Page 53 of Coronation
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 regardingthe 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’teven 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 famouslook, 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 tokeep 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 fullproposal 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?
