Page 37 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)
Twenty-Two
Benedict
“ Y our meeting with the press corps begins in fifteen minutes, sir.”
The pen in my hand pauses mid-word, as a bitter taste fills my mouth. “I wasn’t aware that I had a meeting with the press corps today.”
In the eighteen months since Harrold became my private secretary, he has become well-versed in my deep loathing for that fucking conference room and all that goes on within it.
As such, he appears to be testing various strategies to inform me they’re coming, no doubt in an effort to minimize any disruption from my foul mood.
Apparently, the latest management technique is springing them on me at the last moment.
Harrold clears his throat. “Yes, sir. It was added to your agenda yesterday.”
My pen begins moving again, signing my name at the bottom of a dull amendment made to an even duller law. “We had another meeting yesterday. I’m assuming this is regarding the press about the garden party? Surely there aren’t any new developments which warrant my attendance.”
“Well, sir?—”
“I’m not going to be there. I suggest you inform them, otherwise they’ll be waiting.”
Silence follows, in which I can almost hear the wheels turning in Harrold’s head from his place hovering beside the door. I flip the page of the amendment, ensuring there are no other places that need my signature, and shove it to the side.
“As I understand it, Miss Flowers and her team are already on their way. Do you still wish for me to cancel?” There’s a casual air to the question that isn’t quite believable. Even so, I find myself lifting my head to look at him, blood rushing in my ears.
“What did you just say?”
Harrold busies himself with checking something on his tablet to avoid looking at me directly. “Miss Flowers and her team should be arriving quite shortly for the meeting with the press corps.”
My stomach hardens. “You’re sure?” I ask, because while extending the offer to participate in Thomas and his team’s mad plan had felt like the correct thing to do, I truly had never expected her to accept it.
“Yes, sir.” Harrold lifts his gaze at last, frowning. “Are you quite alright?”
It’s a fair question. I can only imagine how I look right now.
My head bobs up and down in a jerky, mechanical sign of assent, my jaw tight. “Yes. Of course.”
The man before me hovers on the spot, obviously unsure how to proceed. “Should I inform the press corps to conduct the meeting without you, or push it to another?—”
“No.” I stand abruptly, my muscles stiff with disbelief at this wildly unexpected piece of information.
Christ, I hadn’t even allowed myself to consider the implications of such an arrangement, and now, to learn she’s actually considering it?
“I’ll go, then. It would be rude not to. As they came all this way.”
As I round my desk, striding past my silent secretary toward the press wing, I know exactly what the man is thinking; I have never cared about being rude before.
To anyone. That well-established facet of my personality, in combination with the famous look , has no doubt led Harrold to some entirely correct conclusions.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks, though.
What matters is that Zelda will be at the palace in a matter of minutes, and I— Fucking hell .
Even despising myself for it doesn’t stop me from ducking into a bathroom and dragging a hand through my hair, which has spent the past several days being raked through in frustration, and shows it. I glare at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, silently willing myself to keep it together .
Giving my hair a final pat, I shove open the door again and continue on my way, striding toward the press offices with more urgency than I’ve ever employed before.
When I finally make it to the familiar, cursed conference room, I find Preston Thomas and the same pair of PR people huddled around several documents on the table. All three get to their feet in a hurry when they see me.
“Your Royal Highness.” Thomas inclines his head, offering a hopeful smile. “Thank you for joining us.”
On the side of the table where I typically sit, there are three sets of stationery, pens, and glasses of water, obviously intended for Zelda and her team.
I take the place at the head of the table with a clear view of the door.
“I understand she agreed to meet, then. Is there anything I ought to know?”
“No, sir,” Thomas assures me as they all resume their seats. “Everything is quite under control. We have prepared a full proposal for the scope of the arrangement, outlining overall goals and what we believe it will take to get us there.”
I don’t reply—I can’t—because at that moment, a palace footman is stepping into the room, inclining his head to the three women whom he obviously just led here. The first two are strangers to me, and my gaze doesn’t linger on them, dragged immediately to the last of the three.
Zelda edges inside after them, her expression guarded, and gripping the strap of her purse so tightly that her knuckles are white. She doesn’t look at me, focused on the press team, who have risen as one yet again, to meet them with a flurry of professional greetings and handshakes.
My hands tighten on the arms of the chair.
She looks beautiful today, with her dark hair pulled back from her face, and a white pantsuit which highlights the rosy undertone of her complexion. Even grave-faced and standing in one of my least favorite rooms in the world, she is lovely beyond comprehension.
