She said nothing.
Furious, Griffin snatched his book off the table. "I am going to drive myself to Her Royal Highness's palace for breakfast this morning. You," he said, pointing at Maylee, "can stay here and pack your bag. I don't need servants. I'm not helpless."
"Of course not, Lord Montagne Verdi," she murmured in that toneless voice.
Griffin stalked away from the table. She wanted him to prove that he was capable and independent? Fine then. "I will see you tonight."
"Until then," Maylee said, and sipped her coffee.
He was helpless?
He'd show her.
***
An hour later, Griffin had to admit to himself that he was hopelessly lost in the maze-like streets of Bellissime. He parked the sedan on the side of the street and jerked open the glove compartment, searching for a map. Nothing. Goddamn it. He slammed it shut and got out of the car, then began to pace.
So driving himself was harder than he'd suspected. It wasn't that he didn't know how to drive; he did. It was that he had no clue of where he was going. He could recognize his mother's palace from the outside, knew the street it was located on. He just had no idea how to get to that street. Nor could he ask for directions without looking like a fool. Frustrated, he tugged at the tight collar of his shirt . . . and then swore again when he felt the knot of his tie loosen.
Blast.
Jerking at his tie, he turned to the car window and used the reflection to loosen his tie. Maylee thought he was helpless? He'd tie his own f**king tie and she'd be forced to eat her words. Then he'd send her home in disgrace, and everyone would know just how terrible of an assistant she was.
So he undid his tie and tried again.
And again.
And again.
Someone passed him on the street and frowned, as if trying to figure out what he was doing. Irritated, Griffin ripped his tie off and shoved it into a pocket. He'd just go with a loose collar. Fuck it. He got back into the car and pulled into the street. He'd just use his f**king phone app. He pulled out his phone, and a red battery symbol flashed at him, and then the screen went dark.
Fuck.
He tore onto the street, determined to find it on his own . . . and was lost again for another half hour.
By that time, he was beyond patience. When he saw a man walking down the street, he swerved over to the side of the road and hopped out. "Excuse me."
The man stopped and looked at him, startled. "Um, hello, your grace-"
Griffin waved a hand, dismissing the man's mangling of his title. He wasn't a grace. "I will pay you one hundred Bellissime notes if you can drive me to Her Royal Highness's summer palace."
"Uh, okay," the man said.
"Splendid." Griffin pulled out his wallet. It was empty. He didn't carry cash. Blast it. He raised a hand. "Wait here. I'm going to find an ATM."
He left the bewildered man behind and stormed down the street, looking for a bank. He found one two blocks away and rushed over.
Griffin couldn't remember his pin number. He stared at the screen and snarled. "You've got to be f**king kidding me."
Three tries later, and he was locked out. He jerked his card out of the machine and stormed back to his car. The man on the sidewalk looked at him curiously, but Griffin ignored him. He'd just find the f**king place himself.
He got into the car, slammed the door, and then punched the steering wheel so hard he saw stars.
***
When he eventually made it back to the hotel, Griffin was in a foul mood. Ignoring the curious looks of the staff, he went up to his room, his now-swollen hand cradled against his chest. But instead of going into his room, he knocked on Maylee's door.
She opened it, and surprise flared in her eyes, then wariness. "Can I help you, Mr. Verdi?"
He pushed into her room. "You win."
"Excuse me?"
Griffin searched her room for an open suitcase. There was none. Nor was there one by the door. She hadn't packed because she knew she wasn't going home. That was as relieving as it was infuriating. He turned to her. "I said you win. You were right. I'm f**king helpless. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
"Why are you sorry?" he snapped. "You're the one who won."
"No," she said, and those big green-brown eyes smiled up at him for the first time in a day. "That's what I wanted to hear. 'I'm sorry.'"
Oh. He licked his lips, considering. He wasn't f**king sorry. He was pissed as hell. He didn't like the realization that he congratulated himself on how independent and how different he was from all the others in the royal family. How very liberated he was. What a f**king joke. He was just as helpless as the rest of them. Without an assistant, he was useless.