The Princess I Hate to Love

Our marriage is not some fairy tale.

And my new wife?

She’s not exactly a fan of the crown jewels.

I’m a prince and heir to the throne of Salasia. I’m the most eligible bachelor in Europe.

You’d think any woman would be ecstatic to marry me.

Except for the one woman who I must marry to save my throne. She’d rather give me a poison apple than true love’s kiss.

Now the pair of us must convince the world that our marriage isn’t just a convenient arrangement.

As for me?

I’ll prove to this stubborn princess that happily ever after isn’t just for fairy tales.

When I imagined my wedding night, I never expected that I’d be standing outside my beloved wife’s bedroom door, pounding on it to let me inside. 


“You can’t avoid me forever!” I pounded my fist one last time against the expensive wood. 


“Of course I can. Have you seen this place? It’s fucking huge!” 


I heard what sounded like rustling. I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the door. I’d imagined helping Niamh out of her wedding dress, but here I was, a dog barking at the door to be let in. 


“Niamh,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “We need to talk.”


“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m tired. Go away.”


I growled. I jiggled the knob, but it stayed firmly locked. Someone cleared their throat behind me, and I turned to see my secretary Arthur Laurent, who was studiously avoiding looking at the locked door.


“Would you like me to procure the key from Madam LeRoux, Your Highness?” he asked in French.

While I spoke English solely with my American bride, I rarely spoke it to anyone inside the palace. 


“And have the entire palace know my wife has locked me out on our wedding night? No, thank you.”

I noticed the dark circles under Laurent’s eyes. Ever the professional, he’d never complained when I’d dropped the bombshell of my sudden engagement, subsequent marriage, and the creation of a new princess of Salasia into his lap. But if I hadn’t slept, he hadn’t, either. 


“Go to bed, Laurent. I’ll take care of this,” I said.


Laurent leaned back on his heels. “There is a way inside.”


Right then, I was glad Niamh couldn’t understand our conversation. I smiled for the first time in hours. “Is there?”


“Yes. The door that adjoins your chambers—the lock, it is, shall we say…” Laurent stared at the ceiling. “Very old.”


Since I’d lived in my own apartments in another part of the palace until I’d moved into the East Wing last week, I didn’t know the ins and outs of its layout. Laurent, though, having worked at the palace for over twenty years, he knew.


I clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re my favorite servant, you know that?”


“So you’ve said, despite my lack of holiday for over a decade.”


Laurent never wanted to go on holiday anyway. I gave him a droll look, shooing him off to sleep.

Before he left, though, he said quietly, “Be gentle with her, sir. She’s young and in a strange place.”


My frustration with Niamh melted. I sighed. “I won’t say that you’re correct.”


“Of course not, sir. That would be out of character.” Laurent bowed, and I dismissed him for the night.


I entered my own chambers. Opulent and limned with gold, the curtains blood red and velvet, embroidered with the royal carnation, it looked like something out of eighteenth-century Versailles.

Which was precisely the point: when it was built, my long-dead ancestors had attempted to copy the court of Louis XIV, although luckily for them, they’d avoided the later years involving guillotines and rolling heads. Apparently, they hadn’t been creative enough to come up with their interior designs. 


Although there had been updates to the bedding, draperies, and carpets since then, they’d always kept a similar style. I had to admit, I’d never liked the opulence. I understood that a palace should look like a palace and not some university flat with broken-down furniture from IKEA, but there had to be a happy medium between the two.


My bedroom was connected to another room, a parlor, that connected to Niamh’s bedroom. Entering it, I took in the uneaten tray of dinner that Niamh hadn’t touched. Going to the other door, I remembered another door in my previous apartments that was similarly old. Pushing against it with my shoulder, I was able to unlatch the lock before turning the knob.


I opened the door to find Niamh desperately trying to undo the countless tiny buttons down the back of her wedding dress.

She whirled at my entrance, her eyes as wide as saucers.
“What the fuck! How did you—”


“Do you need help?” 


With her long, dark hair coiled about her head and pearls surrounding her slender throat, she was the complete opposite of the ragamuffin girl I’d first encountered at her grandfather’s estate in Dublin. On our journey through Europe, she’d always worn jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie when it was cold. I’d seen her wear mascara once. 


Now, though, she wore an ivory gown that accentuated her curves. It was made of silk and beaded with thousands of crystals down the back and along the train and around the neckline. Sleeves came to her elbows. Although she’d worn a veil in the church, she’d already taken it off.


“You look beautiful,” I said softly.


“Yes, I know. I look like a princess.” 


Her words had an edge to them. I was fairly certain if I approached too quickly, she’d gouge my eyes out.


She had a reason to hate me, of course. I’d forced her into this marriage. Because I wanted to keep the secret of my bastardy a secret. Because I wanted to remain the Hereditary Prince of Salasia, the heir to the Valady Dynasty.

I wasn’t about to let over three hundred years of my family ruling this small principality crumble with me.