“Ladies and gentlemen, we are getting breaking news that Augusta Wyntor, daughter of the late billionaire Marvin Wyntor, married her long-time boyfriend, Malik Washington, former NFL quarterback for Los Angeles Rams,” the host reported before the screen split. There was a picture of my sister, in a damn wedding dress, standing next to her husband, who I didn’t even know existed until yesterday.
My jaw dropped.
“Our sources are saying that the pair met at an Etheus company party last year. Washington’s father is a member of the Etheus Board of Directors, and Washington himself has been working with the company on their global Get Active campaign.”
“They had a wedding?” I whispered in shock, looking over at my mother. “How was it such a secret if there was a wedding?”
“I don’t think they did. I think this is just a photo shoot picture,” she said back, shaking herself. “A.k.a. a cover-up.”
I nodded my understanding. “I told Augusta I knew yesterday, and they released a photo to come out publicly. Bravo, little sis, bravo.”
“What do you mean you told her you knew?” she snapped back at me.
“Exactly what I said.”
“Odette.” She sighed heavily, hanging her head. “Why must you always be so honest?”
“What?”
“Now that they know you know, they will try harder to make sure they keep the money from you. They could accuse you of fraud or something if you get married now. They will try to dog you in the media if you do anything.”
“And we are back to the calculated games again,” I grumbled, picking up my spoon and eating.
“Please don’t tell me that you told her about Prince Galahad.” She almost sounded if she was begging.
“No, I didn’t.” I almost did. Had he not just arrived at my place last night, I would have most definitely said something.
“Good. Don’t. Just think about you. He’s taking a big risk coming here without telling anyone. If the press finds out, he will be hounded in two countries,” she stated, rising to her feet. “Honestly, Odette, don’t be so angry about the situation, and try to get to know him. He is putting forth effort.”
“Yeah, because he wants our money.”
“Who doesn’t?” she shot back. “Remember all the people who have pretended they just liked you, and they had no ulterior motives? If you give him a chance, you might realize how much you two have common.”
“What could I possibly have in common with a prince?” I muttered.
“Privilege,” she stated as she walked away.
I didn’t say anything, either, just continued to eat on her couch quietly. I tried to watch television, but nothing seemed to hold my attention more than the blue-green-eyed man in my mind. All the memories of the night before came back to me one by one. It had been a long time since I was able to just talk with a guy like that. And to top it off, he listened, even though I was a bit drunk and just complaining. A handsome guy who listened, was honest, wanted to make me breakfast, and happened to be a prince—my mom was right; women would be falling over themselves for that. Maybe that was why I was hurt and angry last night. I went back, thinking that sure, I’d just get married because it was definitely not the worst I could or had done. They said that how you feel and what you say when you’re drunk is the true you. The you when you are no longer bogged down by reality.
“What was wrong with just giving him a chance?” I questioned gently to myself as I rose from the chair, taking my bowl to the kitchen.
Ring.
Ring.
“Coming!” I called toward the front door as I put my bowl into the sink. I dusted off my hands before rushing to the door. I peeked out first only to see red roses. Who would be sending my mom red roses?
“Yes?” I asked, eyeing the man with the massive bouquet. There were so many that I could barely see the delivery guy.
“Ms. Odette Wyntor?”
“Me?”
“That’s what the order says.” He shifted the roses in his hands. “You have to sign for these, but can I put them down first?”
“Sure.” I moved out of the way. “The table by the stairs is fine.”
“Got it,” he said, putting them down before lifting the machine at his hip and giving it to me. I signed and gave it back. He also gave me a letter. “Have a nice day.”
“Thanks,” I said, closing the door behind him before I glanced down at the envelope in my hand. On the front, my name was written in the most beautiful calligraphy. Flipping it over, I pulled out the letter.
NOVEMBER 1
Dear Odette,
I apologize for my words and your kitchen—the latter was an accident, and the former was my immaturity. You may not believe this, but I was very much against marrying when my family first told me. I put up a short-lived fight. I even said if the reign had to end, so be it. I would not marry a woman I did not know or love. As I am here, you can clearly see I lost that battle swiftly.
So, when my brother called me, he was eagerly waiting for good news from me and wanting to know what my initial thoughts were upon meeting you. My pride got the best of me. That is the reason I said what I did. I could not stand for him to tease me if he knew what I first thought, which was that you are so many things. You are the first woman I’ve had the pleasure of truly speaking so freely with. And the first woman to speak to me normally, as well. You’re impractically and unbelievably beautiful, and maybe marrying you would not be as bad as I thought...these are all the things I thought of in the short time that I have known you.
I was embarrassed to admit that to my brother. But it is the truth.
In my country, there are four national flowers. The first is the red rose, a symbol of renowned beauty and grace—a perfect fit for you. They say beauty fades, however, and as so, in this bouquet, there is one made that shall never die or fade. I promise on that rose that I will always admire the beauty and grace in you.
Our meeting was not by our choice.
This morning was my fault.
So tonight, will you accompany me to dinner and allow me to make up for it?
Awaiting your reply,
GM.
“Holy hell.”
I jumped at my mother’s voice, hugging the letter to my chest. She was reading behind me this whole time, and I hadn’t even notice.
“If you don’t go to that dinner, I swear I will, and he’ll be your stepfather.” She grinned, moving to the roses, searching over them.
“It’s a little much. He could have just texted,” I muttered, trying to hide the smile on my face.
“You really need to drop that habit of pushing away things you like,” she said, turning the flowers around to look at the side. “You love cheesy stuff.”
“I do not—”
“You do. You get it from me. I’m your mother, so I know.”
I grabbed my flowers. God, they were heavy. “Maybe you should get your own love life, Mom.”
“I don’t want to overshadow you, sweetheart.”
Rolling my eyes, I walked up the stairs. Thankfully, she didn’t follow me into the spare bedroom I always used here. Walking to the bed, I placed the roses in front of me and began to search. I tried not to smile, but who couldn’t with something like this.