“Even still, Your Highness, you should—”
“Please, do not start lecturing me. I already have one coming, and I am saving my energy for it.”
It took us twenty minutes to arrive back at the palace.
Another twenty for me sneak inside and take a shower—well, not sneak. The maids saw, but still, it was not as blatant as coming in from the front gates. Either way, I was dressed properly now and had arrived at my father’s library, awaiting my punishment.
However, when I opened the door, there was only my brother...and Ambrose, the head secretary of palace affairs.
“Oh, Gale. Good, you are here. Come in,” Arty said to me, Ambrose nodding his head.
Doing as I was told, not sure where this was going, I entered and took a seat in front of the desk as Arty offered.
“As I was saying, Adelaar,” Ambrose went on, making sure to call him by his title as always, “we’ve finished our profile on Ms. Odette Wyntor.”
Now I see. My punishment was already in progress.
Ambrose was fifty-two, stoutly built, white-haired, and with a signature, caterpillar-styled mustache. He also did not have much care for me, though he would not admit it. He had made two files, and he seemed to be disturbed at handing me the thick-bound folder.
“Did you make a profile or write a dissertation?” I asked, astonished at how heavy the folders were. It had only been one full day since we had spoken about this.
“It was not made clear to me what the purpose of the profile was, and therefore, I did not know which information was or was not essential to keep,” he replied with his standard seriousness, even though I was only joking.
He also knew for damn sure what this was for. The crown never asked for detailed profiles of someone unless they were marrying into the family. And the only person who could marry this woman was me.
“Thank you, Mr. Ambrose. That will be all for the time being,” Arty said, already nose-deep into the file.
“Adelaar.” Mr. Ambrose bowed slightly with his hand over his heart to my brother and then to me. “Your Highness,” he said and gave a simple nod before taking a single step back and then turning around and walking out the library door.
I waited for the door to close before I tossed the file onto my father’s desk.
“You are not going to read it?” Arty asked as I leaned back into my seat.
“What is the point? If I do not like anything, does that mean I can be excused from marrying her?”
It did not really matter what her profile said. She was rich, and we needed the money. That was all that was important. I knew he was hoping that by getting me this information, I’d warm to the idea and just blindly agree. So, it was better that I didn’t read it.
“Her full name is Odette Rochelle Wyntor,” he began to read, because the man never knew when to give up. “She was born in Sunrise, Washington. Her father was Marvin Wyntor, founder and creator of Etheus, and her mother, Wilhelmina Wyntor— Oh, forgive me. They are divorced, so her name is Wilhelmina Wyntor-Smith now. She was the first woman of African-American descent to receive both the Miss America and Miss USA—”
“Arty, are you going to read the whole profile?”
“She has a younger sister named Augusta, and look at this. She is actually older than you by a few months. She was born on November twenty-seven,” he replied, coming around the desk to lean right on the edge of my seat.
“You are really—”
“I know you are not interested in any of that, so I’ll just skip to how stunningly beautiful she is.” He held a picture of her above my face as if she were live bait.
She had big, dark-brown doe eyes, a button nose, and warm almond-brown skin. She had an oval face and long, thick and curly hair, and when she smiled, her cheeks balled...she was beautiful. Very much so.
It was not until I heard him snicker that I brushed his arm—and the photo—away. He was using her beauty to rope me in because, apparently, that was all I cared about.
“I was not expecting her to be ugly after you told me her mother was a beauty queen,” I muttered.
“Not just her mother. Odette won an array of awards as a child, too—very interesting. She was Little Miss Sunrise, as well as Little Miss Washington, Little Miss America, and America's Royal Miss, as well as another nine titles—all before the age of seven.” He held up another photo of what I thought had to be a doll at first.
She smiled with all her might, a crown way too big for a child on her little head, and she wore a giant pink ball gown and even had her own star princess wand. She looked ridiculous and yet unbelievably cute, too.
“She did not win any other crowns after seven? What happened?” Shit. The moment I asked, I regretted it.
“Oh! So, you are interested. Good!” he teased.
“What I meant was—”
“She stopped competing after that and focused on music. She was classically trained and offered a scholarship to Juilliard. However, she turned it down. She asked for them to give the scholarship to someone else because—and quote—‘I am blessed to have the means to afford tuition at Juilliard. I am honored to have been chosen, but please give the scholarship to someone who needs it.’ She also studied international relations and business at Dartmouth.”
“Aren’t school records meant to be closed?” I muttered.
“Over the years, she has been a massive patron of the arts. And she’s a musician now, too. That’s nice. Let’s see what else she enjoys.”
“Again, it really does not matter. All you are doing is giving me a headache,” I interjected, but he went on as if he couldn’t hear me, adjusting himself on the arm of the chair.
“Her favorite season is winter. Her favorite sport is volleyball, which she played at university. Her favorite food is pasta and meatballs. Her drink of choice is red wine, although no specific brand they could find. She hates oysters and is highly allergic to peanuts. We will have to make sure the staff is aware of that at all times.”
Mr. Ambrose and his staff never failed to impress. How they managed to get that was beyond me, but knowing them, it was also just the tip of the iceberg.
“I’m begging you to please stop.” I was at the point that I had closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair, feeling defeated.
“For all intents and purposes, she seems like a perfectly fine young woman,” he said seriously, flipping to the next page and, luckily, no longer reading aloud. So, he could hear me. “I was apprehensive with her being American, and as you said of the higher status, that she would have scandalous incidents or secrets that we would need to have the palace prepare statements for. So far, however, the only dramatic thing about her life is her parents’ love affair. Which she can hardly be blamed for.”
“I have not agreed yet, Arty. You’re getting ahead of yourself.” Why did we need a statement already?
“I—”
“What are we talking about?”
Oh, thank God, I thought as I heard Eliza’s voice. I opened my eyes in hopes of seeing my savior only to see her enter the library dressed in a black gown with a large silver cross necklace around her throat, netting veil over her face, and black lipstick. Her red hair had been dyed pure black.