How to Love a Prince

FOUR

Roselia

The roar of applause was deafening, a physical force that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of my bones.

Alistair, my husband, kept his hand lightly at the small of my back, a proprietorial touch that felt both new and unsettlingly familiar. He guided me through the swirling vortex of well-wishers, each flashing camera and whispered congratulations a stark reminder of the gilded cage I’d willingly, desperately, entered.

“Smile, darling,” Alistair murmured, his voice a low, silken vibration meant only for my ears, just as his thumb brushed a fraction of an inch across my spine.

“Yes, love.” It was all for show, I reminded myself, every gesture meticulously choreographed, every flicker of emotion a calculated performance. But why did his touch, even in its careful restraint, feel so unnervingly real?

We moved through the receiving line like automatons, a graceful, smiling unit. Faces blurred into a mosaic of dazzling smiles, glittering jewelry, and eyes that held either genuine curiosity or thinly veiled suspicion.

“My beautiful wife, Roselia,” Alistair introduced me, his tone effortless, charming, and each repetition of the word “wife” hammered another nail into the coffin of my former life.

I nodded, mumbled polite thanks, my internal monologue a frantic scramble to match names to faces I'd never seen before. Alistair, ever the consummate performer, was a master of this intricate dance, his famous smile never faltering, his replies smooth and perfectly tailored to each gushing guest.

Then came Vivienne Rowan, a famous socialite because of her CEO husband. She is a woman draped in enough diamonds to sink a yacht, her smile a brittle affair that didn’t quite reach her sharp, appraising eyes.

She seized my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Ah, yes, Roselia, my dear,” she purred, her voice dripping with saccharine curiosity, “such a surprise! We all thought that our little Alistair would never settle down. Do tell, how did you meet my adorable little nephew?”

My mind became a vast, terrifying blank. How did we meet? The truth – a desperate waitress, a loan shark, a whispered conversation on a ship, and a deal forged out of desperation – was hardly fitting for this opulent setting.

“Uhm,” I opened my mouth, a feeble, pre-packaged lie forming on my tongue, but Alistair’s hand, cool and firm, settled over mine, gently dislodging Aunt Vivienne’s grip.

“Aunt Vivienne,” he interjected smoothly, his voice laced with an amusement that didn't quite reach his eyes, “Roselia and I prefer to keep the genesis of our romance private. It’s far too precious to share with the world.” He offered her a charming, dismissive smile, and with a subtle shift of his weight, steered me away before she could press further.

Once we were a safe distance away, my hand still tucked into the crook of his arm, I glanced up at him. “Aunt Vivienne?” I whispered, a hint of incredulity in my voice. “The famous Madame Vivienne is your aunt?”

“Not that amazing, actually.” He offered a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “She asks too many question, and I’m not a fan of remembering annoying people like her..”

We finally navigated our way to a quieter alcove, away from the immediate crush of the media and the most persistent socialites. Lucien leaned against a marble pillar, a champagne flute in hand, a knowing, almost mocking smirk on his face as he observed the chaos.

“Looks like the performance went off without a hitch,” He remarked as we approached, his gaze sweeping over my absurdly expensive gown before settling pointedly on Alistair’s hand, which still rested casually at my lower back.

“Though I must say, Alistair, you really sold that kiss. Even I was almost convinced.”

Alistair’s expression remained unreadable, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond Lucien’s shoulder. “Professionalism, Lucien. It’s what pays the bills.”

“Right,” Lucien drawled, taking a slow sip of his champagne. But his eyes, sharp and assessing, seemed to probe the invisible space between Alistair and me, trying to decipher the unspoken currents.

“So, Mrs. Deveraux, how does it feel to be the most talked-about woman on the planet?”

The question felt like a needle-sharp jab. “Overwhelming,” I admitted, the brittle smile finally cracking and falling away. “And frankly, terrifying. I still don’t understand any of this.”

My gaze flickered to Alistair, a silent, desperate plea for answers, for a glimmer of sanity in this bewildering new reality.

Alistair finally turned to face me fully, his hand dropping from my back, the brief warmth instantly dissipating. His eyes, those deep blue pools that could be so expressive on stage and so utterly blank in private, met mine.

For a fleeting instant, I thought I saw something flicker there – a hint of vulnerability, perhaps, or a burden I couldn’t fathom. But then it was gone, replaced by an impenetrable mask.

“You don’t need to understand everything, Perignon,” he said, his voice low as he used that nickname again. “You just need to follow instructions.”

My jaw tightened, a tremor of controlled fury running through me. “I know I brought this to my own account because of…. of my desperation. But now that we’re here, don’t I deserve some briefing? ” My voice was barely above a whisper, laced with a raw desperation that clawed at my throat.

Alistair’s gaze hardened, a subtle shift that made me instinctively recoil. “The less you know, the safer you are. And the safer I am.” His words were clipped, precise, each one a cold, hard stone dropped into my chest.

“Easy for you to say.” My hands clenched at my sides, my nails digging crescent moons into my palms. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to smash the champagne flutes and shatter the illusion that surrounded us.

“You need the money, not a piece, not to truly be a part of my life, Perignon.” He spoke, walking towards the glass table to pour himself some wine. “You don’t have the right to complain when you’re here for your own gain as well.”

…that is, unfortunately, a valid point. But if this continues on, how and who will I vent out my frustrations with these rich people who think I’m still a speck of dust?

Lucien, sensing the escalating tension, cleared his throat, his expression unusually serious. “Perhaps a moment alone, you two?” he suggested, giving a slight, knowing nod to Alistair before smoothly melting back into the crowd, leaving us exposed in our heated, whispered argument.

Alistair took a step closer, his eyes narrowing, the subtle shift in his posture radiating an unspoken threat. “My entire career, my reputation, is on the line. Like you, I am in a tight spot myself, but did you hear me complaining like you do, little wife?”

The full weight of my predicament – the crushing debt, the constant fear, the never-ending performance – threatened to suffocate me. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I blinked them back fiercely, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

“You think you’re the same as me, but I always thought I’m different from you. In every way.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze seemed to bore into mine, searching for something, assessing. “You think I enjoy pulling tricks?” he finally retorted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

“You think I want to drag an innocent woman into my messes? Believe me, Roselia, if there were any other way…” He trailed off, his jaw clenching, a muscle jumping in his temple.

He looked away for a moment, his eyes scanning the opulent hall, then returned to me, a flash of something akin to weariness, almost desperation, in their depths.

“Look,” he began again, his tone softening imperceptibly, as if forcing himself to be patient, to explain to a child.

“This isn’t ideal for either of us, but we both have no other choice. Your role is simple: be my wife. Be seen with me in public and be convincing in front of my family. In return, your debt will be cleared. And once we’re both settled, you will be free.”

His words, while offering a semblance of explanation, felt like a flimsy bandage over a gaping, bleeding wound.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, looking away as I held my left arm, gently rubbing heat unto my skin. “I’m just a little sensitive right now. I know I agreed to just behaver and do my job, but I am acting out today. I didn’t mean to.” Hesitantly, I accepted the truth that I am indeed in no position to question him.

Not even once.

He ran a hand through his perfectly styled dark hair, a rare sign of agitation, a ripple in his carefully constructed composure. “It’s okay, it’s normal. And trust me, Roselia, I have no desire to keep you here a moment longer than necessary. I won’t hold you back from what we are being forced to do in this deal.”

His eyes met mine again, and for the first time since this madness began, I saw a flicker of something genuine in them – not kindness, not affection, but a raw, desperate pragmatism that echoed my own.