Ivana
I never thought I would be back here. But Jason was explicit. "It has to be you," he said. "There's nobody else. No one else knows the palace like you do, and if anyone else tries it, I don't know… it's almost like you resonate well with the locals there."
I had rolled my eyes. "It's the same freaking language we speak, there's no difference," I had said with a pout. But Jason didn't care, and neither did Karen or Elijah.
"He picked you," Karen said. "You might as well just go."
And so I had packed my bags, my entire life, changed my hair color—well, back to the original hair color of mine, which had darkened much from my last time here, from my disgraceful exit.
"What's your name, miss?"
"Grace Kelly," I said in a British accent to the airport lady at arrivals.
"And what is the purpose of your visit, Miss Kelly?" The woman barely looked up from her computer screen.
"Business. You see, I'm a software developer and I had an invitation." I reached into my bag and pulled out the letter addressed, in truth, to a Grace Kelly but was in truth a software engineer.
She took a look at the letterhead, closed the letter back, and handed it to me.
"Enjoy your stay here, Miss Kelly. If I were you, I'd try to stay away from royalty. They're a serious bunch, those ones," she said with a small wink before sending me on my way.
Out of the many cab drivers waiting outside the airport, I knew precisely what to do. They would prey on tourists and newcomers from the Albanian airport. But I knew it was better to simply walk, take the bus, and then the train to the hotel reserved for me.
After spending about 10 minutes loitering around in the hotel room, I steeled myself and told myself it was time to leave. Too many memories, however, flooded into me after watching the terrain. Moscow was very different from the fairly large island kingdom that sat off the coast of Denmark.
Now, it was beautiful. It was breathtakingly so, in fact, with mountains covered in mist, gothic castles, perfect infrastructure, and perfect roads. Trains that weaved through the mountains on bridges as high as 100 ft. Everything was breathtaking, especially in this time of the year. I had, after all, seen it one too many times. But while there was joy on everyone's faces, mine was simply fear and despair.
I had gripped my bag so many times my knuckles had turned white. I had bitten my lip to the point where it began to bleed, and at some point, the kind lady in front of me had offered me a tissue to wipe it off.
"Come on, you can do it," I said to myself several times. "Cause a bit of disruption and leave." I mumbled, looking at myself in the mirror.
"You are no daughter of mine." My father's words echoed in my mind.
Who would have thought those were the words I would remember upon coming back here? The words that genuinely sent me spiraling into the depths of despair—words that even now made me clutch my heart in pain. Words that still, to date, brought tears to my eyes.
"That's enough," I told myself. Huffing several times, I headed out the front door in a new dress and with the contact details Jason had provided.
"Just meet the person at this address," he had pointed to a scribbled piece of nonsense on a piece of paper. The guy is at Alive. It was a well-known restaurant. I reached it, stepped into it, and found the person nearly instantly—looking like a sore thumb. Everyone else was dressed for the summer in linen and cottons. This man was dressed in a full-on suit. Clearly, he didn't know much about where he was, but who was complaining?
"Grace Kelly," I said in my British accent as I lowered myself into the seat.
"Yes." The man cleared his throat, sitting upright. "You have been recommended by a mutual party." He smiled, causing his crow's feet at the corners of his eyes to crinkle.
I stretched one across my face too, hoping it made me look half as hospitable as I hoped.
"Yes. And you are?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Jonathan," he said. "I work with… uh, let's leave who I work with for now. Let's think about me as an agent. I will be introducing you to someone later on today—a person that's interested. The person who is in need of your services, as well as the team you'll be working with."
"Lead the way." I smiled. "Are they here?" I turned around, searching around the restaurant.
"Upstairs," he said. "Just come with me."
I chuckled, standing to my feet nonetheless. Upstairs, if I was correct, was reserved only for a select few. It was as exclusive as it came. From what I had remembered, in fact, only those in the higher echelons of nobility were even allowed within a small berth of the place, as downstairs was what most of the nobility used. Yet no one here needed to know that what I was—mostly—was a commoner.
I supposed if the owners of the restaurant knew, they would probably carry pitchforks and demand that I be thrown out for soiling their precious grounds.
Upstairs was the definition of luxury: plush red carpets, the walls painted an easy beige color, lined with gold trimmings at the edges of the wallpaper, and some rather expensive art pieces on display. I was led to what appeared to be the royal hand hall, which was once rumored to be reserved for about five people in the kingdom—ranging from the King to the Dowager Empress and possibly a visiting head of state.
No one needed to tell me precisely who was inside that room. I already knew it before I entered. I could smell him from the door, and it didn't matter whether or not he was dressed to conceal it, as plain as a carpenter's. Even if he wore rags, he would still exude the masculine royalty that he was.
Standing before me, with his back wide and well-muscled, facing me, was the King himself—Constantine Ivanov. He turned, letting only his profile be visible to me—a profile that perhaps was on coins and was definitely on the local currency and several busts.
It was a perfect profile. Straight nose, pointed lips—full and enough to cause some ladies to lose their minds and even try to get their stills to look like his—eyes that were deep-set, focused, cold.
He finally turned, his eyes raking over mine with a brief sense of recognition in them.
"Did he know who I was?" I asked myself just as my heart began to pound over and over and over again.
Dammit, I was in trouble.