The Fighter and the Baroness: A Modern-Day Fairy Tale Page 3

  “Boarding pass and ID?”

  “Sir.” I pass it to the security guard.

  “Helena Von Isenlohe?” If he recognizes my name, he hides it well.

  “Yes.” I do a quick bow of my head then meet his eyes.

  He straightens, gaze squinted as he considers. I expect him to comment on my gown. I’m thankful that I left the veil in the car with the train. Instead he says, “You’ll need to remove your jewelry in order to pass through.”

  Ah.

  I should have left it in the car too, all this jewelry, gosh. The first thing I need to do when I enter the transit hall is buy a bag.

  Clothes!

  I can buy clothes there also.

  My cheeks warm with embarrassment at the people waiting behind me. A female employee helps me unclasp the diamond bracelet and matching necklace. The crown though is impossible to get out of my princess ’do.

  “Can I wear it through the security portal?” I ask, broken shoes in one hand.

  “No, I’m sorry. It will buzz,” the security person explains. “The portal is created to alert us to most metals besides gold and silver.”

  I can’t tell him I wear gold. Real, irreplaceable, century-old heirlooms. He wouldn’t believe me anyway. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to try.”

  He lifts his arms in subtle agreement, a have-it-your-way, and I enter the booth, walk out without incident. Employees from two checkpoints stare at me while I pick my stuff off the band. I shake my head, slowly at first, but then I have nothing to say, no witty comeback, and my flight instinct kicks in. I get up on my toes so I don’t stumble in the too-long skirt and stride as slowly as I can into the transit hall.

  I need to not stress the hell out. Just, I wish someone was with me to talk me down. I could call Elfriede. I don’t have my phone. I need a new phone. God, how pathetic am I?

  Once I’m sure security isn’t following, I haul butt down the corridor. Tiles are cold under bare feet, it turns out. I’d step into my shoes again, but one of them is broken. Would people stare less if I limped and my heels creak-clacked against the floor?

  A high-end fashion store beams in the distance. “We’ll help you blend in. Hurry, hurry,” it calls. I run. Benches are in the way. I’m getting clumsy. I’m panicking. Suddenly, a potted palm tree appears out of nowhere, half-blocking my view of the Promised Land, and my torso doubles around it as I slam to the ground.

  I let out an ungraceful oomph. And realize I’m not on the ground after all. No, there’s an arm around me, and miraculously I’m on my feet, wobbly but sort of erect.

  “You all right?” an American accent asks.

  “I was going to Cloe’s over there,” I explain in German, pointing feebly and not feeling as regal as I’ve been taught. Dark eyebrows contract from within a tanned face above me.

  “Sorry?” His arm is still strong around me, really freaking strong, and somehow I’ve got a death grip around it while trying to pry him off.

  I translate the same stupid sentence to English. “I was going to Cloe’s. It’s over there.”

  His brows are perfectly thick or thin and their arcs are so perfectly perfect they look like they’ve been combed, but then the furrow between them smoothens and I discover his eyes.

  Oh. Okay.

  “You need princess shoes to go with that?” he asks, nodding at my dress. His eyes glint as they travel to my crown.

  “I’m not a princess!” I bark, and an old couple stares unabashedly. Goddamn. Why didn’t I sit it out in the car, pulling until the crown came off?

  He lets go of me, lifting his hands in surrender. “Who said anything about being a princess? Just asking if you need shoes.”

  “I have shoes,” I bark. Again. Geez, what’s wrong with me? His eyes though. There’s a bunch of light in them!

  I lift my hand and wiggle crystal-studded sling-backs with a heel that’s barely connected to the base. Of course he notices that detail. He bites his lip, trying to hold back a laugh.

  “In that case, allow me.” He sinks to one knee in front of me, reaching for the shoes. I’m too stunned to snatch them away, so there I go, letting him have a freaking shoe, the most broken in all the land, and he slips my foot—my super-dirty foot—into it and peers up at me.

  “It fits.” He clears his throat of laughter. “It is you.”

  Someone claps, and I hiss, “Shaddap!” at him.

