"Do your duty," her father ordered her only moments
before the organ burst into life—his version of an
encouraging speech. He frowned at her. "Make me proud."
That was the entirety of his fatherly pre-wedding advice.
The words swam in Princess Gabrielle's head even as the
heavy weight of her silk taffeta wedding gown tugged at her
and slowed her down. The long train swept back from her
dress, extending almost ten feet behind her as befitted a
royal princess on her wedding day. Gabrielle only knew that
it was hard to walk with ten feet of fabric to pull along
with her, though she kept her spine erect and her head
high—as always.
Thank God for the veil that covered her face, hiding the
expression she was afraid she couldn't control for the first
time in her twenty-five years—to say nothing of the
prickly heat flooding her eyes.
She could not cry. Not here. Not now.
Not as she walked down the aisle of her kingdom's holiest of
cathedrals, holding fast to her father's arm. Her
father— King Josef of Miravakia. The man she had spent
her life trying—and failing—to please.
Even at university she had been too determined to win her
father's elusive approval to do anything but study hard.
While her peers had partied and explored all that London had
to offer, Gabrielle had lost herself in her books and her
research. After university, despite the degree she'd
obtained in Economics, she had dedicated herself to charity
work, according to her father's expectations of the Crown
Princess of Miravakia.
Anything and everything to curry her father's favor. It was
the mantra of Gabrielle's life.
Even this. Marriage to a perfect stranger of his choosing.
Why was she going through with this? Hers was not some
ancient feudal kingdom—and she was no chattel. But if
there was a way to go against her father's wishes without
incurring his wrath she did not know what it was. She knew
that she could have said no. Couldn't she? Or was she simply
too desperate to prove to her father that she was worthy of
his approval—even when the stakes were so high?
"I have accepted a marriage proposal," King Josef
had told her one morning, barely three months ago, jolting
Gabrielle from her contemplation of the day's schedule. He
had not glanced up from his breakfast as he spoke. It had
surprised Gabrielle that he'd spoken at all—he
generally preferred to breakfast in silence, with only his
newspapers spread around him, though he insisted that she
join him every morning.
"A marriage proposal?" Gabrielle had been
amazed—her father had shown no interest in remarrying,
not in all the long years since Gabrielle's mother had died
of cancer when Gabrielle was barely five.
"I found the combination of a royal bloodline and
near-limitless wealth sufficiently attractive," the King
had said, almost thoughtfully. "And it will certainly
bolster the standing of the Miravakian throne."
It had been as if he was discussing the purchase of a
vehicle. But Gabrielle's thoughts had raced ahead anyway.
Was she really to have a stepmother? She rather thought it
might be fun to have someone else around
thepalazzo.
Much as she loved her father and tried to please him,
he was not an easy man.
"There will be no tedious long engagement," he had
continued, touching his thin, disapproving lips with his
linen napkin and signaling one of the hovering footmen for
more coffee. Finally, he'd looked at her. "I've no
patience for such things."
"No, of course not," Gabrielle had agreed. Her mind
had been racing wildly. Who on earth could possibly meet her
father's high standards? He had a universally low opinion of
almost every woman he'd ever encountered, as far as she
knew—and then again, as King of Miravakia, he would
only consider a bride from a select class of royals.
And
how like him to keep his intentions a secret, she'd
thought, almost amused.
"I expect you to conduct yourself well," he'd said,
sipping at his coffee. "None of the hysterics that seem
to afflict your sex when they come into contact with a
wedding ceremony, thank you."
Gabrielle had known better than to respond to that.
He'd sniffed. "I have confidence that you can put
everything together quickly and efficiently, with as little
disruption as possible."
"Of course, Father," Gabrielle had said at once. She
had never planned a wedding before, but how different could
it be from the state events she'd put together in the past?
She had a marvelous staff whom she already knew could
perform miracles. And who knew? Perhaps a new wife would
bring out the softer side of her stern father. She'd give
quite a bit to see that.
Lost in her reverie, she had been startled when her father
had pushed back his chair and stood. He'd moved toward the
door without another word—the subject closed.
Gabrielle had almost laughed. How typical of him. She'd felt
a surge of affection for his brusque ways—because
clearly something romantic lurked beneath the cold exterior.
