“There’s not going to be someone in the room while I father these heirs, is there?”
At that, Serafia smiled. “No. They have to draw the line somewhere.”
That offered little comfort to Gabriel in the moment. Each step he took toward being king, the more concerned he became. He wanted to be a good leader, but the level of scrutiny in every aspect of his life was suffocating. His hair, his clothes, his sex life... He could feel the pressure crushing against his chest like a pile of stones.
Serafia pointed to a pair of chairs nearby. “Why don’t we sit down for a minute. You look like you’re about to pass out and these shoes are starting to pinch.”
Gabriel pulled out a chair for her and took the one beside her. “I guess I just never thought about all this before. A few weeks ago, I was just a VP in my family company, someone with far-off ties to a country and a history most of us have forgotten all about. Then, boom, I’m a prince. And before I can adjust to that, I find out that I’m going to be king of the place. My life has taken a strange turn.”
She nodded sympathetically. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but it’s just going to get worse. Once you’re in the spotlight, your life is no longer your own. But from someone who’s lived through it, know that the sooner you adjust to the idea of it, the better off you’ll be.”
* * *
Serafia hated to see Gabriel like this. He seemed like such a vibrant, fun-loving man, and the weight of his future was slowly crushing him like a bug. She was pushing him. Maybe more than she had to, at least at first, but he needed to know how things were going to be now. He would adjust to the crown much more easily if he understood the consequences of it.
“Is that what it was like for you? Is that why you gave up modeling?”
Serafia couldn’t help the pained expression she felt crossing her face. It happened every time her old career came up. She smiled and shook her head. “That was just a part of it.”
“Do you miss modeling?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she said a touch too quickly, although she meant it. It wasn’t the glamorous business everyone thought it was. It was harsh, and despite how many millions she made doing it and how famous she became, there were still days where she was treated like little more than a walking coat hanger. And a fat one at that. “I’m not really interested in being in the spotlight anymore. It is both a wonderful and terrifying place to live.”
Gabriel nodded thoughtfully. “The runways and magazine covers suffer for your absence. I understand why you stopped after what happened to you on the runway, though. I can imagine it’s scary to come that close to death without any kind of warning. I mean, to go all that time without knowing you had...what was it, exactly?”
“A congenital heart defect,” she replied, the lie slipping effortlessly off her tongue after all these years.
“Yeah, that’s terrifying to think your own body is just waiting to rebel against you.”
Serafia stiffened and tried to nod in agreement. That would be frightening, although she really wouldn’t know. Her parents had done an excellent job spreading misinformation about her very public heart attack. Why else would a perfectly healthy twenty-four-year-old woman go into cardiac failure on the runway and drop to the floor with a thousand witnesses standing by in horror?
She could think of a lot of reasons, and for her, all of them were self-inflicted. Serafia had fallen victim to an industry-endorsed eating disorder, which had spiraled out of control leading up to that day. Anorexia was a serious illness, an issue that needed more visibility in the cutthroat modeling industry, but her family wanted to keep the truth out of the papers for her own protection. At the time, she had been in no condition to argue with them on that point.
Instead the word was that she’d retired from the modeling business to get treatment for her “heart condition” and no one ever questioned it. Instead of surgeries, her actual treatment had included nearly a year of intensive rehabilitation. She had to slowly put on thirty pounds so she didn’t strain her heart. Then she learned to eat properly, how to exercise correctly and most important how to recognize the signs in herself that she was slipping into bad habits again.
“Are you better now?” he asked.
That was debatable. With an eating disorder, every day was a challenge. It wasn’t like being an alcoholic or a drug user, where you could avoid the substance of choice. She had to eat. Every day. She needed to exercise. Just not too much. She had to maintain her weight and not swing wildly one way or another, or she’d put too much strain on her damaged heart. But she was managing. One day at a time, she reminded herself. “Yes,” she said instead. “The doctors got me all fixed up. But you’re right, I couldn’t face the catwalk again after that. After nearly dying, I realized I wanted to do something else with my life. I’m much happier with what I’m doing now.”