  “Mommy, is she Cinderella?” a small voice says right behind me.

  “No, honey, they’re just trying on shoes.”

  “Okay, good, because he doesn’t look like a prince. He looks like a ninja.”

  I see him each time I duck out of the dressing room. Relaxed on a bench outside the store, he’s playing with his phone. Can’t he leave? My cheeks feel warm. Yep, I’m definitely flustered.

  Thankfully, the sales lady helps get my crown off, so he can’t reenact any more fairytales with me. The store also sells two types of really expensive designer purses and one single roller bag, which the sales girl pulls out a ladder to grab for me.

  Ninja boy’s flight will leave soon, I’m sure. Sooner than mine. Unless he’s going international, in which case he’s either leaving on my plane or after my plane, neither of which are good options. Because apparently I only bark at that man. He’s turned me into a flustered, panicky, barking princess. Je-sus.

  At least he doesn’t eye Cloe’s while I’m in here, I think as I accept the only pair of shoes they have that fit me. What an odd store. They do have plenty of clothes though.

  I pep-talk myself, let my background cool me into erect and untouchable before I walk out again. My new, super-expensive purse is heavy with jewelry, lumpy with loot, sagging against my thigh, the tip of the crown sticking out on one side. In a worst case scenario, I need to press it into the roller bag with the gown and the two other shifts I bought.

  “Nice,” he says when I appear.

  “You didn’t have to wait for me,” I try not to bark.

  “No prob. You’re getting ready for a nap, I see. Long flight ahead?”

  I stomp past him in my new, comfy shoes, tipping my nose up. “It’s not pajamas.”

  “Who said anything about—”

  “—pajamas, yeah, yeah.” I sort of yip the last words out. The guy is either particularly infuriating, or I’ve had a tough day already. Oh wait, I have. “This is a designer tracksuit.”

  It seems my new shoes make my stride shorter, because he’s strolling along leisurely, while I huff forward, suitcase trailing behind me. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  “Yep, I do. Tampa,” he says, goddamn it—that’s what he says. “You? Where’s the royal wedding?”

  I want to tell him to shut up again, but it’d amuse him, so I don’t. I hike my purse to my shoulder, stop, and swivel slowly on my toes so I can meet his gaze almost eye to eye. “There. Is. No. Wedding.”

  “Hey, Victor!” another guy calls from the pub by gate fourteen. “Where’ve you been?” There are three of them, all turning on their stools for a better look.

  My new acquaintance links his thumbs in his belt loops, continuing forward. We’ve got hours left in this place. I could wave and take off, of course, find a quiet corner to sulk in. I could get something to read. That would be smart.

  “I found a distressed princess who needed my help.”

  “A princess?” Their expressions vary between hilarity and cluelessness. Mine doesn’t vary. It’s up the alley this Victor has created for me: a bright-red-with-angry-embarrassment alley. I know better than to insist that I’m not a princess by now though.

  One of his friends hops off the chair, as light-footed as only ninjas can be (Thanks, kid, for planting that simile in my head), and sidles forward, head tipped in a flirtatious smile.

  “I’m Zeke,” he murmurs once he’s close enough, and takes my hand. “Nice to meet you, Princess.”

  “No, it’s Helena. Helena Von Isenlohe.”

  “That’s a very p
retty name, Helena Von Isenlohe. Come join us,” he purrs guiding the way with a gentle hand at my back. “That’s Jaden over there, and Keyon. You’ve met Victor already. So nice of him to help you with whatever it was.”

  “He’s full of it,” Jaden smiles. “Don’t for a second trust him. Zeke either. He’ll sell his grandmother for a pretty date.” That smile is really wide and really sunny.

  The heat in my cheeks diminishes at their dude-jabbering. They’re charming, all of them, but I can’t keep my gaze from pulling to Victor.

  “Drink’s on me. It’ll be payback for your pretty company,” Zeke says.

  “Guys, mellow out. Sorry, they don’t know how to behave,” the fourth ninja guy says. He seems more laidback with an elbow on the counter.

  “That’s Keyon,” Victor reminds me. “He’s not a prowling dickhead like those guys.”