Is it any wonder I looked at her the way I did?
Once the obligatory “thank you for coming” and “good to meet you” greetings have been completed, the three women take the seats across the table from my team, and Thomas clears his throat. “And may I introduce His Royal Highness, King Benedict.”
I was the only one who remained seated as the introductions took place, a dark spectre over the proceedings. Now, as I finally drag my eyes away from Zelda to look at the women she brought with her, I can see they’re a little uneasy.
“A pleasure to meet you, Your Royal Highness. I’m Cindy Marks, Zelda’s agent. And this is Annabelle Hao, who handles public relations for the entire Flowers family.” Both women are older than Zelda and have the same aura of polished professionalism as my own press team.
I mutter something polite in response, too focused on stopping myself from staring at Zelda–who still has not looked at me even once–to pay attention to anything or anyone else.
“We’ll cut to the chase,” Thomas begins awkwardly once everyone has settled down, an air of grim anticipation descending over both parties.
“It is our understanding that His Majesty and Miss Flowers were briefly engaged in a physical relationship, which has since been terminated. Is that correct?” He looks between Zelda and me, eyebrows raised expectantly.
I clear my throat. “Well , terminated seems a bit too?—”
“Yes,” Zelda interrupts firmly, folding her hands on the table before her.
I can’t stand this.
Thomas bobs his head in understanding, even as a flicker of uncertainty crosses his face. “Er, would you consider yourselves on amicable terms?”
Every person in the room turns to look at me, except the one I want to.
Zelda lifts her chin, gazing directly at Thomas without even a hint of hesitation.
“Absolutely. I’ll spare you all the details, but needless to say, there are no broken hearts here, Mr. Thomas. I have no problem being professional.”
“Yes,” I agree after a pause, shifting in my seat as the atmosphere relaxes somewhat.
There’s another moment of silence following this pronouncement, during which Thomas appears to steel himself for the indignity of his next request. “Well, as our teams have already previously discussed, the Palace Press Corps does agree it would be beneficial for both parties to continue this illusion of romantic intimacy for the time being.”
Unable to stop myself, I look over at Zelda, willing her to look at me.
I’m desperate for a hint at how she feels before I give my consent to any of this.
Why would she have even agreed to come? None of it makes any sense.
After how I’ve treated her, I fully expected her to tell my team to shove this insane plan up their asses, mutually beneficial or not.
My pulse spikes as, at long last, she lifts her brilliant eyes to meet mine. Neither of us looks away.
“Is there a time frame for this project?” Zelda’s agent asks Thomas, making a note on the pad of paper before her.
“We believe ten weeks should be sufficient. The coronation is in eight, and our goal is to raise the profile of the event quite a bit in the weeks preceding it. This, er, strategy certainly wasn’t something we had on the agenda, but when opportunity comes knocking…
” He trails off, and there is a round of obligatory laughter.
Neither Zelda nor I contribute to it, and her gaze falls back to the tabletop.
Her PR person adds, sounding enthused, “Yes, that works quite well with our timeline. The movie finishes filming in seven weeks, which could give everyone a very convenient reason to terminate the agreement. It’s clean, from a press perspective.
No hard feelings to be had, just differing schedules to blame once again.
When the time comes, our teams can coordinate on a set of statements that are favorable to both parties. ”
Christ. I can’t do this.
The room’s other occupants jump at the loud, grinding noise of my chair’s legs being shoved back over the wood floor without warning.
Everyone stares as I get to my feet, adjusting my jacket, but I don’t acknowledge any of them.
I have eyes only for the young woman sitting just down the table, a miraculous spot of light amidst my least favorite place in the world.
“I would like a moment alone with Miss Flowers before we go further,” I tell them, my tone leaving no room for argument on the matter. “Zelda? Could I borrow you?” I gesture to the door.
She stares at me, and though there is no expression on her face, I can see a battle underway behind her bright blue eyes.
It’s clear she doesn’t want to be alone with me, but if we go ahead with this plan, being alone together will happen regularly.
Perhaps realizing this as well, after what feels like an age, Zelda stands.
“Of course,” she murmurs, stepping out from behind the table and offering her team a reassuring smile. “We’ll be back shortly.”
No one on either side of the table says a single thing, but I feel the weight of their eyes as I cross to the door, opening it and stepping back to allow Zelda through first.
Whatever she wants from this arrangement, I will give it to her. After everything I’ve done, the least I can do is play by her rules. Before that can happen, however, I need to be sure this is what she wants.