"Father," she had called, stopping him before he
quit the room. He'd turned back to face her, a slight frown
between his eyebrows.
"What is it?" he had asked impatiently.
"Am I to know the bride's name?" she had asked,
biting back an indulgent smile.
He'd stared at her. "You need to pay closer attention,
Gabrielle, if you are to succeed me without running this
country into the ground," he'd snapped, his arctic tone
making her wince. His frown had deepened as he'd glared at
her.
"You, obviously, are the bride."
And then he'd turned on his heel and strode from the room,
without a backward glance.
In the cathedral, Gabrielle felt her breath catch in her
throat as the memory of that morning washed over her, while
her pulse fluttered wildly. Panic was setting in, as heavy
around her as the veil she wore and the train she trailed
behind her. She fought to pull air into her
lungs—ordered herself to stay calm.
Her father would never forgive her if she made a scene. If
she showed anything but docile acceptance—even
gratitude— for the way he'd chosen to manage her
affairs. Her life.
Her marriage.
Gabrielle felt the crisp, heavy sleeve of her father's
ornamental coat beneath her trembling fingers as he led her
down the long aisle, his measured steps bringing her closer
and closer to her fate.
She couldn't think of it. Couldn't think of
him—her groom. Soon to be her husband. A man
she had never even met, and yet he would be her spouse. Her
mate. King of her people when she became their queen.
Gabrielle's lips parted on a sound that was far too close to
a sob—though it was thankfully hidden in the swirl of
music that surrounded her.
She could not. Not here. Not now. It was too late.
The cathedral was packed to capacity on all sides, filled
with Europe's royals and assorted nobles. Political allies
and strategic partners of her father's. The music soared
toward the stained glass heights, filling the space and
caressing the carved marble statues. Outside, she knew, the
people of Miravakia were celebrating their princess's
wedding day as a national holiday. There would be rejoicing
in the streets, the papers claimed, now that their Gabrielle
had found her husband. Their future king.
A man she did not know and had never seen—not in
person. Not face-to-face.
Her husband-to-be was a man who had won his wife through
contracts—meetings with her father, bargains struck
and approved without her knowledge or consent. Her father
had not asked Gabrielle for her input—he had not
considered her feelings at all. He had decided that it was
time she married, and he had produced the bridegroom of his
choice.
And Gabrielle never argued with her father. Never rebelled,
never contradicted. Gabrielle was good. Obedient. Respectful
to a fault. In the hope that her father would one day
respect her back. Love her, maybe—just a little.
Instead, he'd sold her off to the highest bidder.
Luc felt triumph surge through him as he watched the
woman—
soon to be his wife—walk toward
him down the long ceremonial aisle. He barely noticed the
arching stained glass above him as he stood at the altar, or
the hunched statues of gargoyles peering down at
him—his attention was focused entirely on her.
Finally.
Luc's mouth pressed into a thin line as he thought of his
reckless, thoughtless mother and the destruction she had
wrought with her rebellions. Her "passions." But Luc
was not his temperamental, easily manipulated father. He
would not stand for such behavior—not from
his
wife.
She must be above reproach. She must be practical—as
this was to be a marriage on paper first and flesh
afterward. But most of all she must be trustworthy. Because
Luc, unlike many of his station, would not tolerate
disloyalty. There would be no
discreet affairs in
this marriage. He would accept nothing less than one hundred
percent obedience. There would be no tabloid speculation, no
scandals for the voyeurs to pick over.
Never again.
He'd searched for years. He'd rejected untold numbers of
women before arriving at near misses like Lady Emma. As with
everything in his life, from his business to the personal
life he guarded ferociously, Luc's refusal to compromise had
first isolated, then rewarded him.
Because he had not compromised, because he did not know the
meaning of the word, he had exactly what he wanted. The
perfect princess. At last.
Princess Gabrielle was biddable. Docile—as evidenced
by her presence in the cathedral today, calmly walking down
the aisle into an arranged marriage because her father had
ordered her to do so.
So far, so good, he thought
with deep satisfaction as he watched her slow, sure approach.
