Page 19 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy (Spies and Royals #4)
Chapter Nine
—Four more days of pretending everything is okay—
B ris waited outside the elevator with Achilles.
The guy was practically a marble statue in his dark-fitted suit, his expression carved from ice as they lingered in the pristine hallway under sparkling crystal chandeliers.
The deafening silence stretched between them as they both pretended they weren’t dreading the long-awaited charity dinner that would determine their political fate.
He thinks I’m beautiful… stunning.
And that was a poor counterfeit for a personality that was lacking.
It had been less than a week since that disastrous kiss, and Bris was well on her way to proving just how spoiled she was—she’d been explosive, sensitive, and of course about nothing of substance…
that was reserved for her innermost moments, crying into her pillow at night…
where Achilles would never be able to hear her in that sitting room he’d claimed as his own personal fortress.
Short of pretending to be someone different, she was never going to win her husband’s love.
Her stomach hadn’t stopped twisting into pretzels at the thought.
She did her best not to look at him. Each glimpse showed her the picture of the dashing bachelor he used to be—broad shoulders filling out his tailored jacket perfectly, dark hair combed back with military precision—though this time his collar was buttoned all the way to the top.
His bow tie, however, was askew… in a charming, devil-may-care way.
And Bris knew better. She shifted in her white heels, struggling inwardly not to reach out and fix that crooked silk.
It had taken everything in her to click back together the puzzle pieces of her heart so she could act like a normal person tonight.
Her entire future as queen rested on making an impeccable impression on the High Consortium—one misstep and they could block her coronation entirely.
Whatever you do, don’t be yourself!
Bris started her transformation this afternoon by working on her outward look first—she’d put on a white satin sheath dress paired with the family’s most expensive jewelry, a diamond choker necklace that felt like elegant shackles around her throat.
With Polly’s help, she pulled her hair back into a more severe bun, making every effort to appear more mature and detached from her insecurities.
That reserved, distant look she’d found in the mirror had almost reached who she was on the inside.
Almost. Bris would rein in her heart soon. She always did, even while choking her way through breakfast. She’d kept up polite conversation on the correct spoon angle for serving soup courses, despite the fact that they were eating Frosted Flakes.
The elevator dinged with a soft chime, and the polished brass doors slid open to reveal mirrored walls that reflected their formal perfection back at them infinitely.
“Ready for the lion’s den?” she asked with practiced breeziness, her voice light and conversational as if they were heading to a casual dinner instead.
“As ready as one can be for voluntary torture,” he replied in kind.
“I hear the food’s good… who knows? Maybe they’ll slip you some chocolate milk.” She added a casual, slight smile to that.
Somehow that chased away that tight look on Achilles’s face as they walked into the elevator.
The mirrors inside fractured their images into a kaleidoscope of formal wear and fake smiles.
The doors closed behind them, swallowing them inside.
The tight look returned to his eyes as he took her in, like he was really seeing her for the first time tonight.
She was heartless, wasn’t she? Why hadn’t she surrendered a real room to him after that mind-blowing kiss? It was like she still found some comfort from him being on the other side of her door while she slept.
She groaned inwardly. Get over it already!
What? You think happiness is within your reach?
It had never been farther. Ironically, blowing up everything good around her was always her fault…
and it still was. Achilles would never see her as anything more than the little brat he grew up with.
She couldn’t imagine what their futures held for them now, only an empty stretch of duty and feigning indifference.
She cast him a nonchalant look, doing her best to graciously accept the way things were. “You might want to fix that tie, Killie Fish.”
He got busy working on it, his large fingers fumbling with the delicate silk.
She kept her hands firmly at her sides, her guilt gnawing at her like acid.
Would he ever forgive her for this sham marriage?
Achilles was an untamed creature who gnawed away at any restraint, and he’d always had dreams of getting away from the world they’d lived in.
I always had dreams of going with him.
That was never going to happen! What chance did she have of loving anyone ever?
