of mon Dieu, why.

“I will give you privacy,” he said, already sliding out of bed with that smooth, practiced grace that made everything look intentional.

You’d think my cousin would look away, as most of us would, but no. She was taking in the view.

Goddamn.

I grabbed the nearest pillow and lobbed it at her face.

“Ana! Stop ogling the prince! That is RUDE!”

She caught it — barely — and had the audacity to shrug like can you blame me?

Luc grabbed his shirt, buttoned it with military precision, kissed my forehead — only the forehead, sigh— and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

The door clicked shut.

Ana immediately launched herself onto my bed.

Also awkward, considering Luc and I did not spend the night kissing each other’s foreheads, if you know what I mean. Us lying in our own mess was one thing — but now my cousin climbing around in it? Cringe. Again.

“BRIONY,” she whisper‑screamed, shaking my shoulders. “BRIONY. I HAVE NEWS.”

I sat up, hair a disaster, heart pounding. “Believe it or not, I kinda figured you’re not here because of sudden‑onset Briony withdrawals. But girl, you cannot just bust in here like that. And definitely not run around the palace like that! Don’t you have a robe? A cardi? Something?!”

I pointed at her tiny frilly shorts and barely‑there… well, I’m going to courteously call it a tank top. I’m sure the hallways between her room and mine were lined with staff having heart attacks and a series of fainting spells.

“LISTEN TO ME.” She grabbed my face. “I HAD THE BEST NIGHT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE. And yes, I mean that in the most dirty way imaginable!”

I blinked. “Okay…? Maybe louder. I think the other two kingdoms haven’t heard you yet.”

She inhaled dramatically, like she was about to confess to murder.

“Oh, no worries, they probably heard me last night. Briony — quit being such a boomer! I had my brains eff’ed out right for the first time in my life and it was the best ever! Damn, I just feel all sorts of right this morning!”

I choked, lunging forward and slapping my hand over her mouth, my head snapping toward the bathroom door, behind which I prayed Luc had gone temporarily deaf.

He wasn’t opposed to… you know… But hearing someone he barely knew scream about it through a door? Oh man. He might just have a royal coronary or something.

“Ana—”

“No, no, no, you don’t understand.” She flopped backward, limbs everywhere. “Briony. I slept with a man. A real man. Not one of those boys. I always knew that was the problem. There was no way I would be the daughter of a Hargrave and a Cameron and feel so ho‑hum about sex. And I was right. I was screwing little boys!”

“OMG! Ana — stop talking! Out of context this is going to get us both arrested. Stop! And wait — what? Did you just say you… but…”

“You heard me. I nailed that fine piece of man‑meat and I am not one bit sorry!”

“Umm… Ana… you just met him. YESTERDAY!” I squeaked, way too high‑pitched.

“Who cares? When you know, you know. A man. That was the missing piece. Not BOYS,” she snapped, sitting up again. “Boys who think deodorant can replace a shower. Boys who think sending me a meme counts as emotional intimacy. Boys who ask if I’m ‘up’ when they mean… well, you know. I think it’s true what they say, that men mature much slower because Thiago was just right. He just does things. No palaver. No meme. Not weird hints and dirty laughter. Urgh!”

She grabbed my hands, eyes huge.

“Briony — OMG — Thiago though… He is a MAN. A REAL man.”

“Yeah, I know! A real, grown, thirty‑something, nobleman‑from‑Verdemar man. A twelve — if not fifteen — years older than you man. He has to be thirty or something. I know Luc’s friend Philippe is, like, thirty‑one or thirty‑three, and Thiago looks like he has years on him. Maybe it’s the seafaring thing, but still — OMG. I’m going to die. Aunt Iris is going to be my cause of death. I am so screwed. Are you insane? Literally insane? I’ve seen your mom flip her shit at a barista over the wrong milk in her latte. What do you think she’s going to do to me when she hears I let you go all ‘Anastasia Does Verdemar’ while visiting me?! I AM two years older than you, so technically, the mature one here. Oh boy.”

I stared at her.

She stared back, vibrating like a tuning fork.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “You’re insane. One hundred percent crazy. And I’m toast. She’ll probably kill Luc too, for good measure, and somehow start World War Three. Great.”

“Insane?” She threw her hands up. “Briony, I think I’m in love. No — I KNOW I’m in love. With a REAL man!”

I made a strangled noise. “LOVE? Ana, you met him yesterday. You don’t even know each other. Jeeze!”

“And I saw him again yesterday afternoon. We talked. So much. OMG, I love his accent, I could listen to him for hours,” she said proudly. “And then I saw a LOT of him all night. And Briony—” She clutched her chest. “He kissed me like he meant it. Not to mention the other parts.”

I pressed my palms to my eyes. Then my ears. Just in case the Cameron in her decided to get graphic. I wasn’t prude, but I did not need that in my life.

“Ana…”

“No, listen.” She leaned in, pulling my hands down, breathless. “He says my name in such a special way. It sounds so nice. Like it matters. To him, I’m not just some kid. He sees me as a woman. Wish my parents would get a load of that. He looked at me like I was… I don’t know. Something important. Something he’d been waiting for. Someone special.”

My stomach dropped.
Because I knew that look. I knew exactly how dangerous it was.

Ana grabbed my shoulders again.

“Briony. I think he’s my soulmate.”

I groaned into a pillow. “Anastasia Mari Hargrave!!! Your parents are going to kill you. And me.”

