How to Love a Prince

ELEVEN

Roselia

The penthouse was still, almost unnervingly so, as Thursday morning dawned. Two days had passed since Izabelle Laurent’s late-night visit, and the argument I had with Alistair remained a gaping chasm between us, a raw wound left unaddressed.

Today was the interview. The “first promotion of my wife in public,” as Alistair had so clinically put it. My role: to sit in the front seats, to be seen, to have the camera pan on me, and to look “natural” in my support.

Another performance. Another layer to the elaborate lie I was living.

The transformation began mid-morning. Unlike the charity dinner where the focus was on elegance, today felt more… local and matured. The clothes were bolder and the makeup more pronounced, designed to pop under studio lights.

“Hold still, Mrs. Deveraux,” the makeup artist murmured, her brush sweeping across my cheekbone. “Just a little more shimmer. Perfect for the camera.”

Everything we do is for the camera—touché.

I closed my eyes, trying to detach myself from the process, from the feeling of being molded into someone I wasn’t. My mind drifted back to my old life, to the worn apron and tired smile of a waitress, to the genuine exhaustion that came from honest work, not from this exhausting charade.

Alistair appeared just as they were finishing, a vision of polished perfection in a dark, impeccably tailored suit. He looked like he’d stepped straight off a magazine cover, every strand of his dark hair in place, his sapphire eyes gleaming with a cool confidence.

“Ready, Perignon?” he asked, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. It was a command, not a question.

I swallowed, my throat dry. “As I’ll ever be,” I mumbled, trying to inject a lightness I didn’t feel.

He merely turned, walking towards the elevator, expecting me to follow. There was no discussion, no reassurance, just the silent, unwavering expectation that I would perform my role flawlessly. The unresolved tension from Izabelle’s visit still hung heavy between us, a silent accusation that neither of us dared to voice.

***

“Today, no matter what happens, never go anywhere where we can’t see each other.” He reminded for the nth time.

“I know,” I murmured, eyes on the blurring view as the car drove towards the destination.

As the sleek black car pulled up to the curb, a swarm of paparazzi descended, their cameras flashing like a thousand tiny explosions. Fans screamed Alistair’s name, their voices a deafening roar.

He navigated the chaos with effortless grace, a seasoned veteran of this particular battlefield. His arm came around my waist, a firm, possessive hold that was purely for the cameras, guiding me through the throng.

“Smile, darling,” he whispered, his lips barely moving, his own smile dazzling for the cameras. “Look at the cameras. Then at me.”

“Of course, darling.” I forced a smile, my eyes squinting against the relentless flashes, trying to project the image of the adoring, supportive wife.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and anxiety. This was so much bigger, so much more overwhelming than the charity dinner.

This was the raw, unfiltered chaos of his public life, and I was suddenly thrust into its blinding spotlight. I felt a wave of nausea, the familiar feeling of being out of my depth, of being exposed.

Inside the studio, the chaos subsided into a controlled hum of activity. Technicians moved silently, lights adjusted, and the air crackled with anticipation.

“Put more blue lights at the ;eft side to even out the hues.”

“No! remove that last row of seats and arrange them at the back.”

“Cameras 3 and 7 should switch places—their lens and models are more compatible that way.”

I was led to my designated spot in the front row, just off-camera. I watched as Alistair took his seat, his posture relaxed, his smile easy.

“You are even more handsome in person, Alistair! We love your new song!” The host, a woman with perfectly curled hair and an even more perfect smile, greeted him with effusive praise.

“Thank you.” he swiftly spoke. “Expect more releases from me since I have an inspiration to show off now.” He joked, earning him teases, and I a few envious looks.

A few minutes later, the lights came up, the cameras whirred, and the interview began.

“Let us welcome the man of the hour, the most spectacular soloist this era has ever seen with six consecutive years of staying at the top, breaking his own records! The king of hearts: Alistair Deveraux!”

As the director cued us to applaud, I immediately followed, copying his fans who screamed his name and clapped their hands as if their lives were on the line.

.

.

.

Alistair was a different person entirely. He spoke eloquently about his new album, his passion for music, his foundation, and the trends that make the girls swoon. His answers were witty, insightful, and perfectly tailored for the audience.

I sat there, a silent observer, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, trying to appear relaxed and attentive. My eyes were fixed on him, studying every nuance of his performance. It was mesmerizing, terrifying. He was so good at it, so utterly convincing.

It made me wonder, again, which version of him was real. Was any of it actually him?

Then, the host’s voice shifted, a subtle change in tone that signaled the inevitable turn. “Alistair, your fans, and indeed the entire world, were absolutely thrilled by the news of your recent marriage. It truly was a fairytale come to life. Can you tell us a little bit about your beautiful wife, Roselia, and how she’s adjusting to life in the spotlight?”

My breath hitched. This was it. The moment.

Alistair’s smile softened, becoming even more tender, more intimate. He glanced towards me, his eyes holding a warmth that sent a strange flutter through my chest, even though I knew it was all for show.

The camera, as if on cue, smoothly panned towards me.

I forced my smile wider, trying to make my eyes convey adoration, support, everything a loving wife should. The bright studio lights felt like a thousand tiny needles piercing my skin, exposing every insecurity, every lie.

My heart pounded, a frantic drum in my ears, threatening to drown out the host’s voice.

“Roselia is… a revelation,” Alistair said, his voice laced with a genuine-sounding affection that made my stomach twist.

“She’s brought so much joy and light into my life. And she’s handling the spotlight with incredible grace. She’s a natural, truly.” He chuckled softly, a warm, endearing sound.

“Though I think she’s still getting used to the early mornings for interviews since we tend to just sleep in after exhausting ourselves at night.” He winked playfully at the camera, then back at me, a perfect, charming gesture.

We do what at night? I nearly choked when I heard that, feeling my face heat up as the camera panned on me again. Blushing, I laughed and covered my face shyly like any demure wives would do if the husband says such a thing.

The camera lingered on me for a few more seconds, then smoothly panned back to Alistair. There, I finally heaved a sigh of relief.

***

The rest of the interview passed in a blur. When the cameras finally stopped rolling, the studio immediately dissolved into a controlled chaos of crew members, publicists, and well-wishers. Alistair was instantly surrounded, congratulated, and his hand shaken by dozens of people.

“Alistair, I love you!”

“I’M YOUR BIGGEST FAN, AL!”

“Please, please, calm down. My wife is kind, but she can get jealous, too.” He was still smiling, still charming, but I could see the subtle shift in his eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening around his mouth that signaled the return of the private Alistair.

He walked over to me, his smile fading as he approached. “Good job, Perignon,” he murmured, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth he’d shown on camera.

His quick response to change is actually horrifying, isn’t it?