Page 25 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

She pouts prettily, but she’s more than happy to slip away from me and sashay over to Ty.

He releases his cock in favor of grabbing her hips and surging up to capture her lips with his.

She groans, bracing herself on his shoulders.

He goes for her ass again, drawing her over him and confirming that she’s not wearing any underwear.

I lean back in the chair as my cock partially stiffens at the delightful view of her pretty pussy. Adria settles over Ty on the settee. It’s wide enough to accommodate her straddling him.

Adria glances over at me, lightly grinding over Ty’s bulging cock as he shoves both hands up under her sweater to capture her breasts.

“You’ll join, yes?” she asks breathlessly.

“And we’re happy for you to take our picture.

” She captures Ty’s chin in her hand, undulating over him now.

“You give permission, yes?” she asks him.

He flashes a toothy grin at her, nipping at her fingers. “Yes.”

A dominant just playing at being submissive.

For my benefit? Or hers?

The scene sours a little for me. While I make no commitments to anyone, I do enjoy feeling a certain depth of connection in the relationships I’m privileged to be asked to participate in.

“Don’t wait on me,” I say. “Such a pretty picture the two of you make.”

Happily, Adria turns her full attention to Ty. I finally give in, flipping my phone over and glancing through the text messages piling up. I ignore all but the latest from F Delivery from the Royal House.

Waiting for you outside.

I’m on my feet so quickly that I startle the models. Adria quietly shrieks, and Ty growls aggressively.

“Apologies, my lovelies,” I say, grabbing my satchel. “Do enjoy each other.”

I open the door and dash out into the hall without waiting for them to answer, though they do call something after me.

The no-longer-a-PA with the beaded braids is lounging against the wall next to the door. My shoes slide on the damn polished hardwood as I try to change course too quickly.

“The way out,” I demand.

She snaps upright, grabbing her designer backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. “Side door?”

That gives me pause, reminding me that most people respond to text messages. Often with further questions.

I text back.

Where exactly? I’m on my way.

The no-longer-a-PA bounces lightly on her feet.

“What is your name?” I ask, staring down at my phone.

“Rinda,” she says.

“You should be at the after party.”

“It’s not on-site. I wanted —”

“Don’t thank me.”

She lifts her chin defiantly, but she’s too tiny — compared to me, at least — to truly pull it off.

A text appears on my screen. It’s a link. I click on it, then stare incomprehensibly at a map of some sort. I assume it’s showing the National Gallery and the surrounding roadways. Snarling, I shove my phone into Rinda’s hands.

She barely glances at the screen before she’s heading off down the hall and cutting through the next gallery over, which is also closed.

I try to match her pace so she doesn’t have to run, so my feet don’t slip, but my stride is long enough that she still has to jog to keep up with me.

She talks as we move. “You oversee a number of fashion shows —”

“I’m supporting designers in London, Milan, and New York this year.”

“But you’re only one person. ”

“I already have two assistants,” I say. “They know me well.”

“That’s good.” Rinda veers right at the next branch in the corridor.

I still don’t see an obvious exit and struggle to contain a frustrated snarl.

“I don’t want to be your assistant.”

“Maurice will be attending multiple shows, he’ll need you.”

“Yes. He will. But with you, say as a … junior partner … I would get to work with multiple designers, and you could expand your client base.”

She takes a left, then jogs down a short set of stairs, turns immediately right, and suddenly we’re in a more utilitarian part of the gallery. The tension threaded through my chest loosens. This feels right.

“I don’t take on partners.”

“But you do help guide careers. Artists, designers, models. Why not another stylist?” She pauses by a steel door. The glaring green exit sign is more than obvious above it, but I would never have found my way here on my own.

Rinda hands me my phone. “I worked under Elser for two years. But she just kept saying there was no space, not enough clientele, to promote me.” She shakes her head, as if thinking over what she’s trying to say as she pushes open the steel door.

I don’t know who Elser is, but that’s not unusual for me.

We step out into a short dead-end drive that leads to a currently closed loading bay farther to our left. The rain has eased.

“I’m loyal. I’m discreet.” She turns to the right, walking swiftly toward what appears to be a quiet side road .

“Maurice would be pissed if I absconded with you.”

“Maurice doesn’t know I exist … at least he didn’t. And he likes fucking Bree.”

I blink down at her, guessing that Bree is the assistant stylist I fired. “You’re too young for him.”

She scoffs. “And way not interested. I’m not … I don’t like … is sleeping with you a prerequisite to working with you?”

The question is asked without judgement or hope, but it knocks me back nonetheless. “Of course not!”

“Because I’m ace.”

“That’s none of my business,” I grumble.

She smirks at me, maybe taking the piss a little.

I huff before I say, “Contact one of my assistants, Fluff or Fizz.”

“I already did. Both of them. Separately. About thirty minutes ago.”

I snort a laugh.

She continues, “But you know they’ll ignore me unless you say something.”

