Preview

Gisele Bettencourt stood behind the counter in a flower shop. Sunlight streamed in through the wide window front. By the far wall, flowers in jewel and pastel tones set in silver vases sat atop pillars of varying heights in a highly conceptual arrangement. A sprite made entirely of blossoms stood in the corner near the counter. A floral sentry watching over the shop. Buckets of bouquets created an aisle from the door into the store and led customers around the wide space full of baskets, vases and boxes.

Blooms were spread out on the countertop in front of Gisele, long stalks within her grasp. Meticulously, she added flower by flower to the bouquet in her hand, spinning it round and smiling as it grew in bright splashes of purples, blues and pinks, a little breath of white, some pops of green.

It always smelled so beautiful in here, as if she’d spread the attar of flowers in every nook and cranny of the space.

This was Gisele’s happy place: Atelier Les Jardins. Her small flower shop in the town of Saint-Lorin-de-la-Mer. It was a beautiful little town near Marseilles, always packed with tourists and yachts in the Marina. Azure waters flowed all down the coast and stunning villas overlooked the sea. It was a quaint and lovely town attracting holidaymakers throughout the year. Billionaires had holiday homes here, and luxury hotels and resorts dotted the waterfront. There was glamour here, but there was also peace and tranquillity.

Gisele had settled in the town after having left Alouette ten years ago. She’d been only eighteen then, armed with a single bank card—with more money than she could have dreamed on it—her passport and a tiny suitcase filled with the bare essentials that she’d need to start a new life. She’d left the palace not knowing who was the saviour who had made her escape possible or where to go. Then she’d asked herself what she wanted and, after almost having been married to a man old enough to be her father, she realised she didn’t want to be a princess. She just wanted to be an ordinary person living a peaceful life somewhere beautiful. So she bought a plane ticket to a place she always loved and moved to France.

Those early years weren’t easy, but she had a great education and the determination to make something of her life, so she’d trained as a florist and opened this very shop. Now Atelier Les Jardins was the busiest florist in the town. Its reputation for creating breathtaking arrangements had spread far and wide, often attracting people from all over France.

Having a shop so renowned was the extent of the fame Gisele now had. She no longer appeared in papers and tabloids and magazines. There weren’t any cameras hounding her wherever she went, no one told her what friends to make, what to wear, what to eat or how to behave. In the ten years since leaving the palace, she had found a quiet, ordinary life and she treasured it with her whole heart. She couldn’t imagine giving this up for anything.

Gisele adored working with plants. She loved creating something beautiful that made people happy, something that could show someone that they were appreciated, or create a memory or tell them they were enough. Every flower was beautiful. It didn’t matter how big they were, what colour they were or how their petals were shaped. Every unique flower just made an arrangement more interesting.

Best of all, flowers were honest. With them, there were no machinations she had to be aware of. Flowers didn’t tear people down, they didn’t plot or scheme and they weren’t obsessed with power, they just existed. And that existence brightened the world.

But, as much as she loved her flowers, her little shop and her quiet life, she couldn’t deny that she missed her siblings. Since leaving the palace, no one had been in contact with her. Her parents hadn’t messaged her when they had found out she had left. Likely they would have seen it as some sort of betrayal, but she’d had to choose herself, because the life they’d been offering her was a prison sentence.

It had hurt to have evidence of how little she meant to them, that they hadn’t seen her as a daughter. She had only ever been a princess to them, a piece on the chess board to be moved, with no will of her own. It hurt even more that she’d had no contact from either sibling in all that time. She’d known that was a risk when she’d left, but it was a risk she’d had to take.

Her youngest sister, Isabelle, would now be twenty-four and Gisele wondered what she was like. She wondered if Claude had found his way back to his old self or if he’d become even more like her father in the years she’d been gone. For now, the only means she had to know them was through social media, so she followed every page she could find that gave her any news of them, watching them grow via the anonymity of the internet, loving them from afar.

Gisele would’ve loved to find a way to keep in contact with her siblings, but she knew that wasn’t possible. Either she would get sucked back into royal life or the choices she’d made would have consequences for Isabelle and Claude and she couldn’t do that to either of them. So, for now, she had to be happy with this one-sided relationship through a phone screen.

Heaving a deep sigh, she wrapped brown paper around her finished bouquet and tied a bow made of raffia around the naked green stalks, before depositing it into one of the buckets hanging on the metal display stand by the door.