She had to release this man from this torture.
It was the right thing to do, but when? How?
Without her father’s interference, Achilles might’ve figured love out…
even if he still hadn’t figured out his tie.
The black silk ends were getting horribly crushed, and they’d almost reached the ballroom on the main floor.
“May I?” she asked softly.
His hands froze on the tie. She watched his reservations flit across his face—uncertainty, wariness, something that might have been longing for what they once had—before he nodded.
Vowing to do this as objectively as possible, she spanned the distance between them and moved through the complicated knots she’d learned in order to help out her brother and boyfriends in the past. Tying a bowtie had always seemed a necessary skill for someone who lived and breathed fashion.
His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed under her fingers, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of his collar.
She finished and marched back like a retreating soldier, inspecting her handiwork with an experienced eye. “There. Now you look properly devastating” in a totally friendly, non-threatening way . She patted his shoulder for good measure. That somehow felt worse.
She threw her hands behind her back as the elevator doors swished open, revealing men in expensive suits and ladies dripping in jewels and glittering designer gowns.
These were the ambassadors, the titled gentry, the members of this country’s oligarchy who held the country in a political chokehold.
Would she gain their acceptance tonight?
Achilles stepped closer to her, pressing his fingers into the small of her back just like the dutiful husband that he was supposed to appear. She could feel the warmth of his palm through the thin satin, steadying and strengthening, keeping up appearances like he’d sworn to do.
He leaned closer to her to whisper in her ear. “The Earl of Alexopoulos is here tonight. Keep away from him—I mean it, Bris. I’ll take care of him.”
With difficulty, she stopped herself from melting at his protectiveness.
He was only being practical anyway. That guy sounded like he didn’t respect women, so it was better that they played this like a team, for better or for worse.
There. That’s better. Safer thought. They walked from the elevator into a glittering minefield.
Phoenix cut into their path like a well-dressed shark.
He was no longer wearing the military uniform, but he could’ve been for how straight his shoulders were.
Instead, he wore a black suit, his eyes efficient under his heavy brows.
He swept his hand out to an older, white-haired woman covered in enough jewels to fund a small army. “Meet the Countess of Meridian.”
Ah, the famous lioness who’d sent Bris practicing curtseys in front of her mirror. The woman put up a jeweled monocle to inspect them, not a word escaped her pursed lips.
Bris performed the precise curtsy demanded—a graceful dip with her right foot sliding back, her head bowed at exactly the proper angle. One. Two. Three. She drew back up, noticing Achilles executing a flawless bow beside her, his movements fluid despite his earlier complaints.
The Countess’s wrinkled face creased with approval. First hurdle cleared.
Phoenix looked pleased as well and swept them past and through the mingling crowd like a shepherd guiding prize sheep. He introduced them to another lord. “The Baron of Sunfassa.”
The older man nodded regally. Bris and Achilles performed their stiff royal greetings, carefully avoiding talk of policy. Achilles graciously thanked him for the vintage wines he’d sent as coronation gifts—half of which he’d downed in a moment of depression, though that was left unsaid.
The next half hour was a social whirl of introductions to assorted royalty and heads of state, with so many names that Bris would never remember them without a cheat sheet.
Phoenix felt like a lifeline, and for once, she was grudgingly grateful for her father’s heavy-handed interference in installing him into their lives.
He led them to the right people, initiated the correct responses, and even timed each visit perfectly before making their gracious excuses to move on.
They’d be finished with most of their first impressions by the time dinner started.
Her eyes darted around to find the infamous Earl of Alexopoulos.
She had no idea what he looked like, but Phoenix had warned them that the night would be a failure without his approval.
As she scanned the room, the bejeweled countess they’d met earlier decided to cut through the circle to make her exalted presence known again.
“Briseis Tyndarian, you are a much shorter ruler than I’d expected.
I suppose you’re easier to handle than your brother? ”
Bris turned at the surprising insult, her smile never wavering. “My Lady?”