Royally Kidnapped by the Prince novel Chapter 43

KENNEDY

I knew how he felt. 

Instead of the rigidity of his body and the raw emotions brewing in his eyes, I knew he wasn’t comfortable with my decision to visit my family back in the States.

He twisted and turned in bed. He woke up earlier. I watched him run around the property. He came sweaty catching his breath, but he still looked delicious. Usually, he cracked a joke or gave remarks. Not this morning, though—just a wry smile and a quick kiss, then he took a shower. 

I fought the urge to join him. I thought of giving him time to himself. But he made me worry as soon as I heard thuds coming from the shower room. 

“Thayer?”

It took a few seconds before he responded. “Yeah?”

“I thought I might join you.” I was only in my robe. 

Then he peeked her head out. “I’m almost finished. Why didn’t you join me immediately?” 

I didn’t buy it. He wasn’t like this—Thayer would never give me this reason. That was the Thayer I knew, who would never deny me.

“I’ll just take a shower in my bathroom.” I was surprised to learn that his master bedroom had two baths. “I can’t keep my appointment waiting.”

He didn’t even stop me. It started to bother me. Deep inside, he was struggling. His features felt like he was carrying the world over his shoulder. 

We barely talked over the phone. His schedule was full. I was also busy learning for myself. 

When he came back, he was drunk. When I asked Ash and Lud, the only answer I got was a shrug. He did the same thing, waking up early in the morning, went out to run, then came back to take his shower. 

Today, we had a photoshoot before the announcement, and it would happen here in the manor. 

It hurt. He barely talked to me. 

It hurt even more. I felt him building his wall so sturdy, distancing from me. This was supposed to be our day. We should be ecstatic. In a few hours, the world was about to know our relationship—our love for each other. 

I was almost done with my makeup—the same makeup artist who did for the gala. This time, the makeup he did was light, fresh, and natural. The hairdresser added an extension to my hair, mixed with balayage and bronde. It was perfect. I still looked the same, but with a high-maintenance woman. 

“Damn, woman. You’re stunning.”

“Thanks. You made me look stunning,” told them.

The room was filled with wardrobes on racks I could pick from, but of course, a stylist was hired to do the job—a woman called Priscilla that I felt a chill crawl in my skin every time our gazes locked. She had the highest cheekbones I’d ever seen in a double ruffle trench coat and platinum blonde hair. I wondered how many surgeries she did for her face alone, and I felt terrible for her poor lips.

“So, here’s what I want you to wear first. This one.” She snapped her fingers to must be her dark-haired assistant, who looked terrified. Poor girl. 

Her assistance pushed the rack from the third on the right. Priscilla picked one hot pink dress then the poor dark-haired girl brought pairs of shoes and sets of pearl jewelry.

“Then you will change to more formal. This one.” She pointed her long white nails to the long formal dress. “Always perfect for any occasion.” 

“How many times should I change? I thought the photoshoot is for engagement announcement only.”

“Oh, poor dear. Of course, it is. But you’re engaged to the Prince. You must look satisfactory enough to match the elegance of the man beside you.”

My brow arched up. I ignored those words. I chose not to be a hypocrite and showed her who she was talking to—the fiancee. 

If I’d learned something from the two experts who taught me about etiquette was to be patients, ignore the unpleasant comments, and maintain your facial expressions even if you wanted to wring someone’s neck or your shoes were killing you.

“I see. What else should I wear?”

“Cocktail dress. Not too revealing. Of course. When you go out with the Prince, there is a certain dress code you have to follow.” I learned that already— hand gestures, dress codes, fashion rules, and strictly no PDA.

“I’ll put on the cocktail dress.”

“No, dear. You put on the evening dress first.”

“Why? My hair and makeup are for the cocktail.”

“Don’t argue with me, dear. I know what I’m doing. My reputation precedes me. I hope you are aware of why high-profile people handpicked me to dress them."

I tried hard to hold unto my kindness and good behavior and swallowed down the displeasure. I stood up and went into the dressing room. Arina followed me inside. The dress came next brought by the poor dark-haired girl.

“Don’t say another word,” I told Arina. I knew she was about to say something.

“But, madam—”

“I got this, okay?”