-Footnote: Yes, Mari. My aunt’s middle name is Marie, but since Uncle Jas is a fancy actor and their family is balling up in the DSV hills with the rest of the ultra‑famous, she wanted to “elevate” it. So she chose that spelling. The result? Half the world now pronounces it like “Mary” instead of the intended “Marie, but fancier,” and few things set her off worse than when someone mispronounces her precious daughter’s middle name.

Her little brother Tate didn’t fare much better. They stuck him with “Wilder” as a middle name and again — it looks great written down, but when you actually say it out loud? Yeah. Good thing that boy is a motormouth and a smartass like his dad, because nothing throws him. He caught plenty of shit for that name growing up. “Tate, the Wilder Hargrave” was honestly the most harmless of the nicknames.

And it gets better – or worse, depending on your viewpoint. My little half‑brother’s name, Mom’s son with Brad, is Nathaniel — Nate — and since both boys are super close in age, we got the Nate & Tate Show too. Oh, and when I was younger, my dad refused to call me Briony — too modern, too not‑Chestnut‑Ridge enough — so I went by Bonnie growing up. Yeah. When my parents split when I was about five, Mom insisted I be called Briony again. Thank you, Mother. I mean, seriously? Nothing against the name, but picture me now, here, the future Sovereign Princess of Bellacorde… Bonnie? Oh, HELL nah!

Ana froze.

“Oh my God. My parents. I have to fly home. No! How am I supposed to live a whole day without Thiago, let alone – OMG when am I gonna see him again!? And how?! But all my stuff is back home. I can’t show up for Thiago in dirty casual vacay clothes and I am almost out of makeup and hair product. Eeew, I can’t start looking all feral on him now. Fu-uck! I have to fly home. Oh no!”

“Yeah. The parents. Remember them now?! The people who are going to kill us and make your brother an only child?”

We stared at each other — her in full romantic meltdown, me in full existential dread.

We screamed into pillows until my throat hurt and I swear Ana’s drool was all over my duvet. We already shared plenty of DNA, thank you very much, I wasn’t asking for more.

And then — because the universe REALLY hates me — the bathroom door opened. I legit had forgotten all about Luc being in there. GULP!

Luc stepped out fully dressed, hair perfect, posture perfect, expression politely neutral in that I am coping with your family way.

He paused, taking in the scene: Ana starfished on my bed in tiny shorts, me half‑buried in pillows, the emotional fallout of her night with a thirty‑something nobleman hanging in the air like smoke.

He cleared his throat softly.

“Mademoiselles,” he said, voice calm and impeccably composed, “perhaps we should take breakfast.”

Ana perked up instantly. “Oh, yes please. I’m starving. I’ll take the shit out of breakie right about now. I could eat a horse.”

Luc inhaled softly. “Mon Dieu…” Then, with a faint, helpless smile: “Your enthusiasm is noted.”

His gaze slid down to her outfit — or lack thereof — and he gave her a very diplomatic, very princely once‑over.

“Mademoiselle ’argrave,” he said gently but firmly — pronouncing it the very French way, dropping the H and turning the whole thing into something far too elegant for Ana’s current state — “perhaps something more… appropriate to wear?”

Ana blinked at him. “Cool idea. Problem with the execution though, Your Majesty—”

I winced. Wrong title. Luc did not correct her.

“—all my clothes are dirty. The only clean‑ish things I have are this—” she gestured at her microscopic pajamas “—and my plane clothes.”

Luc’s head snapped to me, confused. Roles reversed — normally I’m the one staring at him like that, my whole face one big question mark. He always helps me out gracefully, so I leaned in.

“Like yoga pants, hoodie, sneakers, messy‑bun kind of look,” I explained. Basically 100% unacceptable in a royal palace.

Luc inhaled slowly, like he was counting to ten in French.

“Briony,” he said, turning to me with that soft, princely patience he saves for disasters, “could you lend your cousin something suitable until departure?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I’ll find something. Why don’t you hit the shower and I’ll bring you some options, Ana?”

Ana hopped off the bed and skipped into my bathroom like she hadn’t just detonated my entire morning.

As soon as the door shut behind her, I sidled up to Luc.

“Sorry about all that,” I muttered. “How much did you hear?”

He didn’t even blink. “Unfortunately, all of it.”

“Oh… merde.”

That made him smile — that soft, warm, Luc smile that could melt glaciers.

“At least your French is progressing,” he murmured. “Perhaps not in the ideal direction, but I am pleased.”

I groaned. “I’m sorry about her. Now you maybe see why I bristle at you meeting the rest of the lot. If you think she’s the worst of us? Oh, Luc…”

He stepped closer, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Briony,” he said softly, “I am not afraid of your family.”

“Yeah, well, you should be. Exhibit A is taking a shower in there right now.”

He touched my waist — just enough to make my breath catch — and leaned in to brush a kiss against my cheek.

“Get ready,” he whispered, voice low enough to curl my toes. “I am famished.”

The way he said it? Absolutely double‑meaning. He wasn’t necessarily talking about breakfast. He was talking about the quiet time after my cousin was sent off to the airport and we would have some moment to sneak away alone again in between his duty calls, when he wanted to nibble on me.

He crossed to my closet and pulled out a dress with that infuriating confidence of a man who thinks he knows my wardrobe better than I do.

I raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’ve been dressing myself since I was six.”

“I know,” he said, handing it to me, “But you drive my blood pressure up in this.”

I snatched it from him with a glare I didn’t mean.

He smirked.

I turned to head into the bathroom to join Ana — and as I passed him, he gave my butt a quick, unapologetic slap.

I yelped. He looked smug.

Okay. Fine. We were still good.

I shut the bathroom door behind me, bracing myself for round two of Ana’s chaos.

Breakfast suddenly felt like the safest part of my day.