The Marriage Pact Read online

  The Marriage Pact

  Winter Renshaw

  The Marriage Pact

  WINTER RENSHAW

  © 2019

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Copyright

  Important

  Description

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  Dream Cast

  SAMPLE - For Lila, Forever

  About the Author

  Copyright

  COPYRIGHT 2019 WINTER RENSHAW

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio, LM Book Creations

  EDITING: Wendy Chan, The Passionate Proofreader

  BETA READER: Ashley Cestra

  PHOTOGRAPHER: Wander Aguiar

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  E-Books are not transferrable. They cannot be sold, given away, or shared. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Important

  IMPORTANT!

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  Description

  I was sixteen when I vowed I would never marry him.

  We shook on it. Pinky swore. Even put it in writing and all but signed our names in blood.

  It was the one and only thing we ever agreed on.

  To the world, he’s Prince Julian, Duke of Montcroix, second in line to the Chamont throne. Panty-melting accent. Royal charm. Hypnotic presence. Blindingly gorgeous. Laundry list of women all over the world who would give their firstborn for the chance to marry him. Most eligible bachelor in the free world …

  But to me, he’s nothing more than the son of my father’s best friend—the pesky blue-eyed boy who made it his mission to annoy the ever-living hell out of me summer after summer as our families vacationed together, our parents oblivious to our mutual disdain as they joked about our “betrothal.”

  He was also my first kiss.

  And my first taste of heartbreak so cataclysmic it almost broke me.

  I meant it with every fiber of my soul when I swore I’d never marry him.

  But on the eve of my 24th birthday, His Royal Highness had the audacity to show up at my door after years of silence and make a demand that will forever change the trajectory of our lives: “We have to break our pact.”

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  This story takes place in the fictional island kingdom of Chamont, which is English-speaking but neither British nor North American—more of a hybrid. Even the prince’s accent is fictional (think Dorit Kemsley from Real Housewives of Beverly Hills … not exactly an English accent but very proper and elegant and articulate). Also, some of the terminology Prince Julian uses is distinctly British while some is distinctly North American. Roll with it and enjoy!!

  xo – Winter

  I fell in love with a world through her eyes. —Atticus

  Chapter 1

  Emelie

  “Em? There’s a guy here to see you …” My best friend Gillian stands in the doorway of my bathroom as I hover over the sink, scrubbing tonight’s makeup from my face.

  My feet ache from hours spent dancing in the most beautiful crystal-encrusted heels known to man, and my head has finally stopped spinning from the too-many-to-count top shelf cocktails. My body is in the process of thanking me for changing out of a skintight bandage dress and into jersey pajama pants and a cotton tank sans bra. I’m two point five seconds from crawling under the cool covers in my dark room and succumbing to a long, hard sleep.

  After the year I’ve had, I needed tonight, but I have a feeling I’m going to be paying for it all day tomorrow.

  “He probably has the wrong address.” I press a dry washcloth against my skin before moving for my moisturizer.

  “Look, I admire your dedication to your skincare routine after a night on the town, but I’m serious. There’s a guy at your door and he asked for you.” Gillian bites her lip before continuing. “And, um, he’s insanely, ridiculously hot.”

  I roll my eyes. Earlier tonight, a few of my friends were trying to hook me up with a dark-eyed stranger sitting at the end of the bar. It was every bit as awkward and embarrassing as it sounds, and he was clearly not having his best night. He just wanted to be alone in a room full of strangers. I get it. I’ve been there.

  “Did Stacia tell him where I live?” I ask. “The guy from the bar?”

  Gillian laughs through her nose. “No, no, no. The guy at your door is definitely not the guy from the bar.”

  I shoot her a look. I don’t know what she’s trying to pull, but I feel like I’m being set up.

  “Did Hadley make a fake Tinder account in my name again?” I ask, one hand cocked on my hip.

  Just because it’s the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday and I’ve been going through a rough patch and a d
ry spell doesn’t mean I’m in the mood to hook up with some random guy hand-selected by the most well-meaning yet least discerning friend in my group.

  Gillian’s hands lift to the air and she shrugs. “I don’t know who this guy is, but he looks official.”

  “Official?”

  “He’s wearing a nice suit and he’s got a security-looking guy with him.”

  “I’m so confused.”

  “You and me both.” Gillian yanks me by the crook of my elbow and leads me down the hall and toward the front door. “So why don’t you just see who he is and what he wants?”

  “You realize how sketchy this sounds,” I say.

  “I do. That's why I’ll have my phone out in case we need to call 9-1-1 ...”

  “Reassuring.” I sweep my hair off my neck and pile it onto the top of my head, securing it with a hair tie from my wrist, and then I take a deep breath before opening the door.

  And then I hold that breath, deep in my lungs, until they burn.

  “Hello, Emelie.” A familiar sparkling blue gaze and signature half-smirk greets me. I’m tempted to slam the door in his face until I remind myself that he’d probably enjoy that too much.

  “Julian,” I say, hand gripping the edge of the door so hard my palm throbs. “What are you doing here?”

  A man dressed in all black stands a couple of steps behind him, hands folded at his waist as he scans the area then returns his attention to his charge.

  “I realize it’s late,” he says, an air of uncharacteristic remorse in his panty-melting voice. There are a million things I despise about this obnoxiously gorgeous specimen of a man, but his accent has never been one of them. Too casual to be the Queen’s English. Too posh to be middle-American.

  “Extremely,” I say.

  “But I’m afraid my matter is rather urgent.”

  I maintain my poise and poker face, keeping my vision trained on him despite the fact that the myriad of cocktails I enjoyed tonight are still working their way through my system.

  “Would you mind if I came in and we chatted for a few moments?” he asks. His politeness is jarring, as is the pressed and tailored suit that covers his filled-in physique.

