Page 84 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
He’d said a mouthful, but where could they go? Where could they be free of this web of political intrigue?
“It isn’t just that…” Peder’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper, his eyes darting toward their security detail standing at attention by the doors. His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, fingers working across his phone screen.
Achilles felt his own phone vibrate against his chest. He shifted back against the mirrored wall, angling his body to shield from their onlookers as he read:Polly acting weird rn.
Achilles’s attention snapped to his friend, whose face looked especially pale beneath the elevator’s harsh lighting. Peder’s fingers moved again, more urgently this time.
Another soft chime from his phone. Achilles glanced down:Maybe nothing. Could be bf or idk. She keeps sneaking off for calls. Secret ones. Caught her burning papers last night - said old letters from ex. Why the secrecy tho?
The elevator doors whispered open with a soft chime, the sound signaling their transformation to public figures. Instantly, both men straightened, masking their faces into authority and composure. Camera flashes exploded like lightning, and the cacophony of reporters’ shouted questions shattered the fragile sanctuary they’d found in that small metal box.
Achilles’s mind reeled as he tried to process Peder’s texts. Nodding at his friend as a sign that he’d taken his warning into consideration, Achilles stepped across the threshold with the measured stride of a man born to power, even as his thoughtschurned like a storm-tossed sea—what was Polly doing? Another spy working for Bris’s father, or something far more sinister?
The security detail fanned out around him, their black suits melting seamlessly into the crowd of evening wear like watchful shadows. He sighed. Polly Vasiliou was just another name to add to his growing list of suspects working against the crown. Paranoia had become his constant companion lately—he found himself analyzing every face in the crowd, every gesture, every glance. The ballroom stretched before him in a river of polished marble and Christmas tinsel—crystal chandeliers caught the light on the silks and jewels of Tirreoy’s elite, casting everything in a warm golden glow that felt more like a cage than Christmas Eve magic.
His eyes swept the crowd, searching for his sister Gena among the sea of designer gowns and military dress uniforms. During the past few days, he’d tried desperately to get her alone, to extract more details about their mother’s cryptic message, but Chises Mnon had made that impossible, surrounding his sister with an impenetrable wall of handlers and guards. Gena was as much a hostage as he was.
“Your Royal Highness!” A portly man with an impressive mustache intercepted him, champagne glass in hand, swaying the crystal flute to the rhythm of the string quartet’s haunting rendition of “Silent Night.” The familiar melody felt like a mockery, translating the past few days of chaos into something that was more like a fever dream.
“Magnificent evening, isn’t it?”
Was it? The contrast between this obscene wealth and the poverty of their flood-ravaged people made his blood simmer with barely contained fury. These guests had stood by while families lost everything—Lady Konstantinos’s diamond earrings could rebuild an entire school; Ambassador Reeves’s platinum watch could feed Ilion and Colone for months.
A tall, distinguished man with silver hair approached them, his smile as fake as his botoxed face. The Lord of Coloneas—Achilles recognized him from the financial papers, a man who controlled shares in half the country’s hospitals and pharmaceutical companies. “I must say, the weather has been dreadful. Still, one mustn’t let these little setbacks dampen such a momentous occasion!”
Little setbacks? People’s lives destroyed, reduced to a footnote in evening small talk, when a man like Coloneas could deploy medical supplies and emergency aid with a single phone call.
And now for the act of a lifetime—to pretend that he was just as callous, just as stupid and willfully blind to the suffering. Achilles would do what it took to get in their good graces with a smug smile, a light joke, play a game of quid pro quo to get them to wager their resources to patch up a crumbling bridge or a sinking city.
Achilles nodded at the Baron of Sunfassa, a reed-thin man whose nervous energy made his bow tie quiver. He actually found himself agreeing that the brisk Christmas winds had certainly wreaked havoc on the ladies’ elaborate hairstyles, all while the room seemed to come to a standstill.
Bris had made her appearance.
The loud murmur of guests died to an expectant hush. Was that a gasp of admiration? He groaned inwardly as he moved casually around the Baron to catch sight of his breathtaking wife descending the top of the grand staircase, her thick black curls swept up in an elegant chignon that left her graceful neck far too exposed.
She was a goddess, pure and simple. Diamonds sparkled against her soft cheek like captured starlight, her skin luminous in a form-fitting white gown that seemed to be woven from moonbeams and gold thread. Unease settled deep into hisbones. Ethereal and remote—the woman he loved was hidden from the world.
“Quite stunning, isn’t she?”
The voice near his shoulder made his hands clench with revulsion. He turned to see the Earl of Alexopoulos materialize like a serpent emerging from tall grass. Did snakes wear ivory dinner jackets that cost more than most Tirrojans made in a year? Apparently so. Dimitri’s blue eyes were fixed on Bris with the hungry intensity of a hunter appraising a rare specimen—all brutality and no heart.
“A man could lose himself contemplating what lies beneath all that silk and ceremony,” Dimitri slurred with lazy arrogance.
Every muscle in Achilles’s body went taut as wire. His clenched fists itched to find the man’s nose, and for a moment he seriously considered throwing the Earl through the nearest tinsel-decorated window. “That’s my wife you’re discussing.”
The Earl grinned smugly in return. “How fortunate for you. Though one does wonder how long such… arrangements… tend to last in our circles.”
That was it. Achilles was going to show him the true meaning of deck the halls. “Oh, look at you—you made a funny.” His voice dropped to a harsh growl. “You know what’s even funnier? I think you’ve grown too used to cornering women in dark corners. Let’s see how they laugh after I turn your face into abstract art.”
The Earl took a quick step backward, his face paling. “Ah yes, so civilized! Is this how Myrdons conduct their business!”
“I wouldn’t know,” Achilles replied. “But I’d say you do. Have you been paying them to target my wife?”
The Earl’s face could only be described as punchable as his lips twisted in mockery. “No, that pleasure is all mine.”
Achilles saw red. His hands moved of their own accord, seizing the snake by his perfect little dinner jacket. “You’d do anythingto get your clammy hands on the crown’s resources while children go hungry.” The Earl’s back hit the wall with a thud. “Don’t confuse my wife as your usual easy mark.”
“Oh, Killiefish… looks like you found a friend.”
