Page 50 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)
The pair of us share a conspiratorial smile, as the voices outside the car seem to grow louder and more excited, reporters undoubtedly realizing who is inside.
Then, the door is being opened, and it’s as though someone turned a television on full brightness and volume after I’d been watching it muted.
The world explodes in sound and light, and I keep my head down as I follow Zelda out of the car into the roped-off section of sidewalk.
“Zelda! Zelda, over here! ”
“Miss Flowers, give us a smile!”
“Your Royal Highness, will you be attending the premiere?”
Calls are coming from all directions as camera flashes come so rapidly, they seem likely to cause corneal damage.
Beyond the row of press, lights are glowing inside a bright white gallery.
Anyone walking by the plate glass windows would be able to see that the space is already full of the most illustrious guests the former duchess could drum up.
We’ll be spending the evening in a fishbowl.
Ordinarily, this sort of thing would be my definition of hell.
The press office has stopped even proposing events like it, knowing full well I would rather shove a red-hot poker up my nose than subject myself to this.
Tonight is an exception. Or, rather, any event wherein I can keep my hands on Zelda Flowers is—and will be henceforth—an exception.
“He’d better attend the premiere,” Zelda tells the reporter who asked, pausing beside the metal barrier to speak to him, her smile effortless and bright.
If she’s even a little uncomfortable with the scrutiny, I can’t see evidence of it.
“I’ve worked very hard and will be expecting praise for my efforts.
Also, very expensive flowers.” She elbows me meaningfully, beaming.
The man looks as though Christmas has come early, as he turns his attention to me. “That sounds like a threat from Miss Flowers, Your Royal Highness.”
My hand tightens on her waist. “I suppose I’d better go, then.”
There’s a chorus of laughter from the people nearest us, and Zelda allows me to guide her on toward the gallery. “Thank you,” she calls to the man over her shoulder, beaming. “I hope you have a good evening.”
“God,” I mutter venomously as the door closes behind us, and I’m struck by the unmistakable scent of my ex-wife’s perfume. I’d forgotten it, and now, the scent brings forth memories of a full decade of misery .
“Are you alright?” Zelda asks under her breath as we move farther into the gallery, taking in the collection of chic, minimalist art that covers every surface.
It’s quieter in here than it was out on the street, but not by much.
Voices of the guests echo off the high ceilings, and music plays from somewhere deeper inside the building.
The gallery space itself is one massive room, broken up into smaller spaces by apparently random sections of wall.
Before I can respond to Zelda’s question, however, we’re spotted. “Benedict! Oh, how lovely !” I don’t wince at the sound of Julia’s voice, but it’s a near miss.
The two of us turn to find my former wife swanning in our direction, dressed in a checkered gray dress, with an enormous pair of blue-framed glasses balanced on her nose.
For as long as I can recall, Julia has fancied herself a woman of great taste, and the perception of her being a blue-blooded “modernist” was how she ended up my wife in the first place.
“It’s good to see you, Julia.” I lean down to bump my cheek against hers in the briefest, most perfunctory of greetings, aware of flashes going off beyond the large front windows as I retreat, resting my hand on the small of Zelda’s back. “Allow me to introduce Miss Zelda Flowers.”
Julia clutches her chest, gazing adoringly at Zelda. Fake. Very, very fake. “Oh, my, Zelda. You are every bit as lovely as everyone says.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Lady Fletcher. This space is absolutely stunning,” Zelda replies smoothly, her smile much more muted than usual and rather lacking its typical confidence.
“Oh, call me Julia, please. Isn’t it just perfect?” she agrees happily, looking over at the nearest sculpture, which appears to be composed entirely of rotted apples cast in resin. “I worked with the architect, Sir Francis Goudier, to bring it to life. Are you familiar with his work? ”
“I’m not, no.” Zelda draws closer to me as she leans to follow Julia’s line of sight, and my hand winds more securely around her waist.
My ex-wife’s answering smile is patronizing. “Of course you wouldn’t be. Americans hardly ever appreciate these things. I’ll send you a book on his work first thing tomorrow, I promise you’ll absolutely adore him and learn so much!”
By now, I know Zelda well enough to be certain she hasn’t missed the condescension in the comment. It’s a mark on how patient she is that the words don’t evoke so much as a grimace. As Julia continues, however, I, on the other hand, feel my ire rising with each word.
“I was just thrilled when Benedict accepted my invitation. It’s a rare thing indeed to get him out of the house without brute force.
” Her smile is innocent, but I know exactly what she’s doing.
No one on Earth is better at pointing out my shortcomings than my former wife, and she has a special knack for doing so in public, when there isn’t a thing I can do about it.
It seems prudent to get out of her immediate vicinity before I say something I regret, but before I can so much as think how to extricate us from this situation, Zelda takes over.
Her head quirks to the side, a politely puzzled expression on her beautiful face.
“Really? Ben?” She laughs. “Oh, you had me going there for a moment. I really should have known better; he’s always surprising me with outings.
We went to see such a beautiful Shakespeare production in Brackenwood Park a few weeks ago. Have you ever been?”
A nerve in Julia’s eyelid twitches. “A park! Goodness, how quaint. I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, no.”
Unfazed, Zelda nods cheerfully. “It really was. I think making the arts accessible to more of our population is so important, don’t you?
Not everyone can afford to attend a Broadway production or come to your beautiful gallery to purchase a painting, but everyone deserves those kinds of experiences. ”
No one who overheard this exchange—which could be any of the number who have drifted over on the pretense of examining the forty-thousand-euro rotting apple sculpture—could accuse either of these women of being impolite.
I am the only one who knows both of them well enough to be certain shots were most definitely fired.
Julia’s gaze flicks to me, as though searching for signs I disagree with this sentiment. As she does, however, her eyes seem to catch on a point below my left ear. Zelda’s lipstick.
Her smile is wooden when she finally looks back to my date.
“I agree wholeheartedly. Very well put, dear. Well, I’ll let you two make the rounds.
Thank you so very much for your show of support.
” She leans in, bumping her bony cheek against Zelda’s before rounding on me for one, too.
I hold my breath to avoid the cloud of perfume, and exhale heavily once she’s drifted away.
“Why did you get divorced again?” Zelda asks conspiratorially, looking up at me with a meaningful glint in her eye, and totally unable and unwilling to help myself, I laugh.