  I run a quick calculation and determine that it’s been almost eight years since I saw him last.

  That’s right.

  It was the summer after I turned sixteen—a summer I’d do anything to forget.

  I glance behind me and shoot Gillian a “help me out here” sort of look. She shoots me a quizzical look in return. She doesn’t get it. And she wouldn't. I’ve never told her about him before.

  “I have someone over,” I begin to say. “Now’s not really a good—”

  “Hi, I’m Gillian.” The door swings open wider, and Gillian takes the spot beside me, drinking in the handsome vision before us with zero shame. “We met a second ago when I answered the door.”

  She’s drunker than I thought …

  “Em, you going to introduce me to your friend?” Gillian asks. “I find it odd that we’ve been best friends since our freshman year at Tulane and not once did you ever mention knowing … this gentleman.”

  I study Julian’s stunning physique from head to toe, noting the way he’s filled out over the years. His jawline is sharper than before, his sandy brown hair perfectly coiffed, thick and windswept yet formal enough that he could waltz into a meeting at the United States embassy or grace a billboard in Times Square and no one would think twice.

  “This is Julian,” I say. “An old family friend.”

  “Right. From long ago. It’s been ages, hasn’t it, Em?” he asks. “Though sometimes it feels like it was yesterday.”

  “Yeah, it doesn’t feel that way for me,” I say. “Anyway, thanks for stopping by. We’ll have to catch up another time.”

  “Emelie ...” Gillian whispers under her breath.

  I realize I’m being rude, but was it not rude for him to show up unannounced at one o’clock in the morning after eight years of silence?

  “Please, Emelie.” Julian’s rich accent fills my ears and makes my knees buckle ever so slightly. “A few moments of your time is all I’m asking for, then I’ll be on my way.”

  I fold my arms across my chest as the cool night air wraps around me, sending a chill across my bare flesh, and I remember now that I’m standing in a white tank top, no bra, and sheer pajama pants—but it’s the strangest thing: his eyes haven’t once left mine.

  He’s being a perfect gentleman: charming, non-abrasive, and well-mannered.

  But of course he is.

  He wants something.

  Giving into my piqued curiosity, I let him in.

  “You have two minutes,” I say as he and his man-in-black step across the threshold and into the small entryway of my townhome.

  Gillian lingers for a second, fingers twitching at her sides, and then she mutters something before disappearing down the hall.

  “Rafa, if you could excuse us for a moment?” Julian says to his bodyguard. At least, I assume it’s his bodyguard. The man wears an intimidating straight face, not to mention he makes Julian look slight, and Julian is far from slight.

  “There’s a patio through there,” I point to my left and Rafa heads to the sliding doors off my living room.

  I’m afraid I don’t have anywhere else for him to go. My townhouse is the definition of cozy and all the rooms sort of blur into one another—the entry blurs into the living room which blurs into a small dining area that becomes part of the kitchen. When I bought the place, the realtor called it “open concept.” It sounded nice at the time, but after living here for a couple of years, I realize I forked over my entire life savings for a down payment on a glorified two-bedroom, one-bath shoebox. That farmhouse sink though …

  I’m pretty sure my entire home could fit into one of Julian’s palatial bathrooms.

  And his bathrooms are palatial … given the fact that he lives in a literal palace.

  Not that I’ve ever visited.

  Our fathers were best friends who met as young boys at a private New England boarding school. After graduation, they kept in touch, and when they both married and started families, a tradition was born. Every summer, Julian and his parents would spend twelve weeks with us at our country home in Briar Cove, North Carolina. One big happy family …

  Despite the fact that Julian’s father was a reigning king of a developed nation, he never acted like it around us. His one and only request was that we “treat him like anyone else.” He didn’t want to feel special. He wanted to feel like a regular guy with his regular wife and regular son enjoying a regular summer and spending time with their regular friends.

  The last time I saw King Leo and Queen Marguerite was at my dad’s funeral last year. The king was beside himself. The queen could barely utter more than a few condolences to my mother.

  I busied myself with my younger sisters and wallowed in my own grief, though it didn’t stop me from glancing around the funeral parlor every so often, half expecting to see Julian waltz in the door, but he never showed.

  I was relieved.

  I also hated him for it.

  “Emelie.” Julian narrows his gaze at me, my name melting off his tongue with finesse. “Why don’t we have a seat?”

  Rubbing my lips together, I glance at my humble living room with my used sofa and unfluffed pillows, the messy stack of glossy magazines, the half-burnt peony candle, and this morning’s coffee mug, and I resist the urge to begin straightening up.

  It’s not that I care what Julian thinks, but I’d hate for anyone to get the impression that this is how I live, that my life is in shambles.

  Today was a busy day, that’s all. And when you live alone, sometimes you have better things to do than make sure your gossip magazines are stacked neatly and stowed away properly …

  “Still reading this rubbish, I see.” He swipes an Us Weekly from the top of the stack.

  "Still sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, I see.” I ta
ke it from his supple, unworked hands and return it to the pile.

  “Do they ever write about me here? In the States?” he asks. I don’t know why he’s playing coy. With an ego that size, I guarantee he knows exactly who writes about him and what they’re saying. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he keeps an entire library of archived gossip articles in the Knightborne Palace library.

  “Rarely,” I lie. Two can play this game.

  There’s one magazine, Starwood, that writes about him incessantly. I’m pretty sure their editor-in-chief has a personal obsession with Julian. Last year I counted his chiseled likeness on no less than twenty-six covers, and I swear the story was the same recycled garbage about his on-again, off-again love, Princess Dayanara of Spain.

  As much as I try to flip past those stories and convince myself that I couldn't care less what he’s up to these days, I never can resist. It’s like reading about an old high school nemesis, someone who bullied you, hoping they finally got their comeuppance.