She holds her hand up, making a silence gesture. "I tolerated your need to run off to that God-forsaken continent to save the world. I was more than understanding."
"Yes, you were the epitome of support," I say, my tone bitter. I applied for the two-year position without telling anyone, using my mother’s maiden name and keeping my secret until I knew I’d gotten it without any connection to my mother or the Kensington fortune. I only told her after I’d already made the decision and accepted the position.
"There's no need to take that tone with me," she says. "And your little outburst today was appalling."
"I'm sorry you found it disturbing," I say. "Perhaps you'd find it as upsetting to know that your favorite almost son-in-law was fucking Adriana? Or that he's been doing it for years?"
"Derek is a man," she says. "All men have indiscretions, particularly men like Derek. What matters is that he's marrying you. And, if you recall, I never liked Adriana.”
I shake my head. "We’re not getting married anymore," I say. "And I don't believe that. I don't want something like that."
She raises her eyebrow. "Please tell me I raised a daughter who's not naive enough to believe in some ridiculous notion of true love."
I don't know why the words surprise me, but they do. "It's not ridiculous," I protest, my voice weak.
Except I'm not sure I believe that. Maybe it is ridiculous and naive.
"Fairy-tales," she says. "I blame that nanny of yours. She was always reading you stories like that when you were young. It's time to grow up, Isabella. Life isn't one big fairy-tale."
"You're marrying a king, mother," I say. "You don't see the irony of that? You're telling me that fairy-tales don't exist when we're literally standing in a palace?"
"Don't be stupid," she says. "You're not a stupid girl. It's beneath you. As are fairy-tale notions of life.”
"You didn't fall in love with a king..." I question, my voice trailing off.
She looks at me for a long time. "You will fall in love with Derek. You'll smile and take his arm and stand by his side when he becomes the Governor of New York, just like his father. And then you'll stand beside him when his family money ensures he becomes President. And you'll turn the other way when he shares his bed with someone else. You'll smile and look beautiful because it's what you do."
"I'm not a teenager," I protest. "I'm twenty-three. And, despite what you might think, this isn't the eighteen hundreds and you can't force me into a marriage. I'm not doing it."
"We’ll discuss it later,” she says, waving her perfectly manicured hand dismissively. “There are more important matters at hand right now.”
“Like the fact that you’re marrying a King,” I say sarcastically. Obviously, that’s her most important concern here.
She raises her eyebrows and gives me a disapproving look. “Yes, Isabella,” she says. “We’re talking about making history. I know that you don’t seem to have an appreciation for rules and tradition and – God knows, I tried to instill that in you –“
“You’re from the United States,” I say. “You’re not even a native of Protrovia. You aren’t connected to their history or tradition.”
“We are making history,” she says. “Do you understand that? The Kensingtons – your family – your father’s name, God rest his soul. We are making history. Years ago, the idea of the King of Protrovia remarrying – to a foreigner, no less – would have been unacceptable. It would have been appalling. But today, it’s different. And we are a part of that. Do you not see the importance of this?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to be a part of this,” I say, feeling strangely detached from the entire thing. “I’m going back to the States, mother. Coming here was a mistake.”
Of course, I’m already a part of this, I think. I’m married to the Crown Prince.
I force the thought out of my head. It’s inappropriate. And something I’ll just have to rectify before anyone finds out. The last thing I want is to become part of a public scandal, my life spread out before the world like an open book.
“It’s very important to me that you’re here for the summer,” she says, her tone calm. But it’s clear that it’s not a request.
Well, she can’t tell me what to do. I’m not a child anymore.
“I can’t stay here,” I say.
“The last thing you want is a public scandal,” she says. “I know how much you despise being the center of attention.”