  “Pardon his French!” Jaden exclaims, mock-shocked. “Dude, there’re ladies present.”

  “A damsel in distress.” Victor’s lip quirks. “I’m sorry, princess.”

  “Shaddap,” I say anyway now.

  “She says that a lot.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Feisty, huh? That’s cool.”

  HELENA

  The flight gives me time to think. My new, soft designer tracksuit makes me feel comfortable yet guilty. I sink into my wide business-class seat, realizing I’m as bad as my father. How much money have I spent over the last hours, and how much more will I spend as soon as I land in the U.S.?

  I order a mimosa because it’s on the menu. The stewardess brings it to me without question. She’s American. I know mimosas are a morning drink over there, but she’s a pro. She doesn’t even flinch at the time of day.

  Jaden saunters past, heading for the business class bathroom as soon as the fasten seatbelts signs are off. He slides me a flirty sapphire stare and smirks a greeting as he passes. I roll my eyes; after an hour in a transit hall pub, I’ve got him pretty much figured out.

  “Shabby bathroom down there in your area?” I ask, making him grin.

  “Shitty as shit.”

  “Dude.” Victor appears behind him, arms folded and coffee eyes blank. “Watch your language.”

  “How about ‘watch your fucking language?’” Jaden suggests, voice lower. I’m pretty sure he’s keeping it low because of the blue-haired lady across from me in the aisle. “Helena’s having a mimosa. Chicks, man,” Jaden informs Victor.

  “It’s a princess drink. They drink mimosas all day long in their castles,” Victor explains.

  I know I’m making things worse by getting incensed by this, but I really need Victor to drop the princess act. I also realize that if it weren’t for me barking at him at the airport, it wouldn’t have become an issue.

  I want to say it again, because I really, truly am no princess. I also want to say that I don’t live in a castle. I don’t lie though. Much. I should learn how to lie. “Shaddap, I don’t live in a castle.”

  Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

  Victor is dying. He folds over, a toned shoulder blocking my view of his fist that goes to his mouth. This is a giant leap in the wrong direction for me.

  “You know what I think?” Jaden asks Victor as soon as he returns to an upright position.

  “Tell me, bro.”

  “I think Helena von Princess lives in a damn castle.”

  The couple behind me is nice. We chat a little. The seat next to me is vacant, and I pull my expensive purse out and plop it on the cushion for whenever I need to root through jewelry. Like I will.

  “Want company?” Zeke asks, startling me.

  “Dude,” Victor mutters from behind him. Is he always behind his friends? “Get out of the way.”

  “Man, the princess can probably—”

  “She’s not a princess.”

  And that does it. With an unintentionally royal hand gesture, I wave Victor in and avoid Zeke’s eyes.

  I remove my stuff from the seat, and Victor doesn’t hesitate. With the air of someone as entitled as my relatives at home, he drops in next to me and cracks his knuckles, eyes on the stewardesses’ curtain in front of us.

  “So. Bored?” he asks.

  “Not really.”

  “You okay? Fine and all?”

  “Uh-huh. I was going to take a nap.”

  He turns fully to me, a move so abrupt I twist to stare. “Cool, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “You already asked several,” I say, but his eyes don’t waver and I can’t seem to snap out of our lockdown.

  “Let me preface by saying I’m not the type who shares people’s secrets and makes shit embarrassing. I’ve got enough skeletons of my own.”

  Mm, yes. I’d rather not answer any more questions.

  “But between your dress and how easily you panic, you don’t seem”—he thinks for a moment before adding—“all that fine.”

  “And that worries you, why?” I ask because it’s the first thing I think.

  “Because you’re cool.”

  I focus on my mimosa. His direct approach doesn’t stop my peripheral from finding tendons and muscle that respond to the shifts of his arm in ways I haven’t seen before. I haven’t asked Victor what he does for a living, but I feel like that ninja child at the airport wasn’t too far off.

  “It was a wedding dress, huh? If soo”—he drags out the last word—“Why did you leave in it? Alone?” Victor’s eyes smile even if his features don’t.

