Page 50 of The Midnight Princess
Between the mushroom-wrapped veal and the apple sorbet, we discreetly bent over his phone, scrolling through his Pixy feed: Pietor crouching next to a harp seal. Pietor standing on a glacier. Pietor’s beard covered in ice, his blue eyes gazing brilliantly at the camera.
He ticked all the boxes. He was titled, serious about global issues, philanthropic, and aristocrat-handsome—the kind of handsome which balances out the risks of the Hapsburg chin and potential for genetic blood-diseases with the likelihood of obscene wealth and access to heirloom jewels.
Given the long history of Sondish monarchs, I never expected a happily-ever-after, but as long as our union never included being bricked up in an abandoned monastery by a husband-king in the grip of syphilitic madness, I thought I could handle it.
While some of my old classmates dreamed of finding love and others of being a first wife with an ironclad prenup, I aimed for a good working partnership with a man who would never make me ashamed to hold my head up in public. Mama and Père, as fractured as they are now, have that.
I look at the man who once held my future in his careless hands.
“Your family has been in the news,” he says, leaning against the mantel. “Clara is fighting in the courts. Freja ran off with an immigrant.” He lifts a lazy brow.
“My sisters are no longer your concern,” I cut him off.
He plucks at the folds of his pocket square. “As long as you wear my ring, they are. Your mother is going to find herself with a referendum on the monarchy if she doesn’t take care.”
“Leave my mother out of this,” I warn. “I ask only that you keep our break-up discreet until after the state visit. Consider it your debt for the mess you caused.”
“I caused? I was doing conservation work for an impoverished nation while my fiancée has been running around with a man who looks like he has a promising future in waste management.” Pietor pulls an exaggerated yikes face, the tendons of his neck pulling. “What a headline that would be.”
My veins run with the blood of warrior queens, and when I hear Pietor threatening exposure, my reaction is violent, gut-deep, and nothing to do with protecting my family from scandal.
Don’t touch Jacob.
I am close to ripping a medieval weapon off the wall, dragging the tip across these marble floors, and pressing it to his neck. Pietor is playing on dangerous ground.
I close my eyes and hear the voice of my old nanny, Poppy Fforde-Hughes.What does a princess do? She uses her words.
I breathe, guiding Pietor away from the topic of Jacob. “Those pictures were innocent?”
Pietor shuffles away from the mantel. “Gabriella, who is a noted humanitarian, by the way, was covered in sand. I was trying to be a gentleman.”
“Yes. I could tell by the way your tongue was down her throat.”
Pietor’s eyes sparkle. “One might begin to think you were jealous.”
I enunciate clearly. “Only if one was an idiot.”
Pietor turns to the mirror above the fireplace, brushing aside the hair with the back of a pinkie. “My…extracurricular activities are no reason to break it off.” He tips his head and looksat me through the mirror. “You once called this a suitable arrangement. That’s one thing I’ve always admired about you—that you don’t tell yourself fairy tales. I trust that once your ego has recovered, our sensible Alma will return. You’ll agree with me that it’s best to keep things as they are.”
“No.” It’s a complete sentence.
Pietor lifts a hand. “It’s not so simple. Our engagement has been a godsend to my country.”
The Grand Duchy of Himmelstein isn’t merely land. It’s a corporation, of sorts, funneling vast amounts of wealth via high-end holiday homes, farming, residential and commercial rents, and even a prison, into the pockets of its CEO, Rolf, the Grand Duke of Himmelstein. Pietor, as his heir, is being groomed to take over these holdings.
“Himmelstein is doing well,” I say. Mama and a fleet of accountants made sure of that.
He shrugs. “You never know when you’ll get a bad harvest or a pandemic. Since our engagement, banks have been lining up to offer low-interest loans—perfect seed money to fuel long-term investments and diversify our portfolio. It’s not good business to break things off at this critical stage, Alma.”
“It’s good business for me.”
“Is it, though?” He chuckles. “These trade talks between Sondmark and Vorburg are at a vulnerable point. Didn’t you almost go to war over mackerel?”
“Scallops,” I snap.
He gives a mocking half-bow. “You don’t need the distraction of a broken engagement.”
“This is why we asked for your silence until the talks are concluded.”
