Page 104 of That Prince is Mine
When they reached the dining room, Gabriel promptly got to his feet and grinned at her. “Good morning, Emma. You look lovely as usual.”
“Save the flirting for after brunch,” Sophie admonished without much heat, then searched Emma’s face. “But you do look lovely. Come have a seat.”
Offering them a sweet smile, Emma slid into the chair Michel pulled out for her. “Thank you for coming to the party last night, Marion.”
“Thank you for having me,” Marion said with genuine warmth. “I had so much fun, and the food was absolutely sublime.”
“Well”—Emma shrugged—“you’re the one who made it.”
“I did make it, didn’t I?” Marion clapped her hands like a guileless child. Her lack of artifice was one of her best qualities.
“You sure did.” Emma laughed with delight, and Michel couldn’t help but smile. This was why she taught cooking—to give people joy and a sense of accomplishment. She added in a stage whisper, “Don’t tell any of the other guests, but yours was one of the best in the group.”
“You are too sweet.” Marion actually blushed. “Oh my God, Emma. You have to visit me in Rouleme. My friends would love to learn to cook from you. And Isabelle could certainly learn a thing or two from you even though the future queen of Rouleme might not need to cook for herself…”
The fork Michel had been picking up clattered to his plate. It hit him all at once. He hadn’t thought of Isabelle in the last few weeks. Not once. In his desperation to convince Emma to marry him, he’d forgotten that he had a fiancée. He and Isabelle never wanted to marry each other—they were too good of friends to pretend otherwise—but they would’ve been duty bound to see it through if Michel hadn’t found Emma.
Coming to America to find his true love had been his best chance at avoiding a loveless, arranged marriage. He couldn’t break the engagement—a long-held contract between their families—based on the mere hope of marrying for love. The elders would’ve been outraged at best. More likely, they would’ve laughed in his face for his childish ideals. He’d needed to find someone, a flesh-and-blood woman, to present to his father—to convince him that he was in love with her and couldn’t live without her. Anything less would have been pointless.
Oh God. Why hadn’t he explained everything to Emma? And now… He spun toward her to find her blinking at his cousin with a half smile, her head cocked to the side.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Marion.” Gabriel stood up with a rough push of his chair and dragged his sister to her feet. “I’m taking you to the airport.”
“But… What did I say? Let go, Gabriel. I…” She gasped. “Bloody hell, Michel. I didn’t mean… Emma, I’m so sorry…”
“Come on, Marion. Let’s give these two some privacy.” Sophie followed Michel’s cousins out of the dining room with a worried glance over her shoulder.
All the blood drained from Emma’s face as she watched them leave, and dread spread across Michel’s chest. Still, she didn’t look angry. The slight knit between her brows conveyed confusion more than anything.
“Emma…” he began, his heart pounding against his ribs.
What could he say? He wasn’t sure what to think, much less what he needed to tell her to fix this… But did anything need fixing? Surely she would see that it was all just a terrible misunderstanding.
“Michel?” Her voice was small, childlike. She sounded… afraid. “What was Marion talking about? Who… who is the future queen of… of Rouleme?”
“I want you to be the future queen of Rouleme.” He shut down his panic and fear. Prince Michel, with his diplomacy and practiced detachment, took over. He heard himself say with cool arrogance, “I want you to be my wife.”
Emma met his eyes, her frown deepening. “Then why did Marion say Isabelle was the future queen? Who’s Isabelle? Wait… I remember that name. You said you had a friend named Isabelle once.”
“Yes, Isabelle is a good friend.” His spine felt stiff from holding himself ramrod straight—the posture of the future king. “We’ve been friends since childhood, along with Sophie and Gabriel.”
“I don’t want a walk down memory lane,” she snapped, a flush staining her cheeks an angry red. “Why is Isabelle the future queen?”
“When we were mere infants, our parents decided that we would make an ideal pair,” Prince Michel stated matter-of-factly. “Isabelle comes from a well-respected noble family with considerable wealth.”
“Of course. A wealthy noblewoman from Rouleme. I assume she’s white.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, but he still nodded in confirmation. Emma’s mouth twisted into a cynical smirk. “Your parents weren’t wrong. Isabelle is far better suited to be the queen of Rouleme than a middle-class Asian American like me.” Even Prince Michel couldn’t hold back a flinch. “Why did you ask me to marry you when you had the perfect fiancée waiting for you at home?”
“Isabelle and I have never been romantically involved. Neither of us ever wanted an arranged marriage. But we couldn’t break our engagement on some vague hope that we might meet someone we love in the future.” Prince Michel fought a burst of impatience. Why couldn’t she see that he wouldn’t have proposed to her if he didn’t want to marry her? Stop being an arse. Emma’s Michel broke through the surface. “I came to Los Angeles to find someone I want to spend the rest of my life with—someone I love with all my heart. My entire life has been ruled by my duty to Rouleme, but my heart… I wanted to choose the person I gave my heart to, Emma. And that person is you. I love you. I want to marry you.”
“But what if you hadn’t met me?” she choked out. “Would you have gone back to Rouleme and married Isabelle?”
“I… Yes,” Prince Michel answered. He would’ve done his duty.
“What if…” Emma wiped away tears and took a shuddering breath. “What if I said no? What if I said I won’t marry you? Will you go back and marry Isabelle?”
“Are you saying no?” Michel crumpled inside. “Are you saying you won’t marry me?”
“Ans… answer me,” she said through chattering teeth. “Will you… go home and… and marry your fiancée?”