  I’m on a plane with a man I’ll never see again, and he doesn’t know anyone at home. My decision comes fast, just the thought of it easing my tension. What harm would it do if I told him? “This needs to remain between us,” I say, cliché-like.

  He nods, serious.

  “No gossiping with your boys back there.”

  “I give you my word.”

  Because give you my word strikes me as a bland promise, I extend my hand, waiting for him to make the guarantee more tangible. Victor takes the challenge. I think we’re about to shake hands, but then he just tangles them on the armrest between us. His grip gives off a fake allure of protection.

  “I fled from my own wedding,” I murmur. His question comes immediately, like he was prepared for my revelation.

  “You didn’t love him?”

  “Are you kidding?” I burst out, a small chuckle growing in my throat. It wouldn’t be ladylike to guffaw though, so I suppress it.

  He stills next to me, hair so black it’s blue, shiny under the overhead reading lights. Then those thick, incredibly firm-looking shoulders hike upward before they relax. “No? Then why were you going to get married? Or wait. It had to do with some heritage, huh?” He gives me a quick onceover.

  “Yeah.”

  “A-ha, and perhaps you’re… someone who needed to get married to keep her kingdom—”

  “I’m not.”

  His gaze goes to me, and I can’t tell if he believes me. I expect him to prod further, maybe use the p-word, but instead he says, “I come from a kingdom.”

  “What, you’re a prince?” He doesn’t look the part. The child at the airport was right in that too.

  He starts to laugh. “No! I’m just saying that I’m not American. I was born in Thailand but was adopted to the U.S. when I was five. But yeah, there’s still royalty in my native country.”

  “Wow, that’s cool. And you’re bicultural.” It explains his natural tan, the wide, chocolate eyes, and the dark hair. Then again, from what I’ve learned of the U.S., it’s a melting pot of people and cultures.

  Victor. “Your name doesn’t sound Thai.”

  His index finger strokes the top of my hand, and I ignore it so we can remain like this. “In Thailand, my name was Chanchai. It means ‘skilled winner,’ which is why my parents chose ‘Victor’ for me. I must have had a last name too. We don’t really know what that was, but my full American name is Victor Arquette.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Not so easy, your first years?”

  Vic
tor’s lids relax, half-covering his irises, and I feel a distance seep in. “Meh. It was fine.” He grinds deeper into the backrest with his body. “So why did you marry someone you didn’t love again?”

  “I married no one in the end, so never mind.”

  “You went pretty far, I’d say, if you ran off in your wedding dress. What happened?” The stewardess approaches, and Victor presses a fist into the armrest to stand. “I’m sorry. I’ll head back to my own seat,” he preempts her.

  “You’re fine,” she murmurs, a friendly wink accompanying the words. “There’s time for another round of refreshments before we get ready for touchdown in Amsterdam. Interested?”

  I order bubbly water, while Victor declines her offer. From his expression, he’s not ready to let up on his questioning. Sure enough, once she leaves, he stares at me expectantly, and I answer without ripping too deep into the details.

  “This probably sounds crazy to you, but the plan was to save my family’s property through marriage. Gunther Wilhelm is a friend. He likes me a lot, so it seemed like a good solution. Also I know that he’d treat my childhood home with respect.”

  “Whoa, I’d never let my daughter do that,” Victor mutters.

  “This was my idea, not my dad’s or Gunther Wilhelm’s. He’d had a crush on me for a while, and then he hit it big in the stock market.”

  Victor’s eyes widen. “I don’t even know what to say to that. You were going to marry the rich guy for being the rich guy?”

  This is so messed up. Victor doesn’t know me, doesn’t know my family. I just summed up my reasons in an all-too easy statement, and he basically just asked me if I’m a calculating bitch.

  I’m out of my element on this flight, on this trip, on this barging-out-of-my-world thing. At home, they adore me, think of me as someone smart, sweet, and kind, the baroness of Kyria, the perfect heiress to an ancient castle, a survivor of the extinguished race of German nobility.

  “No, no… ah. It’s not that simple. The flight isn’t long enough,” I say.