13. Chloe

CHAPTER 13

CHLOE

I t’s a seven-hour flight to Amsterdam then another three and a half hours to Bellamare. By the time I finally land in my father’s home country, I’ve been awake for a million hours and all the coffee in the world isn’t going to do anything.

I’m already not looking forward to the flight back.

I’d never been in a plane before today, and though it wasn’t as bad as I had been expecting, it still wasn’t my favorite activity. The airport at JFK was terrifyingly busy because it’s summer, and Amsterdam wasn’t much better. I couldn’t sleep during the entire overnight flight from New York to Amsterdam either, and I was too wired on European caffeine on the way to Bellamare.

If it were up to me, I think I would have taken the train everywhere. Unfortunately, though, Bellamare is an island, and Paul was insistent that I got there as fast as I possibly could.

So, flights it was.

The immigration line is long at arrivals, but it doesn’t take too long to pass through to the front of the line. The customs officer smiles at me, welcomes me into the country and stamps my passport.

And then I step through the arrivals gate, basking in the summer sun of a country that I’ve always wanted to see.

Paul said that he had arranged transport for me from the airport to his home, but when I stand waiting, I can’t see anyone who seems to be waiting for me. People bustle around me, dragging their suitcases behind them, shouting at each other in all sorts of languages. Mothers carry their children, and lovers jump into taxis hand in hand, and all this is set to the loud backdrop of aircraft landing and taking off.

In movies, there’s always someone holding a sign with the traveler’s name on, but I can’t spot my name anywhere. I grip the straps of my backpack tighter, starting to get nervous that this is all a massive practical joke.

Just then, a man in a sharp suit approaches me. In an accent I would call Italian if I didn’t know any better, he says to me, “Ma’am. You’re Miss Chloe Fontana, yes?”

I grin. “That’s me.”

“Very good. Follow me, ma’am. I have a car waiting for you.”

I chuckle nervously at the formality but chalk it up to a cultural thing that I don’t understand. Everything here is so new, and I’m so tired. It’s like all my senses are exploding.

He leads me out to a small parking lot that is fenced off from the common rabble of people, and gestures towards a black car with tinted windows. My stomach lurches. “Um… can I have some sort of proof of identity?” I ask, clasping my hands together. “I don’t exactly want to get bundled into a car and kidnapped right now, you know? I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”

When the man frowns, confused, I decided he’s probably not a kidnapper. I think most kidnappers probably just kidnap you without waiting to have a conversation about it first.

“Of course,” he says at last. He reaches into his pocket, and I flinch before I realize that he’s probably not reaching for a gun. Instead, he pulls out his wallet and shows me an ID card identifying him as one of the staff of the royal palace.

Royal? I think. Why the hell have I got a royal escort?

“Is that to your satisfaction, Your Highness?” the driver asks, and that’s when I know something is really weird here.

“Uh… yes. Thank you,” I say, then scramble to get into the car before we can have any more odd conversations.

I buckle up my seatbelt as the driver gets in the front. “It’s about forty minutes to the palace,” he informs me, “so I hope you’re ready for a little drive.”

“Sure,” I say, resigning myself to the fact that we’re going to have to make conversation after all. Usually, I love to talk to people, but this is just getting weirder by the second. I don’t think I like being called Your Highness . There’s nothing high about me.

I’m a normal girl. And I’m getting the horrible feeling that I’m being taken for a fool.

“If you like, I could tell you some of our history. Your husband informs me that you’ve never been here before. Is that so?”

“Um, yeah,” I say. “That is true. And some history would be great, actually. I’ve always wanted to come here. It’s been a dream of mine ever since I was young.”

“Then we could not be happier to be making that dream come true for you.”

“Sorry, what was your name?” I say, realizing I didn’t catch it on his ID.

“Cristian,” he replies. “It’s good to meet you.”

“And you.”

“If I may speak freely… we’ve been taking bets for many years on when Prince Paolo was going to get married. You are a brave woman to have tied the knot with him.”

“Ah, well, he didn’t tell me he was a prince when we met.”

Cristian chuckles, and I chuckle awkwardly too. I think it’s probably best not to tell him that this is the first time I’m hearing about all of this royal business.

Fortunately, he decides to move the conversation on after that, and we spend the next forty minutes driving through some of the most scenery I’ve ever seen. In the distance, there’s a mountain range. Out of the window, I can see the sea. Cristian informs me that the landscape looks like this because Bellamare is what’s left of volcanic activity in the sea. That’s why they have such rugged mountains while still being an island.

To be polite, I decide not to tell him that I already knew that.

However, he does then tell me a whole bunch of stuff I didn’t know about the history. About how Bellamare used to be part of Italy, until their independence in 1672. He tells me about the monarchy, how I’ve married into a family that can be traced back as residents of the island for nearly six hundred years and how, all being well, they intend to stick around for another six hundred.

“That’s a long time,” I say. “You never know what’s going to change in six months, let alone six hundred years.”

“True enough,” says Cristian sagely. “But I believe this country is going to last forever.”

As we approach the palace, Cristian tells me this isn’t actually technically a palace, but one of the many stately homes owned by the royal family. This is their summer residence, he explains. It’s further into the mountains so it’s cooler, but close enough to a beach that’s owned by the family, so they can enjoy it whenever they want.

Whenever we want.

This is going to take a hell of a lot of getting used to.

Paul — Paolo is so in for it when I see him again.

We pull up outside the house, and I try not to gawp. It has grand columns, statues, a fountain — everything you could possibly imagine a stately home having. As we get out of the car, I can’t help but stare. Surely this is some kind of joke. If I’m about to be caught on camera for Bellamare’s version of framing stupid tourists for their own amusement, I’m going to burst into tears.

But to my relief and also to my surprise and frustration, Paolo runs out of the front door and sweeps me up in his arms, kissing me on the cheek. “Chloe, you’re here.”

“Yeah. Would you like to tell me where the hell I am?”

“Oh, did Cristian not tell you? This is our family summer home.”

“So it’s true,” I hiss, not wanting anyone to overhear our argument.

Paolo grins without meaning it, his face glowing red as he scratches his neck. His hair is longer now than it was when we met, and his beard has grown like he’s forgotten to go to the barber and get it trimmed.

He puts an arm around my shoulders and says quietly, “I know I owe you a really long apology and a really long explanation. But please can we just get inside first?”

I decide not to argue with him anymore. It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s not even that I’m scared of the public scandal.

But the guy is clearly going through a lot lately and I don’t want to embarrass him any more than he already has been.

No matter how much all of this is his own stupid fault.

We head inside, and he drags me upstairs to what I can only presume is his bedroom. I perch on the edge of the bed and then look at him squarely. “Okay, explanation time. Now.”