Page 1 of Prince Cheating Charming

CHAPTER 1

Delilah

It was love at first sight.

Even though I knew logically that fairy tales weren’t real, they seemed pretty damn real the first time Prince Alexander Levesque looked into my eyes.

I should have known there was some fine print to marrying Prince Charming.

Like that he was a damn dirty cheating bastard.

When I was invited to visit the Norjava Palace, I was nervous. I knew about the Crown Prince, of course. Everyone who had a pulse and access to the news knew the gorgeous international playboy’s father was putting pressure on him to get married. King William was getting older and not in good health and he was anxious to see his son find a Princess.

I was from the neighboring country of Gesaint. While Norjava was a beautiful, wealthy country known for its filthy rich aristocrats, forests, lakes, and vibrant tourism, with a prosperous tech economy to boot, my country of Gesaint was much poorer, and really only distinguished by having more varieties of sheep than anywhere else in the world.

So it was really nothing very impressive to be Lady Delilah Arden of Gesaint. My dissolute parents were very minor nobles who had died when I was a teenager, and I now lived in a crumbling leaky manor with my eccentric uncle.

Uncle Mortimer had a passion for bugs and frankly preferred them over people, and he was the one who had insisted I accept the invitation for a few weeks at the palace.

When I pointed out that, due to my unremarkable looks and personality, I was hardly the target audience for a gorgeous perfect blonde prince who had dated a string of models and ballerinas, he waved away my objections.

“If nothing else,” Uncle Mortimer said. “The food is bound to be good.”

And so I went, but right away I knew I didn’t belong. Norjava Palace looked like something from a fairytale, a huge white gleaming building, as elaborate and ornate as a wedding cake, set on a long, jewel-like lawn. It was packed with tall aristocratic women, TV stars, Olympic skiers, and stunning models. I felt incredibly out of place as an ordinary children’s book illustrator no one really looked twice at.

At 25 years old, I felt inexperienced and awkward. I had thick, curly black hair that I tried desperately to keep fashionably straight, a round little heart-shaped face with dark eyes, small breasts, and wide hips with a plump ass.

Prince Alexander was circling the room that first night as we all drank the thick, savory local beer and champagne that sparkled like diamonds in the glass, and I felt incredibly shy and out-of-place. What could I say to a hot as fuck 29-year-old playboy who could get any woman he wanted? I had always lacked confidence in myself, and Norjava Palace was so intimidating.

None of the other women seemed interested in talking to me, despite my feeble attempts, and I wondered if it was because my simple navy-blue dress marked me as practically one of the peasant class. I had chosen it because it clung to my ass, but now I was wondering if I just looked dowdy.

I sidled to the edge of the room where a stern-faced woman in her early 50s with short silvery hair was folding napkins and watching the guests. Her nametag identified her as Libby, the palace Head Housekeeper.

Searching desperately for a topic of conversation, I said, “The food is simply phenomenal.”

She turned to me, flicking assessing eyes across my face. Something she saw seemed to please her, because she gave a little reluctant nod.

“You’ll have to thank Maurice, our head chef for that,” she said, thawing a bit and turning to knock on a set of broad swinging doors that looked like they went to the kitchen.

“Maurice!” she called. “One of the ladies would like to thank you for dinner.”

I felt extremely awkward. Surely this was not an unusual occurrence. Had I just outed myself as a simpleton redneck from Gesaint who was overawed at fancy food?

A round French man in his 40s with a shining bald head and enormous moustaches came bustling out.

“This young lady would like to thank you for the meal,” Libby said, and I was embarrassed to see Maurice’s broad smile widen even further, until it looked like he might pop, as he embraced me tightly.

He smelled like pastry, and I felt suddenly less homesick.

“I was afraid,” he said, “that my pommes boulangere must have been overcooked. Since no one has mentioned them.”

I had no idea which dish he was referring to, but I had tried pretty much everything, and it had all been delicious, so felt no qualms promptly saying, “I am sure you could never overcook something.”

Maurice’s smile seemed to stretch even further, his moustaches trembling with pleasure, and then, before I barely knew what was happening, he had whirled me into the kitchens to give me a tour.

Libby followed, her stern mouth twisting up into a little half-smile.

She must have a soft side.

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