I glanced over to the place where, for my entire life up until six months ago, the portrait of mon Père had hung. Now, instead, a plaque bearing the name and title of HRH the Sovereign Prince of Monaco Sébastien Laurent Pierre Hadrien Greiner was fixed under a painting of Bastien in his officer’s formal dress, staring serenely off into the distance. It mocked what my life had become a year ago when the plane carrying mon Père and the other half of my soul, my twin brother Julien, went down over the Atlantic Ocean.
I wasn’t supposed to be the spare. It should be Julien here doing what middle brothers did best—placating our bossy older brother and covering for me while I did whatever I wanted at a safe distance away from the palace and royal life. I’d taken my cushy life on the Continent for granted and now was paying the price. Or at least that was how it felt.
Shit, Julien was dead and here I was whining about having to play the dutiful spare.
I was an ass.
Just then the door opened and HRH the Sovereign Prince entered. “I hope you weren’t kept waiting too long.”
“Non, monsieur.” I bowed slightly as I replied to my brother in the same formal manner as I would mon Père. Out of habit, my eyes darted again to the place where his portrait had hung. My jaw clenched at the reminder of all that had changed.
Bastien’s eyes followed mine, and he tilted his head when he saw what had drawn my attention. Shared grief hovered between us for a moment before Bastien was back to his uptight self. “Shall we have a drink before we dine?”
I inclined my head in answer and followed Bastien to the tray on a gilded side table against the wall. Without asking, he poured me my usual Macallan whisky and himself a Cognac Prunier.
Bastien waited for me to take my drink, then raised his own in a toast. “Santé.”
I lifted my glass in reply and took a drink. It seemed tactless to toast to our health in the same room where the Duke of York had died, not to mention in the shadow of our father’s portrait, which had been relegated to this corner, but Bastien was the Sovereign Prince. And one never countermanded the Sovereign Prince.
“I’ve been thinking of starting a charity in honor of notre Père. Something to do with his love of racing, perhaps?” Bastien murmured over the rim of his cognac. “What do you think?”
I think he was a selfish bastard who marked a lot of lives, and I doubt anyone who’d met him will ever forgive—I mean, forget him. Not that I could say as much. Especially when mon Père glared down at me from his perch on his painted throne. Instead, I murmured, “Interesting. What about Julien? We should do something for him as well.”
“We named that section in the royal garden for him—the place where he always ran to escape diction lessons with Monsieur Roux.”
I waited a beat for him to say something more, but he didn’t. “And?”
“And what?”
“We’re just going to stop there? Notre Père had that library named for him just after the accident. And the damned racing horse that’s always in the news lately. What about Julien’s memory? What are we going to do for him?”
Bastien shrugged. “I suppose we could make it a family charity. In honor of both of them.”
I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached in order to bite back the roar that was boiling in my gut. Did Bastien not even care that we’d lost a brother? And Julien of all people. He was the best of all of us. He deserved better. He deserved to be remembered. Not just lumped in with mon Père because I’d asked. What would they have done if I were the one who’d died? Named the damned dog after me as tribute?
Bastien set his glass on the tray. “I’ll discuss it with Mum and see what she has to say.”
Fantastic. I was sure our mother had loads to say on the subject. Since the accident, she couldn’t bear to be in the same room as me without breaking out into sobs. Every time she looked at me she saw Julien’s ghost. What might’ve been. If I were honest, my reflection haunted me, too. But at least I knew Mum would fight for Julien’s place in the charity as viciously as I planned to. “Sounds good.”
“I believe dinner is ready. We shouldn’t keep the staff waiting.” Without pausing for my answer, Bastien turned and walked briskly to the door.
If he hadn’t spent all that time in his Swiss boarding school, I would’ve guessed Bastien had been brainwashed by our British cousins. He was so full of the stiff-upper-lip attitude it was a wonder he could walk for the pole lodged in his ass.
I set my empty glass down on the side table and poured myself another round before I followed my brother like the good little prince I’d never been until now. We walked down the series of hallways with their painted frescos and gilded mirrors. Meanwhile I slammed down my second whisky like it was cheap rotgut and not a fine Scotch that had cost several hundred euros.
Moments later we arrived in Bastien’s private dining room and went through the whole song and dance of chairs being pulled out and napkins draped in our laps. Wine was poured, and we were halfway through the first course before Bastien spoke to me again.
From the other side of the gilded dining table, my brother stared thoughtfully at his glass of wine. “I believe enough time has passed that we need to give our country something to celebrate. Something to look forward