She tidied the counter and immediately got started on her next arrangement, another bright bundle of happiness. She was just about done putting in the last few roses when she spotted a gleaming black sports car drive up to the front of her store. Of course, such vehicles were a common sight in Saint-Lorin-de-la-Mer, so she paid little attention. It was likely yet another rich tourist. But, as the car parked in front of the window, she noticed the make: this particular model of Sylph sports car was rare anywhere in the world.

And then she saw the man in the driver’s seat. The sun caught the bottom of his face; a harsh dark, diagonal shadow hid the top half. His illuminated jaw was covered in dark stubble. And what a jaw it was. Sharp and square, as if as if it had been carved straight out of marble. Lips that she could tell even from where she stood were pink and full. Lips she could imagine sinking her teeth into.

Gisele was transfixed. She no longer felt the rose in her grip. All she was aware of in that moment was the column of the mystery man’s neck, thick and strong. And at the base of it a starched white collar curled around his throat, the button there undone, exposing the little dip that she could almost imagine placing her finger in. Caressing.

How smooth would that skin be? she wondered.

The man gracefully emerged from the car and buttoned up his charcoal-grey suit jacket, his hand flattening across the now connected quarters of the jacket that hid away most of the waistcoat beneath. Sunglasses were perched on his nose, a glimmer of light dancing off the metal frame, and she really wished she could see his eyes.

Abruptly, she realised that she had been staring at a stranger and averted her gaze, forcing herself to go back to her forgotten bouquet.

When was the last time anything distracted you from the flowers? She honestly couldn’t remember. But, as she looked down at the flowers still scattered on the countertop, she heard the bell above the door chime.

It was him. She knew it. He was in her store.

She couldn’t explain how, but she could feel him walk to the counter, sucking the air from her lungs with every step. In her periphery she spied him pull off his sunglasses in a smooth motion, letting them dangle from the tips of his long, elegant fingers that made her own twitch.

‘Maybe you should let go of that,’ a voice said to her, so deep it could have been made out of gravel. It was laced with amusement, a hint of flirtation.

Gisele looked up. Stunning hazel eyes, a marble of brown and green, stared back at her. There was an intensity to them. It was as if they were black holes pulling all her focus into them. And the man was tall, taller than she had realised.

It was exceptionally rare that anyone made her feel small, but he did. He must have been nearly two metres tall. If she pressed her body to his, her head would fit comfortably under his chin. How wonderful would that embrace be?

Everything about this man was perfect, from his dark-brown, perfectly cut hair to his impeccably tailored suit. There was not a strand out of place. It was as if even dust had deemed him too powerful to sully. And, when Gisele looked at what had his attention, she noticed a crimson drop dangling at the edge of her palm. The rose she had been working with was still clutched in her hand and a thorn had pricked her sufficiently to draw blood. She hadn’t felt it.

Heat rushed to her cheeks as she quickly grabbed a bit of paper towel and dabbed away the evidence of her transfixion. ‘Sorry about that,’ she apologised. What kind of impression must she have given this man who she was certain had travelled a distance to her come to her store? He certainly wasn’t local. She would have remembered him, and the way her stomach was currently somersaulting. Instead of assisting him, she was picturing what his embrace would be like! How could he cloud her mind like that just by stepping into her shop? ‘Can I help you?’

She noticed his pupils flare as she spoke, then he cleared his throat, lightening the gravel just a touch. ‘I’m certain you’re the only one who can.’

The way he looked at her made the shop shrink in size. The air became thicker, but his words made her certain that he had come due to Atelier Les Jardins’ renown.

‘What’s the occasion, and what sort of arrangement are you looking for?’ She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a notepad and pen so she could write down as many notes as possible about his order.

‘The event is a wedding, and the arrangement is a mutually beneficial one.’ He placed his right hand on the counter so close to hers that Gisele thought he might touch her, but the slight movement of his arm told her that, at the last moment, he’d chosen not to. Instead, he leaned against the countertop, bringing their faces a smidge closer, his grey coat spreading open a little.

Gisele’s brows knit in confusion. That wasn’t the kind of answer customers usually gave. Butterflies were frantically fluttering in her stomach, and something about his words made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Emilien René Montagne, and I know that you are Princess Gisele Elise Bettencourt.’