He remembered the sun-drenched days when he'd followed her
in Nice, her seemingly effortless poise, no matter how many
clamored for her attention. She had never caused a single
scandal in her life. She was known for her serenity and her
complete lack of tabloid presence. When she made the papers
it was in recognition of her charity work. Never for her
exploits. Compared to the other royals who debauched
themselves all over Europe, she might be a saint. Which
suited Luc just fine.
Luc Garnier had built an empire based on his perfectionist
streak. If it was not perfect, it would not carry his name.
His wife would be no different.
He had left nothing to chance. He had had others collect the
initial information, but then he had made the final
decision—as he always did, no matter the acquisition
in question. He had followed her personally, because he knew
that he could not trust anyone's opinion but his own. Not
when it came to a matter of such importance. Others might
make mistakes, or overlook seemingly small details that
would later prove to be of importance—but not Luc. He
would never have approached her father if he had not been
absolutely satisfied that Princess Gabrielle was not just
the best choice, but the only choice for his bride.
Luc had met with King Josef to settle the final contracts in
the King's sumptuous suite at the Hotel le Bristol in Paris,
with its stunning view of the great Sacré-Coeur
basilica that rose, gleaming white, and towered above the
city from Montmartre.
"You do not wish to meet her?" the older man had
asked when the business was done, settling back in his chair
to enjoy his port.
"It is not necessary," Luc had replied. He had
inclined his head. "Unless you wish it?"
"What is it to me?" the King had asked, letting out
a puff of air through his nose. "She will marry you
whether you meet her or not."
"You are certain?" Luc had asked lightly, though he
had not in truth been concerned. Arrangements would never
have reached this stage if the King had not been sure of his
daughter's obedience. "Ours is an unusual settlement in
this day and age. A princess and a kingdom in exchange for
wealth and business interests—I am told this sounds
like something out of a history book."
The King had made a dismissive noise. "My daughter was
raised to do the right thing regarding her country. I have
always insisted that Gabrielle understands her position
necessitates a certain dignity." The King had swirled
his port in its tumbler. He had frowned. "And great
responsibility."
"She appears to have taken it to heart," Luc had
said, looking at his own drink. "I have never heard her
mentioned without reference to her grace and composure."
"Of course." The King had seemed almost taken aback.
"She has known all her life that her role as princess
would come before any more personal considerations. She will
be a good queen one day—though she requires a firm
hand to guide her." He'd sniffed. "You will have no
trouble with her."
No trouble, Luc had thought with deep satisfaction, would
suit him perfectly.
The King had waved his hand, seeming perturbed that they had
spoken so long about something he found far beneath his
notice. "But enough of that. Let us drink to the future
of Miravakia." He had raised his glass.
"To the future of Miravakia," Luc had murmured in
response. She would be his wife, and finally,
finally,
he would prove to himself and to the world that he was
not cut from the same histrionic cloth as his late parents.
Finally he would prove that he, Luc Garnier, was above
reproach as well.
"Yes, yes," King Josef had said, and then raised a
brow at Luc, as if sharing a confidence. "And to women
who know their place."
As she moved closer now, down the cathedral's long aisle,
Luc let himself smile, though he did not relax.
She was perfect. He had made sure of it. And now she was his.
Gabrielle could see him now, from beneath her veil, as she
finally approached the altar. He stood straight and tall at
the front of the cathedral, his gaze seeming to command her
even as she walked toward him. Toward their future.
Luc Garnier. Her groom. Gabrielle had never met
him— but she had researched him in the months since
her father had announced his name. He was descended from
centuries of Italian royalty on his mother's side, with a
French billionaire father whose fortunes he had doubled
before he turned twenty-five. His parents' tumultuous love
affair had made headlines while Luc was still young. They
had perished in a boating accident when Luc was still in his
early twenties, which many claimed was the reason he was so
driven, so determined. She fancied she could see his
ruthlessness in the line of his jaw, the gleam of his dark eyes.
I can't do this—
But she was doing it.
She had no choice—she had given herself no
choice—but she didn't have to watch it happen. She
kept her eyes lowered. She didn't want to look at this
man—this stranger who would soon be her
husband—but she could feel him next to her, above her,
as her father handed her off. Luc's large hands took her
trembling fingers between his, and guided her the final few
steps toward the bishop.
© 2003-2026