ON TUESDAY MORNING—before I would expect any of the fashionables to be awake—my black, self-driving car slips through the golden gates of Versailles. It’s only when we’ve left the Sonoman-Versailles grounds that I speak my final destination to the Nav controls. Eyebrows tend to rise when one wants to go to Paris. It’s no secret France hates us. And I, for one, completely understand. The founders of Sonoman-Versailles lied their way through the purchase of one of France’s most beloved sites just shy of a hundred years ago.
It was a convenient storm of circumstances, really. Sonoma Inc. made its fortune and fame in 2036 by ending a worldwide famine caused by a plant disease that spread uncontrollably and killed nearly every type of grain on Earth. Sonoma’s agricultural labs were the first to engineer seeds that could resist the blight. Which, of course, netted a tremendous fortune when every country in the world wanted its product.
Enter France, on the brink of economic disaster. France offered to sell the Palace of Versailles only when it came down to a choice between preserving its landmarks and feeding the French people because of said famine. And Sonoma needed something to do with all that profit. But the company hid its intentions by using a puppet corporation—the Haroldson Historical Society—to complete the purchase, luring the powers that be to grant them full sovereignty. The French government had been, unquestionably, utterly deceived.
Sonoma likes to point out that we paid full market value for the place and saved France’s economy—which is technically true. But we did it through trickery and at the expense of one of France’s most prized landmarks. I find the grudge entirely justifiable.
My car pulls into a quiet street on the very edge of Paris, scant kilometers from the palace, where there are several shops a bit more friendly to us Louies. A nearly identical black sedan is waiting at precisely the location I specified, at exactly the moment I requested. I have to give this criminal credit for his ability to follow directions.
My car pulls to a stop alongside the other, and I emerge just far enough for its occupants to see me. Instantly, the vehicle’s rear passenger door springs open; within, I spy a set of knees clad in dark pants, but that’s the only view I’m afforded of the man I paid ten thousand euros to meet.
When I slip into the confines of the sedan and look up at a masculine face, however, I feel a melting within my chest. His hair is a dark brown, and his sea-green eyes belie the obvious Asian skin and features. His brows are high and sharp, his form lithe and slender as he lounges like a great cat, one arm draped over the back of his rear-facing seat. Something in his eyes, no, his very presence, makes my spine rubbery with the strange feeling that I’m not quite safe, and a thrill of tingling excitement bursts to life in my stomach. Before I can move, before I can even speak, the door closes on its own, the man nods, and the car pulls slowly forward.
I’m not certain what to make of this person. Even sitting in the car he’s tall, but then, so is the King. This person is a different kind of powerful, a kind I’ve rarely encountered. He’s lean, but with corded muscles that even his too-large shirt and suit jacket can’t hide. His hair falls across his cheekbones—unfashionably short in my world—and his eyelashes are long, longer than my own would be without their usual enhancements. But he’s…so young. I expected an older man, and what I get is this figure who’s probably younger than the King.
And I want…I suppose that’s it, truly. I want. Want to slide nearer and brush that hair out of his eyes and see if his skin is as warm as it looks. Want to feel whether the power that radiates from his body is a matter of clothes making the man or something…deeper.
Oh.
I force down the inconvenient and ill-timed wanting; what I do here will determine my future. I meet his eyes, even if only through my semitransparent veil, and try to get hold of myself. His eyes blaze with an anger that I don’t understand. He hasn’t said a word, clearly waiting for me to speak first. It’s a move I know well and use frequently. But I’m not in charge today. I’ll be forced to begin.
Even as I make the attempt, my voice catches in my throat. I clench my stomach muscles—a motion he couldn’t possibly see even if I weren’t tightly laced into my stays—and lift my chin to try again. The illusion of confidence is far more important than actually possessing the feeling. Yet another mantra from my dance instructor. I stall for a moment and use the time to peer up at him through my veil as I compose myself. He can see my face, but I’m reasonably certain he can’t make out the fear in my eyes.
“You’re punctual, that’s appreciated,” I say in French. The words come out barely above a whisper. My heart is racing in my chest and I’m complimenting his punctuality?