“What a ridiculous American little name.” She sniffed in disdain. “Well, Paris, I am Princess Whitney Maradonna Eloise Josephine Bishop-St.Claire of Estia. You may call me, ‘Your Highness.’ And I believe you have been sleeping with my fiancé.”
Paris collapsed back onto the vanity chair and just stared ahead, looking through Whitney, not even seeing her. She felt her head swimming, not with thoughts, but with pure, unadulterated fear. Whitney took the opportunity to walk into the room and shut the door behind her. Paris couldn't help but notice that Whitney moved elegantly, the way she had always imagined royalty should. Whitney looked like she was floating on a cloud... a cloud of pure evil.
“Paris, I'm not here to cause trouble for you, or hurt you, or start a fight. I just think it's right that you should know, Alex has no intention of leaving me for you. I know everyone around here has been very nice to you, doing this whole Pygmalion—Cinderella thing. They are always polite to Alex’s whores.”
Whitney grinned with satisfaction as she saw Paris’ eyes widen. “Oh, did you think you were the first? No, dear. You are simply the latest in a long line of inappropriate women dear Alex likes to play with. The royal family plays nice with them to keep the stories out of the press, but honey, no one has any intention of keeping you here. Not even Alex.”
Paris felt her body start to shake at the tips of her toes and spreading slowly up her legs, to her shoulders, and down her arms to her fingers. In all her life, she'd never been confronted with a situation like this, and she had no idea what to say. So instead she just sat there, and shook.
“You’re lying.” Her voice wavered, but she held firm in her belief of Alex’s love for her. There was no way she could have imagined that.
“Why—? Did he say he wanted to move you into the castle? Marry you even?” Whitney threw her head back and laughed. “You’re the third one this year. Silly chit. The treaty can’t be broken. The consequences are too high. He may not like me…” Whitney’s mouth widened into a Cheshire smile, “but he’ll do his duty by me. You? You will be on your way next week, the only reminder of your existence the tabloids lining the bottom of my birdcages.”
Whitney walked across the room and reached into a purse tucked under her arm, a purse so tiny that Paris hadn't even noticed she was carrying it before. Whitney slipped her phone out of it, clicked a few buttons, and then unceremoniously shoved the phone in Paris' face.
It took Paris a few moments to blink the tears out of her eyes so she could make out what she was supposed to be looking at. After a few seconds, she finally saw that it was a text message exchange between Whitney and Alex, time stamped earlier that day.
Alex: I mis you babby.
Whitney: It dosn't seem like it.
Alex: I'm sorry :( I made a terrible mistake. This girl means noting to me.
Alex: Fourgive me. Please.
Whitney: How can I? It’s all over the pres!
Alex: She throew herself at me. I was week. Please. Come bake to me.
Alex: I <3 you.
Whitney: I <3 you too, my darling. I'll come 2night. You no I can never stay mad. Be more discrete next time.
Alex: xoxoxox <3 <3 <3
Alex: I’ll get rid of her after the party tonight— let her down ez.
Whitney: Right. No moor scandals, my love.
Paris inched as far back in the seat as she could, trying to put as much distance between the phone and herself as possible. But it didn't feel like there was enough distance in the world to make the pain go away. She couldn't hold the tears back any more, and when she looked up at Whitney, grinning again like a Cheshire cat, they poured down her cheeks with abandon.
“Paris, it's obvious he made his decision. Dennis is sitting outside in the limo, ready to take you anywhere you'd like to go after the party. But perhaps you’d like to save yourself the humiliation and leave now? May I suggest the airport?”
With a smirk on her face and a flip of her hair, Whitney turned on her heel and walked for the door. Before she walked out, she called over her shoulder, “Safe travels back to the States, Paris.”
Paris could practically taste the venom of her own name as it tumbled from Whitney's lips. Once the door was closed, and Paris was again alone in the room, the sobs poured from her so hard that she had no control over them.
