Royal Heir (Westerly Billionaire #3)(4)
And Delinda? It wasn’t so much a choice to take her advice as much as Rachelle being unable to not hear her voice in her head. Rachelle only visited her grandmother on days she was feeling unusually confident. Delinda was gifted in knowing exactly what to say to demolish a person’s self-esteem. Unlike Nicolette, who didn’t hide her disdain for the matriarch of their family, Rachelle usually defended Delinda. She was, after all, their only living grandparent.
Spencer, who used to avoid their grandmother, too, now said she had a nicer side. Rachelle had yet to see it, and that he did was confusing. He was now the one jumping to Delinda’s defense. The very fabric of her family was changing, and that was another reason Rachelle had needed to leave.
Yes, she’d come to London for Eric, but also for herself. Rachelle had lost her footing. She was no longer sure where she fit into her family.
Luckily, I have this experience to put it all back into perspective. Comparatively, I was doing well back home. This is how it actually feels to not belong.
She walked by more photographers, who didn’t raise their cameras as she passed. Putting on a brave face, she flashed a smile anyway. Three hundred feet had never felt so far.
There was a sudden change in the energy in the crowd. A palpable excitement swept over them. They surged forward as security came down the aisle, ensuring they stayed behind the ropes.
Unable to resist, Rachelle stopped and turned. The crowd behind the photographers came to life, screaming with excitement. “Prince Magnus!” started as a call out of recognition and then was repeated by enough to sound like a chant.
A tall, muscular man in a light-gray suit stepped out of a Rolls-Royce, his dark-brown hair conservative and short. The way he filled out his tuxedo instantly made Rachelle wonder what he’d look like without it, and she shook her head. Her reaction to him surprised her, since he definitely wasn’t her taste. She preferred someone less dynamic, someone softer. His features were so ruggedly perfect that she would have thought they were airbrushed if she’d seen him in a photo rather than in person.
He started down the red carpet, disregarding the photographers as if they were of no more importance than anything on the bottom of his shoes.
A woman in the crowd yelled out, “I love you, Prince Magnus.”
He didn’t acknowledge her. Was he that accustomed to public adoration?
Rachelle realized she was holding her breath. She didn’t want to find that level of arrogance attractive, but it was hot. What kind of woman would turn such a man’s head?
One of the photographers yelled out, “How sick is the king? Do you think it will be days? Weeks?”
Another called out, “Is it true you’re about to ask Princess Isabella to marry you? What are you more excited about? Becoming king or tapping that?”
The prince froze and turned on his heel toward the photographer who’d asked the last question. A hush fell over the crowd. The prince’s lips twisted. It was the kind of smile a predator indulges in just before it goes in for a kill. He took a step toward the photographer who had raised his camera to take advantage of the opportunity.
“Ask me that question one more time,” the prince commanded in a low tone.
The photographer continued to snap photos.
The prince stepped closer. “Look me in the eye and ask me. But before you do, consider that right now you are no one to me. Do you want me to know you? Do you want me to remember you when I leave here? Be sure you do before you utter another word.”
The photographer lowered his camera.
“He’s threatening you,” the man beside the silent photographer said. “Are you going to let him get away with that?”
“I meant no disrespect,” the photographer said.
“What a pussy,” the other man jeered.
The prince’s attention turned to the second man, and the smile returned. “Do you have something you’d like to say to me?”
That man squared his shoulders and looked like he might spit on the prince. “You think you’re above us because you have a title? You’re lucky we want to photograph you at all. Without us, no one would care about you. The whole idea of a ruling class is outdated and pathetic. I can say whatever I want. What are you going to do, throw a jewel at me?”
The prince’s smile widened, revealing perfectly white teeth. “You think he’s afraid of me because of my title? That’s so cute. I’ll remember that. And you. Thank you for giving me something to do after the premiere.”
“What does that even mean? Can you believe him?” the man snarked, looking around for support. He found none. The people on either side of him had retreated.
With a nod, the prince turned away from him and started down the red carpet again. One could have heard a pin drop. Rachelle understood what held them enthralled—she had never seen someone with such presence. He felt dangerous.
Legally, Rachelle didn’t think there was much a prince could do while outside his country. The paparazzi were notorious for antagonizing to create a story. Royalty, even more than regular people, couldn’t go around threatening anyone in public without facing consequences for it—could they?
Not a single camera raised as he walked by, but for an entirely different reason than why they hadn’t for Rachelle.
Rachelle couldn’t tear her eyes from him as he approached. Her stomach quivered with a sexual anticipation that was new to her. She’d never been one to idolize celebrities or plaster her walls with images of half-clothed men, but she could now understand why some did. Here was a man worthy of a fantasy or two. Or three.