As we near the end of the narrow drive, a sleek black vehicle parked on the side road comes into view. The windows are tinted and bulletproof. A too-recognizable crest adorns the doors.

“Oh,” Rinda breathes.

Yes. The royal guard is the opposite of inconspicuous when on official business.

A thought that sours my stomach. I already know that Mirth isn’t waiting for me in the depths of that tank disguised as a luxury vehicle.

It’s definitely not her style to show up in an official vehicle, though she is always trailed by multiple personal guards while in public.

“Go to the party,” I say, my gaze on the three figures who step out of the car at my approach .

Rinda instantly stops, allowing me to continue without her. But she calls out to me, totally cheekily, “I programmed my number in your phone.” Then she spins away and races back toward the gallery.

I laugh involuntarily, not bothering to quash the smile even when Raoul turns his uber-judgemental gaze on me, sweeping me from head to toe with sharp brown eyes.

I’ve always thought that no matter how well they’re tailored, the dark suits preferred by the royal guard sit uneasily across his shoulders.

One of the most infamous wolf shifters in Europe, Raoul, aka Le Loup, takes his duty to his chancellor and their extended family so very seriously.

He’s definitely not my biggest fan.

Which makes his presence and his supposed delivery even more unnerving than usual.

The two other guards with him are mages.

“Salvatore.” Raoul greets me easily. He has a thick, sealed, cream-colored envelope in his hand. “Or in this case, perhaps I should address you as Lord Savoy?”

“Fuck you, Le Loup,” I mumble without heat. He hates that nickname, but my heart rate ramped up just at the implication of him using the title I’ve never acknowledged. Even my palms are abruptly sweaty.

I can’t bring myself to reach for the missive with my name slashed across the front in black-inked calligraphy. First name, no title.

“It’s not bad news. This time.” Raoul says it far too kindly for someone I spent the bulk of my teenage years defying side-by-side with Armin and Mirth. More specifically, defying the guards he assigned to the prince and princess.

And yes, Raoul is one of the few who know what title I’ve inherited but not claimed.

I take the envelope. It’s too heavy and thick to just be a simple letter. I flip it, noting the deep-black wax seal. Not from Mirth. Rose gold is her color.

Irritation shudders through me, mostly at my own reaction. I lock eyes with Raoul, abruptly pissed off. “Why ‘in this case’?” I ask. “Because it’s just another request to waste my fucking time?”

“I don’t think anyone would consider Her Royal Highness Princess Euphrosyne to be a waste of time,” Raoul says, his tone deceptively mild.

He’s got his hands clasped behind his back now, as if I’m not a threat. I’m not, of course, but the body language irks me.

“Maybe the real question,” he continues blithely, “is are you ready to step up?”

I crack the seal on the envelope with a sneer, finding myself staring down at an invitation for a spring equinox ball. “What the fuck is this shit?”

Raoul sighs as if he’s already had this conversation. “The other letter.”

I trade the invitation card for the bundle of papers. Unfolding and quickly scanning the contents. Scanning and scanning again as all the blood drains from my head, leaving me dizzy.

“A matchmaking event? Mirth is … is Mirth okay with this?”

“Contact Anne for more information.” Raoul clasps my shoulder for a moment, looking at me steadily.

I don’t understand those kinds of cues, though, so I have no idea what he’s trying to convey. Encouragement? Comfort? Dominance?

He laughs quietly, patting the same shoulder one … two … three times before squeezing even tighter, then dropping his arm .

I’m just staring, staring at him, as he steps back to slide into the back seat of the vehicle. The two still-silent mages follow his lead.

“Oh …” Raoul says. The arrogant fucker turns back to me as if just remembering something. “Bolan will be there.”

All the blood that flushed out of my head rushes back with enough force that I sway under the influence of the defiant anger that comes with it. “No.”

“Yes.” He flashes me a grin, then climbs into the car.

The vehicle pulls away from me, leaving me standing on the side of the street as the rain reasserts itself. A heavy mist instantly dampens the papers in my hand. I just continue to stare, with my heart pounding, at the invitation.

Mirth.

Mirth.

I type a message into the group text thread with F&F.

I’m in London. Tell my law firm I’m heading their way.

I need to sit down with one of the firm’s contract people.

Now. And there needs to be a discussion about my estate.

There’s a team overseeing it, and I want everyone I need in a room in less than fifteen minutes.

Text me back as soon as you get it set up.

And remind me what the lawyers’ names are and what they actually do for me.

Fluff and Fizz have no idea I’m technically Lord Savoy. That I’m fifth in line for an actual throne, whether or not it’s just a figurehead position these days. And I’d like to keep that not-so-little secret for as long as possible.

No … not fifth anymore.

Armin is dead.

I’m fourth in line for the fucking throne of Europe now. It’s Mirth, the twins, and me.

My Mirth.

My Mirth .

My Mirth is not going to be auctioned off to the fucking highest bidder. Even if it means I’ve got to claim a fucking title and all the shit that goes with it and join the matchmaking myself.