She didn’t want to believe Whitney. Everything in her said that it couldn’t be true—and yet, which was more probable? That a handsome Prince had swept her off her feet, fallen in love with her, and wanted to marry her and make her his Queen? Her? A nobody from nowhere with nothing?
Or was it more probable that she was just another in a long line of mistresses? Just another side-piece?
The more she thought about it, the more ludicrous it seemed, and she wondered how she could have ever deceived herself into believing the fantasy world of the past weeks could possibly be anything more than that—that it could possibly be real.
Paris thought back to the fact that she hadn’t been able to call her family—hadn’t spoken to anyone since she’d been here. She hadn’t even been completely alone with a servant. Everything had all been very tightly and carefully controlled with military precision. Almost as if—almost as if they’d done this before.
A sob escaped her throat, and she didn't think; she just grabbed a sweater from the closet and tossed it around her shoulders, then threw everything that was hers into her backpack.
She was almost at the door when she realized that she was still wearing the diamond shoes, so she rushed back into the room and slipped off the shoes, putting them back and scrawling a note quickly on some paper she found in her bag.
Once the note was on top of the box, and her sneakers were on, she carefully opened the door and peeked out, making sure no one else was coming down the hall.
Paris could hear the sounds of the party from the other side of the house, but luckily, no one seemed to be anywhere near the guest quarters... yet. She tip-toed down the hall and inched her way to the stairs, watching her back and front the whole way to make sure no one was watching her.
When she got to the stairs, she leaned gently over the long banister to see if anyone would catch sight of her running for the exit. A few of the royal guards were standing at the entrance to the foyer, dressed in their official uniforms, but they were on duty, and wouldn't budge unless something was wrong.
Once the few guests that were milling in the foyer emptied out into the ballroom, Paris ran down the steps and out the open front to door to the courtyard, where several limos were idling, waiting for their owners to return. She scanned the drivers for Dennis, and when she saw him leaning against a sleek Mercedes smoking a cigarette, she ducked down and ran his way. When his attention was drawn away by another car pulling up, Paris snuck up behind him and tugged on his jacket. He was so startled, he dropped his cigarette on the ground, and had to scramble to put it out before it lit his pants leg on fire.
“Miss Martell! What are you... why are you... what are you doing out here, Miss? You should be inside at the party. You should be..
. why are you wearing those shoes?”
Paris smiled sadly, looking down at her feet, because she was afraid to look at Dennis, afraid she might start crying again.
“Dennis, I need you to take me to the airport, the commercial airport. And I need to borrow a phone on the way.”
Dennis immediately began stuttering, his words slurring together in a flurry of panic.
“Miss, I... I can't. We can't. I'm not authorized. You're not. You're supposed to be. The King didn't. Prince Alexander. I don't even know...”
Paris finally looked up at him, and when he saw the tears filling her eyes, his heart began to melt. He'd seen that look more than once in all of his five daughters at one time or another. That was the look of a broken heart.
“Yes, Miss. To the airport, right away. My phone is in the car. I'll give it to you once we're inside.”
Paris threw her arms around the man she barely knew, so grateful for this bit of kindness. Then she rushed to the back of the car and jumped in before anyone could spot her. Once the car was moving, Dennis opened the partition and handed the phone back to her.
“Call whoever you need. Just make sure you dial a country code first.”
Paris nodded, and Dennis smiled back at her in the rearview mirror before he closed the partition again.
Paris dialed the phone, and before the person on the other end could even start speaking, Paris started sobbing.
“Mama… I'm coming home.”
* * *
Alex knocked excitedly on Paris' door, anxious to see the dress she'd picked out shopping with his mother, but even more delighted to walk into Matthias' birthday party with Paris on his arm. When Paris didn't answer, he knocked again. But still... nothing.
Finally, Alex turned the knob, surprised to find that it clicked right open to a dark room. He clicked on the light and scanned the room for any sign of Paris, but she wasn't there. He ran into the bathroom to see if she was still getting ready, but it was dark there too.