BECOMING THE PRINCESS'S LACKEY

THREE

Isabeau’s POV

The night was still young, and although I had a busy day, I could still use a glass of wine or two before I headed to bed. The car stopped in front of the Arendall Palace.

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

I broke the silence: “I need you to know that you didn’t see anything today.”

“I didn’t, Your Highness.” he stared straight ahead.

“Find whoever is responsible for those damned elevators and fire them.”

He paused for a bit before replying, “Yes, Your Highness.”

I reached for the door handle.

“Your Highness.”

I stopped.

“For what it’s worth, the claustrophobia thing…”

“That’s none of your concern.” I felt a surge of anger rising in me.

“I was going to say that it's nothing you should be ashamed of.” he looked determined to get that crap off his chest.

I wasn’t going to spare him.

“I beg your pardon,” I scoffed. His expression, which I caught in the front mirror, was a reflection of what I would reference as worry and regret.

“Most people would have lost it back there, and you didn’t. I just thought…”

“Mr. Cole, let me be clear with you,” my voice dropped to the register I used in board meetings, “what you think, what you observe and believe about me after a little over twelve hours of employment, are three things I have absolutely no interest in. You drove me home. That is the full extent of what occurred tonight.”

“Understood.”

“Furthermore, since you have such a generous amount of time to form opinions about what doesn’t concern you,” I continued, “you will have our upcoming project on the Viel portfolio cross-referenced against the public land registry on my desk by six thirty tomorrow morning. I’m sure you won’t mind the early start.”

I got out of the car and stormed into the house, heading straight for the wine rack in the living room upstairs.

“Well, who has you huffing and puffing?”

I didn’t notice my mother in the living room holding up a cup of tea to her lips.

I sighed, “It's fine.” I poured myself a glass of white wine and sat across from her. She seemed to be studying me more deeply than usual today.

“You finally came by the palace today. I almost got on my knees to beg.”

“You wouldn’t, even with a gun to your head.” I knew how prideful my mother could be. She was the queen, after all.

She cleared her throat. “I got word that you got a new assistant,” she poured herself a fresh batch of tea, “how’s he?”

I found that to be an odd question.

“Fine.”

“This is the second time you’ve said fine to something I asked you about specifically.”

“Because they are both specifically fine.”

She looked at me over the rim of her cup. She had a way to suggest that she already knew the answers to the questions she was about to ask but was allowing you to arrive at it by yourself. I spent twenty-nine years learning not to find it unnerving.

“What do you know about him? Matthias Cole.”

I had totally skipped that part; his resume was still on my desk, untouched.

“he came through HR, MBA candidate on an internship. Competent,” I paused, “why?”

“I’d like to know who’s brewing your coffee in the morning. Can't I?” she shrugged.

“But you’ve never asked about any of my assistants.”

She smiled, “I’ll make it a point to ask from today, 'cause you know, you change them every business day.”

I looked at her. She looked back at me with the same expression. Suspicion written all over her face.

“And he’s just competent?” she asked again.

“Yes,” I said flatly.

“Impressive, and he came directly from HR, no interview with you?”

“Yeah, it was kind of impromptu and without the normal processes. I haven’t had time to look into why. Is there a reason you’re asking?”

She paused very briefly, as if trying to select one thing or the other.

“No particular reason,” she said. “he’s new; you’re particular about your staff. I’m curious.” She refilled her cup. “Did you run a background check on him?”

“HR cleared him.”

“That isn’t what I asked”

I paused. She was getting at something I clearly wasn’t seeing, maybe because the wine had dulled my senses.

“I’ll check on it tomorrow.”

“Good. Now tell me about the board meeting.”

I talked about the board meeting, the hiccup in the briefing, the way I tolerated the sexist statement my uncle made during the meeting, and how I wished I could fire him.

My mother listened and asked questions and laughed when she needed to while pouring more tea. And somewhere underneath the pleasant, ordinary surface, something sat that I couldn’t identify.

But I couldn’t ask her about it.